Two Against the Odds (6 page)

Rafe rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the dampness at his hairline. “I'm not a marriage counselor. I have no expertise in this area.”

“But you understand people.”

“Do I? I don't understand Lexie.”

“No one understands Lexie, least of all Lexie.” Hetty waved that away with a flap of the tea towel. “What you said the other day resonated with me. You see, I've figured out the subtext of Steve's anger toward me. While I was away in Queensland he got sick and had to go into the hospital. Then Smedley ran away and got poisoned by eating fox bait. Steve blames me for Smedley almost dying, but I think he's really blaming me for
his
getting sick. He interpreted my trip as saying I didn't care if he lived or died. But of course he can't say that so he rants and raves about Smedley.”

Rafe didn't have a clue what she was talking about. “Who's Smedley?”

“Steve's Jack Russell terrier.”

“Cute dogs.” Rafe nodded sagely. “Make friends with Smedley, that's my advice. Go for walks with him and Steve. Show Steve you love him
and
his dog.”

Hetty sat back, the tea towel twisted in her hands. “How is that going to get us making love again?”

Rafe dropped his head in one hand and covered his face. “I'm sorry, Hetty, I haven't got a clue. If you want tax advice, I'm your man. If you want tips on
the best bait for snapper or ling cod, call on me. But marriage advice? Uh-uh.”

“Lexie said you were amazing in bed.”

Rafe choked and went into a coughing fit. He staggered to his feet and over to the sink. Hetty got there first and ran him a glass of water.

“Here, drink that,” she said.

Rafe sipped some down. When he was sure he was breathing normally, he said, “She told you that?”

“Oh, dear, I shouldn't have mentioned it. But now that I have,” she went on quickly, “what do you suggest I do to turn Steve on?”

Rafe took the tea towel from her and used it to mop his forehead. “Please, there must be someone else you can ask.”

“I can't go to my son or my other daughter's fiancé. That would be embarrassing for them at family dinners.”

“You think?” Rafe murmured faintly.

“I'm asking because you're a man—and virile according to Lexie—and a stranger. Although I do feel oddly comfortable with you. Perhaps we knew each other in a previous life.”

“Okay, well…” He racked his brain trying to think of what to say, then remembered Lexie telling him, “I want to go to bed with you.” That had done it for him. “Be direct with Steve. Maybe he's not sure
you
want
him.
Tell him flat out. You might be surprised at his reaction.”

“Isn't that a lot of pressure to put on a man?” Hetty asked dubiously.

“Not if he's at all interested. And for a man that basically means if he has a pulse.” Then doubt assailed him. What did he know about sexual relationships in long-term marriages? He wasn't even sure if his parents had sex anymore. “Maybe you could have some Viagra on hand.”

“If I did that he might think I'm saying he's got erectile dysfunction.” Hetty frowned. “What about sexy lingerie? Do you think that would work?”

Rafe couldn't help picturing Lexie in skimpy lace and satin. “It would for me. Not you, of course. I mean, not that you're not—” He broke off, sweating.

“I know what you mean, dear, don't worry. Let me see if I've got all this,” Hetty said, counting off on her fingers. “Suck up to the dog, don't beat around the bush and channel my inner courtesan.”

Rafe blew out a gusty breath. “That about sums it up.”

“What do you think about pole dancing? Sex toys?”

“I think you've got enough going on.” Rafe picked up his briefcase and started to back out of the room. “I'd better get to work on the audit.”

“I thought you wanted to talk to Lexie?”

“Er, that can wait. I don't want to disturb her if she's painting.”

“Well,
I'm
going to disturb her,” Hetty announced,
rising, too. “She can spare an hour to go shopping with me.” She put down her tea towel and walked out the back door to the studio.

Rafe sat at the dining room table and unpacked his briefcase. He was up to his elbows in receipts and trying without much success not to think about Lexie's mother pole dancing in a corset and garters when Lexie came breezing into the living room with her purse slung over her shoulder.

“What did you and Mum talk about?” Lexie asked. “She's champing at the bit to get down to some specialty shop in Frankston and she swears she can't go without me.”

