Mistress by Contract
Helen Bianchin
HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and traveled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons, then resettled in Australia. Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper, and her first novel was published in 1975. And animal lover, she says her terrier and new Persian kitten consider her study to be as much theirs as hers.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
THE sun shone warmly, Rafael noted as he spared a glance out of the kitchen window while water poured into the glass carafe. With deft movements he turned off the tap and slid the carafe onto the coffee-maker, spooned freshly ground coffee beans into the filter, then switched it on.
The eggs were done, the toast ready, and on impulse he placed it all on a tray and carried it out onto the terrace.
He returned to the kitchen, all but drained the orange juice in a few long swallows, then he poured the coffee, collected the morning newspaper, and ventured into the early Spring sunshine.
Allowing himself time for a leisurely breakfast had long become a habit, and this morning was no different.
Best part of the day, he reflected with satisfaction as he skimmed the headlines, read what interested him, whilst enjoying the food he’d prepared.
He perused the business section, then reached the social pages, scanned the photo spread and was in the process of turning the page when his own image leapt out in a lower right corner frame.
Hmn, Sasha looked stunning. The profile was perfect, the smile just right, her stance practised to present the most attractive image.
His gaze slid to the caption, and his eyes narrowed a little.
Celebrating the recent takeover by Aguilera, Rafael Velez-Aguilera, multi-millionaire entrepreneur, and Sasha Despojoa enjoy an evening at Déjeuner restaurant.
A brooding smile barely moved his mobile mouth.
Yes, he could lay claim to wealth and business nous, he reflected with grim satisfaction. He lived in a beautiful home in one of Sydney’s prestigious harbour suburbs. He possessed an enviable investment portfolio, and owned real estate in several capital cities.
It would appear he had it all.
What the columnist didn’t touch on was his background.
The backstreet poverty in which he’d been raised, the less than salubrious place of education where the tough survived and the meek were discarded.
For as long as he could remember he’d wanted more than just an existence on the wrong side of town. More than a life having to keep an eye on the lookout for whoever walked the law enforcement beat, the necessity to always be one step ahead, glib words at the ready to slip from a practised tongue. There wasn’t a thing he hadn’t witnessed, few deals he hadn’t done.
From a young age he’d wanted out. Out of the grey world where survival was the only ambition. Being street-smart was only part of the goal. Education was the other, and he’d fought for it the only way he knew how, gaining scholarships and graduating with honours. Not for the glory or honour, not to please his parents. For himself.
He’d succeeded handsomely. At thirty-six, he was precisely where he wanted to be. He could have any woman he wanted, and frequently did, selectively.
His latest companion, however, was hinting at permanence and, while he enjoyed her in bed, out of it he had no desire to commit to a lasting relationship.
Was there any one woman for a man? The only one.
Somehow he doubted it.
The shrill peal of the mobile phone intruded, and he picked up and intoned a brusque greeting. ‘Velez-Aguilera.’
‘Buenos dias, querido.’
The feminine voice was a sultry purr, and intentionally feline. It was meant to quicken his heartbeat and stir his loins in a reminder of what he’d chosen not to accept the previous night. ‘Sasha,’ he acknowledged.
‘Am I disturbing you, darling?’
A double entendre, if ever there was one. ‘No,’ he responded truthfully.
‘I thought we might have dinner tonight.’
He appreciated a woman’s eagerness, but he preferred to do the hunting. ‘I’ll have to take a rain-check.’
‘Some other time, then?’
She’d recovered quickly, but the need for reassurance was there, and he chose to ignore it. ‘Perhaps.’ And ended the call.
He cast a brooding gaze out over the immaculate grounds, skimmed the shimmering blue waters of the swimming pool, and lingered on the tennis court, the flower beds and shrubbery before returning his attention to the newspaper.
He poured a fresh cup of coffee, checked his watch, and spread marmalade conserve on the last piece of toast. Five minutes later he re-entered the kitchen, rinsed and stacked plates into the dishwasher, then went upstairs to dress.
He owned any number of business suits, and today he chose Armani, added a buttoned waistcoat, a silk tie, slid his feet into handmade Italian shoes, shrugged on the jacket, checked his wallet, his briefcase, caught up his laptop, then retraced his steps to the ground floor.
The security system set, he gained the garage, slid in behind the wheel of a sleek top-of-the-range Mercedes, and sent the vehicle purring down the driveway.
He owned office space on a high floor in one of the city’s glass-panelled buildings, an architectural masterpiece commanding splendid views out over the city harbour.
Traffic was heavy, and he opened his laptop at a set of lights, checked his day’s scheduled appointments, and made a quick note to have his secretary make two phone calls.
Fifteen minutes later he eased the car down two floors of the basement car park and slid into his reserved
