Two Against the Odds. Joan Kilby

paying taxes is like stealing from the government,” Larry went on. “You’re not some Robin Hood.”

      Rafe bit his lip.

      “It’s essential for tax auditors to…?” Larry prompted, waiting for Rafe to complete the sentence.

      “Maintain an independent state of mind,” Rafe intoned. It was the mantra of the tax office, ingrained in all tax auditors from day one.

      Larry cocked his egg-shaped head to glance at Rafe’s photos of fishing boats. “Did you ever think maybe you’re not cut out to be an accountant?”

      “I’m cut out for it.” Rafe chewed the softening remains of the antacid tablet. “I can do it.”

      One more year and he would have saved enough money to put a down payment on a charter fishing boat. His dream was to take groups out on the weekend. Hell, why stop at the weekend? Someday he wanted to make fishing charters his livelihood.

      If he could hang on to this job until then.

      Lose it, and he wouldn’t easily find another that paid this well. Especially if he got fired.

      “You could be one of the best accountants I’ve got,” Larry said. “Question is, do you have the balls to be that guy?”

      Rafe swallowed and nodded again. “You can count on me.”

      “This woman…” Larry waved the file folder. “Hasn’t responded to letters, emails or phone calls. She’s going to be a tough nut to crack.” He dropped the file on Rafe’s desk. “Screw this one up and…” He walked away, leaving the rest hanging.

      Rafe swallowed. He didn’t need Larry to spell things out to know the consequences would be dire.

      LEXIE THATCHER WAS a crystal lying on the sandy bottom of a quiet pond. Calm and peaceful. She was as smooth and round as a washed pebble but perfectly clear. Crystal clear. Sunlight filtering through the water filled her with a pure white light.

      Thoughts crept in like dark tendrils of water weeds—her stalled portrait of Sienna, her parents’ disintegrating marriage, the letter from the tax office… Gently she pushed each thought away.

      Calm. Peace. Light.

      Sienna’s portrait was missing a crucial element. What was it? Why was she blocked? The deadline was approaching.

      Thirty-eight years old last week.

      Time was ticking.

      Don’t think. Empty the mind. Slow the breathing.

      Light. Peace. Calm.

      Peace. Calm—

      Ding-dong.

      Lexie crashed to earth with a jerk. Now she felt the rough nap of the carpet beneath her palms, the weight of her legs, her yoga top bunched at her waist. The noisy thoughts came awake in her head, all clamoring for attention at once, like chattering monkeys.

      The bell rang again. Ding-dong.

      With a sigh she dragged herself upright and padded barefoot to the front door, pushing a hand through her long blond curls, straightening her filmy cotton skirt. Three tiny bells around her right ankle tinkled with each step.

      She hoped it was Andrew, the sweet little boy from next door, come to fetch the ball he was forever accidentally throwing over the fence. She loved his adorable freckled face and big green eyes. Lexie, may I get my ball?

      She opened the door, her gaze pitched to knee level. “Hey, Andrew—”

      Not a four-year-old boy with curly red hair.

      Charcoal-gray pant legs with a razor-sharp crease and black crocodile-skin shoes. Her gaze skimmed up the long lean figure in the well-cut suit with the white shirt open at the neck. A ripe mouth framed by dark stubble and dark eyes topped by thick black eyebrows. His hair was pushed back showing a strong widow’s peak and he had a dark mole high on his right cheek.

      He was sexy. And young.

      A buzz of awareness hummed through her despite the fact that she had to be at least ten years older than he was. “What can I do for you?”

      “Rafe Ellersley.” He produced a business card and held it up for her to see. “Australian Taxation Office.”

      She slammed the door in his face.

      She stood there, listening to her heart gallop, knowing he hadn’t moved from her welcome mat. Yes, very mature.

      Ding-dong.

      Lexie put her hand on the knob. Sucking in a breath, she opened the door again. “Sorry. That was dumb.”

      “I’m used to it.” His gaze started to drift down her formfitting sleeveless top then flicked back to her eyes. “I normally don’t just show up on people’s doorsteps. But when people don’t respond to letters or phone calls, a personal visit is the next step.”

      There had been letters, which she’d set aside to deal with later. And then there were the phone messages which she’d ignored because she’d been painting and didn’t want to be disturbed. Then when she’d gotten blocked she’d decided their negative energy was her problem and, whoops, they were accidentally-on-purpose deleted. And now her bad habit of procrastination had come around to bite her on the butt.

      She breathed deep into her belly to stem her rising panic. “I’ve been very busy with my work. Is there a problem?”

      Rafe set his briefcase on the mat at his feet. “You’re being audited.”

      Her stomach tightened, trapping her breath. “Audited?”

      “Yes. I’m here to go over your accounts with you and assess taxes owed for the period of delinquency.” He glanced over her shoulder into the small foyer. “Is this a good time?”

      “No.” Her house was a mess, her work in limbo, her life in chaos. “I’m busy, very busy. I must get back to what I was doing.”

      Lying on the floor pretending to be a crystal. It was vital to her creativity but hard to explain to a sexy young man in a suit. She started to close the door.

      Quick as a wink he wedged a polished shoe between the door and the jamb. “I understand you’re an artist.”

      “Y-yes,” she said warily. She could imagine what tax accountants thought of artists—about as useful to society as bicycles were to fish. “I’m working on a portrait for the Archibald Prize.”

      “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. May I come in?”

      “As I said, I’m busy. I’ll file my tax return soon. Promise. On my honor and all that.” She gave the door another shove.

      His foot didn’t budge. With his leg braced, his thigh muscle was outlined against his pant leg. “Then I’ll come back later. What time do you finish for the day?”

      “I work all hours. Right through the night sometimes, when things are flowing.”

      In reality, she hadn’t done any work on Sienna’s portrait for weeks but he didn’t need to know that. She hadn’t been completely idle, having whipped off a couple of small seascapes of Summerside Bay for the tourist trade. She just hadn’t done anything important.

      “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said.

      “I’ll be busy then, too!”

      Again she pushed on the door to no avail. No doubt the Australian Taxation Office issued steel-reinforced shoes for cases like hers.

      Apparently the agents were reinforced with steel, too. His black eyes glinted; his smile was grim. “Ms. Thatcher, you haven’t filed a tax return in four years. I will come back every day. I will camp on your doorstep if necessary, until you make the time to go through your accounts. Whether it takes weeks or months is of no difference to me. I have a job to do and I will do it.” He let