“I wouldn't know anything about that,” Rafe said. “But listen here, you can't go telling her about us. You can't tell anyone.”

“Sorry, it just slipped out this morning. She sort of guessed. But don't worry. Hetty won't tell anyone else, definitely not your boss.” Lexie waggled her fingers. “I'll see you later.”

Lexie and Hetty left. And finally, without distractions, he began to get somewhere. The pile of envelopes he'd gone through was now greater than the pile yet to be explored. Opening a new one was like unearthing the records of some ancient civilization. He could deduce a lot about Lexie's life by the way she spent her money. Paints, restaurants, books, music, admission to art galleries, vet bills, professional dues—

Rafe heard the front door creak open. Lexie must have forgotten something. But the click of high heels didn't sound like her. She'd gone out in flat sandals.

He glanced up.

The attractive woman standing before him had bouncy brown chin-length hair and was carefully made up. Her royal-blue suit fit like a glove. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Didn't anyone knock and wait to be invited in around here?

“Er, can I help you?” he said. “Lexie's just gone out.”

“I'm Renita, her sister,” the woman said. “You must be the tax man. Hetty told me about you.”

Hell. What exactly had Hetty said about him? He hoped Renita wasn't looking for sex advice, too. But no, Hetty wouldn't have had time to spread that news. He hoped.

“Rafe Ellersley.” He rose, extending a hand. “Australian Taxation Office.”

“Is my mother here?”

“She and Lexie went shopping.”

“Really? Lexie hates shopping,” Renita mused. “She must still be blocked.”

“Apparently she's had a brainwave. She got up in the middle of the night to paint.”

“Oh?” Renita eyed him.

“That's what she told me this morning,” Rafe
added quickly. All he needed was another Thatcher woman discussing his sexual relations with Lexie. They'd probably invite this Sienna person, too, and serve wine and cheese.

“Well, good for her. Listen, I dropped by to borrow Lexie's punch bowl. And to remind her we're having a barbecue for Jack and Sienna tonight at Brett's new house. They're leaving for Bali next week to get married. This will be a pre-wedding party in lieu of a reception.”

“I'll pass the message on.”

“Six o'clock. You can come, too, if you like. I understand you're staying in Summerside for a few days.”

“I wouldn't want to intrude on a family party.”

“It's not just family. There will be lots of people. Please, don't let me disturb your work. I'll just go look for the punch bowl.”

She went out to the kitchen. Rafe could hear cabinet doors opening and closing, dishes and pots being moved around to a background of mild curses. He knew how she felt.

“I can't find it,” Renita said, returning to the living room. She walked slowly around the room, peering into corners. “She might have used it to put pinecones or shells in. It's the kind of thing she'd do, never mind that it's Waterford crystal and fifty years old.”

“Her tax files turned up in the garden shed,” Rafe said.

“That doesn't surprise me.” Renita straightened. “I set up a spreadsheet and accounting system for her but she didn't use it. The envelopes were the next best option. I even reminded her every year when it was time to get her taxes done. It goes in one ear and out the other.”

Rafe thought back to what Lexie had said about her family. She was right. They didn't seem to have much faith in her. Granted, that seemed to be warranted.

Renita glanced at her watch. “I've got to go. Ask Lexie about the punch bowl, will you?”

 

H
ETTY GINGERLY PICKED UP
a large rubber dildo in Day-Glo orange. “Do women actually use these?”

Lexie put back the tester bottle of perfumed massage oil and glanced up in surprise. “Don't you have one?”

“I've always had your father until recently.”

The shop's aisles were crowded with sex products but at midmorning on a weekday, Lexie and Hetty were the only customers.

Lexie reached for another tester, wondering if Rafe was a musky or a citrusy kind of guy. She shut her eyes, casting her mind back to his sex-warmed skin. His was more of an exotic spicy note. Cumin and coriander with a hint of chili. She sniffed another tester. Perfect. She would enjoy rubbing this over his body. And then rubbing herself over him.

