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RAFAEL picked up the draft document delivered by courier only hours before. The pre-nup. Skilfully worded, legally scripted, it contained sufficient clauses to cover every eventuality, and then some.
He idly flicked through the pages. Fifteen months. What manner of whim had seen him extend the time-frame? Hell, he might want out in far less time. He’d even had a clause drawn up to take care of it.
There was a separate document, a waiver dropping all charges against Joshua Petersen.
Yet another document that amounted to a personal agreement between Rafael Velez-Aguilera and Mikayla Petersen.
The question was…did he implement them?
He weighed the pros and cons, and went with his gut instinct. As he had with every other decision in his life.
There was an advantage to having a mistress. The boundaries were clear-cut. Little more than a legally defined business deal.
He picked up a pen and rolled it absently between two fingers. Then he tossed it down onto the blotter and reached for a file, noted the location, checked his watch, instructed his secretary he’d be out for a while, if needed urgently he could be contacted on his mobile, then he grabbed his jacket, shrugged into it and collected his keys.
Mikayla heard the bell signalling the end of class, the end of the school day, and hid a sigh of relief. Teaching English literature to sixteen-year-old students from varied multicultural backgrounds was an art form in itself. Gaining and retaining their interest was something else again. Usually, she could make it fun.
Today she felt tired, through lack of sufficient sleep, anxiety about her father’s slide in health, and acute trepidation as to whether Rafael Velez-Aguilera would make contact.
Three days had gone by since she’d shared late-night coffee with him. There had been no phone call, and the strain was beginning to tell.
‘Don’t forget, assignments are due in tomorrow,’ she reminded as there was a swift exodus towards the door.
She tidied a stack of papers, slid them into her satchel, and slung the strap over one shoulder. Then she scooped up a small pile of textbooks, balanced them against one hip, and followed the last student out into the corridor.
Thank heaven she wasn’t rostered for detention duty. It left her free to go home, set an exercise for each of tomorrow’s classes, shower, eat, then call into the hospital before going on to the restaurant.
‘Hi, Miss Petersen.’
She lifted her head and smiled at the student who’d paused to greet her. ‘Hi, Sammy.’
‘Carry your books?’
‘If you like.’ She handed some of them over, and dug a hand into her jacket pocket. It kind of evened up the load.
‘Do ya reckon Shakespeare worked for hire?’
She spared him a wry glance. ‘Perspiration, rather than inspiration?’
‘Yeah.’
They reached the long stretch of paved walk leading through the grounds. Tall trees spread their leafy branches, and the afternoon sun filtered through in a dappling effect.
‘Some of his plays were commissioned.’ And written in a burst of creative energy, born of desperation.
‘That’s what I figured.’
She parked her car in the reserved bay near the entrance gates, and she headed towards it.
‘You in trouble, miss?’
The query startled her. ‘No. Why?’
‘There’s a suit by your car.’
She glanced up, and felt the blood drain to her feet. Rafael Velez-Aguilera.
‘Want me to front him?’
The thought of Sammy standing up to Rafael Velez-Aguilera was laughable. Except she didn’t even smile.
‘It’s okay.’
Sammy looked at her, then at the man who stood indolently at ease, waiting as if he had all the time in the world.
‘Sure?’ he queried doubtfully. He recognised the look, respected it, and didn’t know if his teacher had a clue as to the man’s calibre. ‘I can go get help.’
‘I know him.’ She didn’t, really. Apart from his personal profile. Statistics, nothing that revealed the real man behind detailed facts. ‘Thank you for carrying my books.’ She held out her hand for them, and stifled a resigned sigh as Sammy walked right up to her Mini, waited as she unlocked the door, then transferred the books and her satchel onto the passenger seat.
‘Thanks, Sammy.’ It was a dismissal, and he gave her a long keen look before turning on his heel.
‘You have a stalwart defender,’ Rafael drawled as she pushed the door closed and stood looking at him.
Attempting to assess why he was here was a useless exercise. But his personal appearance had to mean something, surely?
‘Yes.’ The ball was in his court. She just had to wait for him to play it.
One eyebrow lifted. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Her stomach clenched into a painful knot. ‘There’s a park not far from here.’
‘Your flat would be better.’
Of course he knew where she lived. He’d have made it his business to find out. ‘My landlady is against tenants entertaining in their rooms.’
He could imagine. ‘Get in the car, Mikayla. I’ll follow you.’
Five minutes later he drew up inside the kerb outside a double-storied brick complex that looked a little worse for wear. The fence needed repair, paint peeled off the stand of communal letterboxes, and the grass grew weeds.
‘Second floor.’ She opened the front door with a master key, then made for the stairs, all too aware he followed close behind.
Cooking smells permeated the papered walls, and he doubted the paintwork had seen a brush in twenty years.
Her room was just that, a room with an alcove that held a portable cook-top; beneath the counter was a bar-fridge, and there was a sink and a power-point. A door led off to what he surmised was a minuscule bathroom.
Sofa-bed, small desk with a laptop, a chair. Basic. He’d lived in much worse.
‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘I’ll stand.’
Did he realise how he dwarfed the room? He was too tall, too broad, too much.
He could sense her tension, almost feel it, and had to admire her control.
‘I need to set up an appointment for you with my lawyer.’
Her fingers curled into her palm. ‘Is that a yes, Mr Velez-Aguilera?’
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘I have set out my terms.’ His gaze was direct, inflexible. ‘It is essential you fully comprehend them.’
A conditional yes, based on his requirements. Whatever made her think it might be different?
