HELEN BIANCHIN - Mistress By Contract

She didn’t say a word. Coffee, he’d indicated. Where was hardly here nor there. Most certainly it wouldn’t be in this area of town.

The silence bore heavily on her nerves. She had, for whatever reason, been given a chance. She dared not blow it.

It didn’t take long to escape the less than salubrious inner city stretch where the night-life didn’t cease until dawn, and enter the fringes of elite Double Bay where the beautiful people sipped espressos and lattes at pavement cafés and discussed past, present and future social events. Or criticised so-called friends and acquaintances.

There was, of course, a parking space just where he needed one, and she felt tension mount as he skilfully moved into it, then cut the engine.

How long would it take? She had assignments to mark for tomorrow’s class. From school she’d gone straight to the hospital, then home in time to grab a bite to eat, change and present herself for work.

Dear heaven, her feet were killing her. The stiletto heels were part of the uniform; so were the sheer black hose, the short skirt, the skimpy top. She hated it almost as much as she hated the job.

She stood on the pavement, holding down the pain of aching calves, and forced herself to walk smoothly as he led her towards a trendy café.

He chose a pavement table, and they were no sooner seated than a waiter appeared to take their order.

She requested a latte, decaffeinated or she’d never sleep, and felt her stomach swirl as he added a request for gourmet sandwiches.

‘Eat,’ Rafael commanded minutes later when the food arrived. He knew the scenario well. Food on the run, if she was lucky. Probably none.

He leaned back in his chair, watching her measured movements, the even white teeth as she took delicate bites, trying hard not to hurry and feed her hunger.

Rafael waited until she’d eaten two sandwiches, and sipped a third of her coffee, then he cut to the chase.

‘I suggest you state your case,’ he instructed silkily, and saw her hand pause momentarily, then she reset her cup onto the table.

Her hands retreated to her lap, where she clenched them together, hating Rafael Velez-Aguilera almost as much as she hated herself for the words she was about to say.

Her chin lifted, and her eyes deepened to emerald. ‘I’m working two jobs, one of them seven nights a week. I also work weekends. Subtract rent, food, utilities, and it would take a lifetime to repay what my father owes you.’ Oh, dear God, how did she suggest…? How could she? Dammit, she had no choice.

‘I have only myself to offer.’ This was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, and she hurriedly sought to clarify. ‘As your mistress. Sexually, socially, for a year.’

He had a desire to shake her, and didn’t stop to query why. ‘That’s the deal?’

His voice was dangerously quiet, and she barely suppressed a shiver of apprehension. Would he take it? Dear Lord, what if he didn’t?

‘I’m prepared to negotiate.’

He surveyed her features with damning scrutiny, until she was close to screaming. ‘On what terms?’

‘I’ll sign a pre-nuptial agreement stating I have no claim to any of your assets during our liaison, upon its conclusion or during my lifetime. In return, you waive any charges against my father.’

He took a moment to respond, and his voice assumed drawling cynicism. ‘Such loyalty is admirable. But would you be prepared for the reality?’

She was dying inside, slowly. She forced herself to look at him, really look at him.

He was a large-framed man, tall, at least three or four inches over six feet. Dark, almost black hair. Superb facial bone structure, wide cheekbones, firm jaw, strong forehead. Piercing dark eyes, and a sensually moulded mouth.

There was something in his expression that bothered her. A hard ruthlessness that had little to do with astute business acumen. It went deeper than that. Beyond the expensive clothes, the visual trappings of success. He was, she deduced intuitively, a man who had seen much and weathered more.

It made him complex, dangerous. A quality that wasn’t depicted in his biography, or apparent in any media photographs. Nor was it implicated by word, or visible in pictures among the social pages.

‘I could be the lover from hell,’ Rafael pursued silkily, and watched her expression freeze for an instant, then quickly recover.

‘Or lousy in bed.’

His smile held wry amusement at her audacity.

Skilled, undoubtedly, she reflected with a degree of apprehension. He had the look, the self-assured knowledge of a man comfortable with himself and his expertise in being able to pleasure a woman.

How would she be able to go through with it? Sanity restored a sense of rationale. The chances of him agreeing to such a way-out proposal was almost nil.

Desperation shredded her nerves, and almost tore the breath from her throat.

There was nothing else. She’d sold her apartment, kept only the most basic furniture, downgraded her car, and emptied her bank account in a bid to help her father. It hadn’t come close to covering a fraction of the debt he owed.

‘You place a high price on your services.’ He didn’t relinquish his appraisal, and wondered if she knew how easy it was for him to read her.

To take payment in human kind wasn’t new, Rafael mused. It went back centuries, and held many guises.

In today’s society, it would be deemed coercion. Except it had been her suggestion, not his. Which placed a different complexion on the deal, and gave rise to the legalities of the situation.

It had intriguing connotations. No misconceptions, no false misunderstandings. It could even prove interesting.

Male satisfaction and gratification. Not the most enviable of reasons. Yet there was a part of him that wanted to have her beneath him, to drive her to the edge of sanity and hear her beg for release. Again and again.

Sexual chemistry, he attributed wryly, and wondered if he dare pursue it.

He watched as she ate the last sandwich and finished her coffee. The pallor had disappeared from her cheeks, also the sharp brightness from her eyes.

‘More coffee?’

Mikayla pressed the paper napkin to her lips, then discarded it. She felt tired, and more than anything she wanted to go home.

‘No. Thanks,’ she added politely. Please, she silently begged. Give me an answer.

Her heart kicked against her ribs, and began thudding to a louder faster beat. Was he contemplating her offer, or merely playing a cruel game?

Did he realise how much she’d gone through in the past month, aware of her father’s folly, and waiting for the axe to fall? How she’d existed on her nerves, sleeping little, haunted by what the outcome might be?

‘I’ll drive you home.’

She heard the words, and each one sank like a stone in a pool of negativity. ‘I can get a cab to my car,’ she said stiffly, painfully aware she had just enough money for the fare in her purse.

‘I’ll take you there.’ A firm silky directive that boded ill should she dare to thwart him.

Did she utter thanks? It seemed superfluous, and she simply inclined her head as he summoned the waiter, paid the tab, then rose to his feet.

In the car she sat in silence, unable to utter a word as the vehicle slid smoothly through the streets where thinning traffic made the passage more swift.

‘Where is your car?’ Rafael queried as he reached the café where she worked nights.

‘The next street to your left, halfway down, on the right.’

Precise directions that brought him close to the aged, barely roadworthy Mini that was her sole method of transport.

Mikayla reached for the door-clasp and turned towards him. ‘I take it my offer doesn’t interest you?’