The shop assistant, a thirty-something woman
with a glossy black bob, piercings and tattoos, approached Hetty. “Do you know what you're looking for in a dildo?”

“Not really,” Hetty said. “What do you recommend?”

Lexie stood back as the sales girl talked her mother into buying the Orgasmitron 500.

L
EXIE CAME THROUGH
the front door and dropped her packages in the hall. Rafe was still seated at the dining table, bent over her files. She put her arms around him from behind and began kissing his neck.

“Renita would like to borrow the punch bowl,” he told her, continuing to enter numbers. “She looked around but couldn't find it.”

“It's in the linen closet.” Lexie blew on his ear.

“Of course it is,” he murmured. “Is Hetty with you? Your sister was looking for her, too.”

“She went home to try out her new dildo.”

Rafe held up a hand. “Too much information.”

“She's a sexual being, just like anyone else,” Lexie said. “There's nothing wrong with celebrating love.”

She ran a finger down the back of his neck. She was pretty sure that sexual energy was responsible for sparking her creativity. And she wanted more. “I bought something from the same shop,” she added in a lilting voice. “Aren't you curious?”

“You had a phone call while you were gone,” he said. “I let the machine pick it up.”

Removing her arms, she wandered over to the blinking machine to check her messages. Recognizing the number, she said, “Good, the gallery called.”

She rang Samuel back and while she waited for him to pick up she glanced outside at the angle of the sunlight shining through the studio windows. Perfect.

“Hello, Manyung Gallery.”

“Hey, Samuel, Lexie here. You rang?”

“I called about the paintings you have on display. Some of them have been here a couple of months and they're not moving. With the economic downturn and the tourist season coming to an end, you might want to think about lowering the price.”

“I can't afford to take less,” Lexie said. “Give them a little longer.” She hid her worry, remaining calm but firm. “In fact, once the Archibald is over I might be raising the price.”

“Okay,” Samuel said doubtfully. “I'll give them another few weeks then we'll rethink.”

Lexie hung up. Tugging on her hair, she paced the living room. Those paintings were her bread and butter. If they didn't sell…

Rafe cleared his throat. “It's none of my business but since you're going to need money to pay taxes
I'll ask. What was that all about? Do I understand you've got paintings for sale at a gallery?”

Lexie collapsed into a chair at the table and explained the situation. How she sold seascapes at the Manyung Gallery for two to three thousand dollars apiece. “I can usually count on selling at least one a month, sometimes more. But it's been a bad year.”

“You don't think you should have lowered the price?” Rafe asked. “A bird in the hand, and all that.”

“I need the money to pay my taxes. It's that simple.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe I'm not charging enough. People value things when they're expensive.” She picked up the phone and called Samuel back. “Forget about waiting until after the Archibald, I'm raising my price right now by ten percent.”

“Lexie, are you sure?” Samuel said alarmed. “I don't think—”

“You'll get a bigger cut, too, so don't complain,” Lexie said. “I'll bet you a bottle of pinot noir you sell something this weekend.”

She clicked off the phone. Part of her enjoyed the buzz of holding her own in the business world. But getting aggressive wasn't good for the creative process.

“Aren't you worried?” Rafe asked. “You don't have a steady income.”

“I'm scraping by.” She didn't want to think about
the money she owed in taxes. The Archibald Prize—if she won it—would cover that. If she didn't win she would find the money, somehow. She would paint ten trillion watercolors of the colorful huts on Summerside Beach for the local galleries and cafés. She would paint portraits of pampered Pekinese pooches for rich old ladies. She would paint kids' faces at birthday parties.

Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly and deeply for three counts, allowing her hard edges to dissolve before she went out to paint. When she opened her eyes again, Rafe was watching her. “What?”

He hesitated. “Those paintings you've already sold at the local gallery. I'm going to need the records for those going back five years.”

Her and her big mouth.

“They're all in the envelopes.” She twisted her fingers through the folds of her skirt.

He scrolled through the pages of his computer spreadsheet, looking at those entries. “Then how come the most you've been paid for a painting is one thousand dollars?”

“Samuel pays me the rest in cash,” she mumbled.