‘The only free time I have available is between three-thirty and five.’
He withdrew his mobile, punched in a series of digits and initiated a brief conversation, then ended the call.
‘Four, tomorrow afternoon.’ He withdrew a card and penned a few lines on the back of it. ‘The name and address.’
Mikayla inclined her head. ‘Thank you. Is there anything else?’
‘Not for the moment.’
‘Then you must excuse me.’ She walked to the door, opened it, and stood waiting for him to leave, aware of the faint amusement apparent, the slight quirk at the edge of his mouth as he inclined his head and walked past her to the stairwell.
She shut the door and leaned against it for several long seconds until the hammering of her heart settled into a steady beat.
Then she crossed to her satchel, retrieved papers and selected a textbook. Tomorrow’s lessons beckoned, and with practised skill she outlined pertinent points she wanted to emphasise, then when it was done she made toast, heated a small can of baked beans, and ate the makeshift meal before heading for the shower.
Her father showed no change, and she sat with him for three-quarters of an hour before heading towards Darlinghurst.
The restaurant was busier than usual, and she stayed late in order to appease the Italian owner who seemed more than his usual temperamental self. Plates smashed, curses flew, voices rose. Even the patrons seemed more voluble and demanding than before.
It was a relief to slip out the door and walk to her car.
She was only metres away from the Mini when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned swiftly, and saw two youths crowding her, one reaching for her bag, the other held something in his hand.
The defensive stance was automatic, the kick well-placed as it connected with a satisfying crunch. Except two against one wasn’t fair odds, and she felt a stinging slash to her arm. The headlights of an on-coming car saved her from a more vicious attack, and the youths ran off, disappearing over a wall.
They’d dropped her bag in their hurry, and she picked it up, checked the catch, then moved quickly to the Mini. Once inside she locked the doors and put the car in motion.
She didn’t even stop to check her arm, she just drove until she reached the flat, and it was only in the clear light she realised the amount of blood and the deepness of the gash meant it required suturing.
Who did she call at this late hour? No one, she decided grimly as she wrapped a small towel round her arm, collected her purse, and retraced her steps to the car.
There was a public hospital not too far distant. Accident and emergency would tend to it.
They did, eventually, after a two-hour wait. There were emergencies far more urgent than hers, and there was the police statement.
It was after three when she returned to her flat, and she took the sedative the doctor advised, then pulled out the sofa-bed and crawled in beneath the covers.
Painkillers helped her get through the school day. She wore a jacket and no one suspected she had sixteen sutures in her forearm, or that it ached like hell.
Rafael Velez-Aguilera’s lawyers were housed on a high floor in one of the inner city’s glass-walled office towers, and she parked her car on the outskirts, then rode a bus into the city.
She made the four o’clock appointment with a minute to spare, and no sooner had she checked with reception and taken a seat than an elegantly clad woman emerged into the foyer and escorted her into a luxuriously appointed office where an immaculately attired man in his late thirties rose to greet her.
‘Miss Petersen. Take a seat.’ He motioned to one of four comfortable armchairs, then resumed his position behind the desk. ‘Rafael has been delayed.’ He pulled forward three documents, and opened the first. ‘However, we can begin without him.’ He handed her three copies. ‘If you examine the pre-nuptial agreement, I’ll go through it with you.’
He was thorough, Mikayla noted, following the document clause by clause as he clarified legalese. Every eventuality was covered.
She noted with consternation that she was to reside in Rafael Velez-Aguilera’s home. Surely a mistress was a part-time lover who was maintained in an apartment of her own, and made herself available on request?
Rafael Velez-Aguilera had also changed the time-span from twelve months to fifteen, thereby lengthening her sentence.
Whatever had made her think she could stipulate terms and conditions?
He also had the right to end the relationship at any time prior to the fifteen month term. She had no such right.
Should he choose to terminate the relationship prior to the agreed upon date, the months remaining would be reduced to a percentage and calculated against the total amount owed. An amount she would be deemed liable to repay over a specified time.
Effectively, she had nowhere to move, nothing to negotiate. He held her, legally and contractually, in the palm of his hand.
Rafael Velez-Aguilera walked into the office as Mikayla cast the pre-nuptial agreement to one side and examined the second document.
She directed him the briefest of glances, her gaze cool, dispassionate.
The personal agreement was personal, for it covered health issues, blood tests. There was a part of her that was offended, almost insulted. Twin flags of colour heightened her cheekbones, and she was only measurably appeased to discover Rafael Velez-Aguilera had already subjected himself to similar tests.
‘A necessary precaution,’ the lawyer said smoothly as she stiffened at the starkly listed requirements.
The waiver followed, and she read it through carefully, ensuring the lawyer’s spoken words tied in accurately with the written clauses.
‘You are, of course, free to disregard these documents.’
Free to walk from this office, and have nothing to do with Rafael Velez-Aguilera. But if she took that course, she’d inherit a half-million dollar debt, which would involve her being adjudged bankrupt. Her chances of retaining her teaching position would be slim.
Whereas fifteen months wasn’t a lifetime. At the end of it, she’d be free, and able to regain her own life.
The lawyer took her silence for granted.
‘Do you have any questions?’
She had to strive to be businesslike. ‘No.’ Inside she was breaking apart.
‘A doctor’s appointment has been arranged following this. I have also organised a concurrent consultation with an independent legal colleague to advise you on the documentation. The test results should be through within a forty-eight hour period, a copy of which will be available to you.’
It was professional efficiency at its best. So why did she feel as if she’d just stepped onto a roller coaster?
