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One eyebrow lifted. Tae-bo?
He scrolled down, printed out the information, folded the sheet and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Then he made a phone call. ‘Get me everything you can on Joshua Petersen, medically, personally.’
The man had listed gambling debts as the reason for systematic financial fiddling. At the time Rafael hadn’t delved deeper.
He had the answers an hour later. Medically, the facts Joshua Petersen’s daughter had given checked out.
Rafael hit the print button, then re-read the message on hard copy.
There was proven fact the man had used the money to fund private hospital care for his wife stricken by a car accident and on life-support in a coma for months before she died.
His eyes skimmed to the date…six months ago.
The man had almost gotten away with it. Except an audit had picked up irregular deposits…his attempt at reparation. And his foray into gambling tabled a series of isolated incidents over a period of a month. A last-ditch attempt to recoup and repay?
Rafael leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and lowered his eyelids in thoughtful contemplation.
There was a fantastic panoramic view out over Sydney’s inner harbour, a picture-book scene that temporarily escaped him.
What next?
Madre de Dios. What was he thinking? The father was a thief. Why should the daughter interest him?
Intrigue, he corrected later that afternoon. Human relationships, family loyalty. How far did hers extend?
He recalled the proud tilt of her chin, weighed it against the outward sign of emotion in that single escaping tear, and decided to find out.
Depressing the inter-office communication system, he contacted his secretary.
‘If Mikayla Petersen calls, put her through.’
It took twenty-four hours, and he felt satisfaction at knowing he’d calculated correctly.
He kept it brief. ‘Seven thirty.’ He named a restaurant. ‘Meet me there.’
Mikayla had schooled herself for another rejection, and for a brief moment she was torn between hope and despair.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
She grimaced at the faint arrogance apparent. ‘I work nights.’
‘Call in sick.’ His voice was silk-smooth and dangerous.
Dear heaven. She couldn’t afford to lose her job. ‘I finish at eleven,’ Mikayla said steadily.
‘Teaching duties?’
‘Waiting tables.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Where?’
‘Not your stamping ground,’ she negated at once.
‘Where?’ He’d been in worse dives than she could imagine.
She told him.
‘I’ll be there.’
He was, slipping inside thirty minutes before closing time, and he sat at a table, ordered coffee, and observed the clientele, the way she handled them.
It made her nervous, as he’d intended it should. He watched the way she endeavoured to ignore him, and experienced wry amusement, only to have it change to mild irritation when a diner who’d imbibed too well ran his hand over her slenderly curved rear.
He didn’t need to hear what she said, the message was plain. Her eyes held a dangerous sparkle, and there was a tinge of pink colouring her cheeks.
Did she resent the need that made her take a second job, as much as she resented her father for an act that inadvertently put her in this position?
Perhaps not. She had shown courage and pride. Qualities he identified with and admired. Wasn’t that why he was here tonight?
At eleven Mikayla took a pile of dishes through to the kitchen, muttered a brief apology that she couldn’t stay over time, then she untied and hung up her apron, quickly repaired her make-up and smoothed a hand over her hair before re-entering the restaurant.
Rafael Velez-Aguilera, Mikayla decided fleetingly, was not a man she could afford to keep waiting. He was standing at the door, and she moved out onto the pavement, and paused as he followed.
He extended an arm towards the opposite side of the road, and it took a few minutes to find a break in traffic.
The car was large and luxurious, the leather a rich texture beneath her fingers as she slid into the front seat.
He switched on the ignition, the engine purred into life, and he swung the vehicle out into the stream of cars heading into the city.
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?’
He needed to take legal advice before giving a decision. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for her to wait. ‘I’ll be in touch within the next few days.’
It was better than a definitive no. ‘Thank you.’
She escaped, aware that he waited until she unlocked her car, fired the engine, and then he followed her onto the main road where she turned in one direction while he took the other.
CHAPTER TWO
