Mistress By Contract. HELEN BIANCHIN

cuff of his jacket and checked his watch.

      ‘Five minutes.’ She’d practised the words, timed them, and could manage it in less, if she had to.

      ‘Make an appointment with my secretary.’ The dismissal was clear.

      ‘I tried that.’ She shook her head. Nothing depicted in the media could accurately portray the essence of the man, or convey his compelling aura of power.

      ‘It didn’t work.’ She managed a tight smile. ‘Your security is impenetrable.’

      ‘You managed to access this car park.’ He’d have someone on it immediately.

      ‘Guile.’ A desperate plea based on truth to the security guard. She could only hope it wouldn’t mean his job.

      Rafael had to hand it to her. She had guts. ‘Which you now hope to use on me?’

      ‘And waste more time?’

      He was intrigued. ‘Two minutes,’ he stipulated. ‘Your name?’

      ‘Mikayla.’ The next part, she knew, would have a damning effect. ‘Joshua Petersen’s daughter.’

      His expression tightened, his mouth thinned, and his voice when he uttered the single negative was lethal. ‘No.’

      It was just as she’d expected, but she persisted. She had to. ‘You offered me two minutes.’

      ‘I could multiply it by ten, and the answer would still be no.’

      ‘My father is dying,’ she stated simply.

      ‘You want my sympathy?’

      ‘Leniency.’

      His features hardened, and his gaze pierced hers, inflexible, dangerous. ‘You would dare ask leniency for a man who embezzled several hundred thousand dollars from me?’

      She tamped down the sheer desperation. ‘My father is hospitalised with an inoperable brain tumour.’ She waited a beat. ‘If you press charges against him, he’ll spend his last weeks on earth incarcerated in prison.’

      ‘No.’ He activated the car alarm, pocketed the keys, and began walking towards the lift bank.

      ‘I’ll do anything.’ It was a desperate last-ditch attempt. Two hand-delivered letters had been ignored, and phone calls hadn’t been returned.

      He paused, turned, and raked her slender frame with insulting appraisal. ‘It would take more…’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Much more than you’re capable of giving.’

      ‘You don’t know that.’

      ‘Yes,’ he drawled with certainty. ‘I do.’

      If he got into the key-operated lift, she’d lose him. ‘Please.’

      He heard the word, sensed the slight tremor in her voice, and kept walking. He summoned the lift, then turned.

      ‘You have one minute to get out of this car park, or you’ll be arrested for trespass.’

      He expected anger, rage, even an attempt at attack. Or a well-acted bout of weeping.

      Instead he saw pride in the tilt of that small feminine chin. Her mouth moved fractionally as she sought control, and momentarily lost as the faint shimmer of moisture dampened those sea-green eyes. A single tear escaped and ran slowly down one cheek.

      An electronic beep announced the lift’s arrival, and he used his key to open the doors, then he stepped into the cubicle and inserted the key into its slot.

      His expression didn’t change. ‘Thirty seconds.’ He turned the key, the doors slid closed, and he was transported swiftly to his suite of offices on a high floor.

      He nodded briefly to the brunette manning the curved ultra-modern reception desk, offered a greeting to his secretary, and walked through to his office.

      Electronic wizardry had earned him a fortune. Computer technology advanced at lightning speed, and the internet was his forte.

      He flipped the intercom, confirmed the day’s schedule with his secretary, and went to work.

      Two hours later he saved the file he’d been working on, and summoned up the Petersen file.

      Not that his memory needed refreshing. He’d travelled too many roads to be disturbed or haunted by anything. But a certain blonde female’s features intruded, the image of that one solitary tear trickling down her cheek was there, a silent vulnerable entity, and he wanted it gone.

      Joshua Petersen, widower, one child, Mikayla, single, twenty-five, teacher. It listed an address, telephone number, the school where she taught. Hobbies.

      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