His jaw dropped. Then he slammed a hand flat on the table, making her jump and the receipts flutter. “That is frickin' tax evasion. Don't you get it? It's against the law.”

“I'm sorry.” She shrugged unhappily. “It's just, if
I go back to teaching, I can't paint. We're not talking millions in corporate tax fraud here. You see how I live. It's not as if I'm getting rich off what I do. I barely make enough to keep myself in art supplies.”

“That's not the point.”

She bowed her head. “I know.”

“I don't enjoy squeezing blood out of a stone but I have to do my job.” His hands fisted atop his thighs. “I've already had one notice at work. If I screw up on your audit, that'll be two warnings. Care to guess what happens after three?”

“What did you do the other time?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“I'm interested.”

“I turned a blind eye to the blackmarket income of a woman who was supporting her sick son and his three children. She was a genuine hard-luck case. But what I did was wrong.” He stared her in the eye to make sure she understood the gravity of his situation. “I can't afford to lose my job.”

“Sounds like your job is horrible.” Having had enough of this conversation, she wandered into the living room, plopped down on the couch and picked up her sketch pad. Flipped it to a fresh page.

Rafe resumed sorting receipts and entering data. After a moment, he said, “I need to stay employed until I can start my own fishing boat charter.”

“Really? That's so cool. I didn't think you were
the type to be happy as an accountant for the rest of your life.” She began to draw his hands. “When are you going to buy a boat?”

“Someday.” He tossed an empty envelope aside.

“Someday?” Her pencil stilled. “That's not good enough. What are you waiting for?”

“A little thing called money. Heard of it? I have to save enough for the deposit, for one thing, so the interest rates don't kill me. And I want a good chunk of money in the bank for a safety net.”

“You don't need a safety net,” she scoffed, studying his wrists. “You just have to take the leap. Look at me.”

“Yes…look at you. Anyway, I've got the boat I want all picked out.” Now there was an excitement in his voice that made him seem even younger than his years. He moved around the table to his laptop and quickly brought up a webpage. He spun the computer around so she could see. “That's my dream boat.”

“Why don't you take out a loan and buy it?” Lexie asked, glancing at the screen from where she sat. He didn't reply, just gazed at the boat on the website.

Lexie quickly sketched a fishing rod in Rafe's hand on her page, the other hand she had turning the reel.

“My father never got to fulfill his dreams,” Rafe said finally, obscurely. He shut down the website and went back to sorting.

“What did he want?” At the end of the line, being pulled from the water, she drew a fish.

“What? Oh. To join the merchant marine, to become a captain eventually,” Rafe explained. “He got his seaman's papers when he was nineteen. Then my mum got pregnant. Dad went to work on the docks instead. It was supposed to be temporary, just until I was born and he knew my mum was okay.”

Lexie paused drawing to look at Rafe's profile. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth. “What happened?”

Rafe took a moment. “One day they were loading containers onto a ship when the crane cable broke. Dad was pinned, his legs crushed by the container.” He shrugged. “The merchant marine doesn't take paraplegics.”

“Rafe, I'm sorry.”

He swivelled to face her directly. “It's not that easy to take leaps of faith. I need to find the right location, get the financing….”

“You've got a good job. You should talk to my sister. She's the loans manager at Community Bank.”

“If I were to start a business, I'd have to quit my job. I'm not sure if the bank would lend to me under those circumstances.”

“You won't know unless you try. Why wait another year?” she urged. “Do it now.”

His face closed down. “How about those records of sales from the gallery?”

 

R
AFE STOOD
at the edge of the deck overlooking Brett O'Connor's huge backyard and wondered how the hell he'd ended up at Lexie's family barbecue. At five-thirty he'd returned to his bed and breakfast and changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt. He'd taken Murphy for a walk and then put him back in the yard at the B&B. Then he'd started walking into the village for a meal at the pub.

Hetty had driven by and stopped right in the middle of the road, blocking traffic, to offer him a lift. His mistake had been getting into her car.

Now he had a frosty bottle of beer in his hand and was standing on the sidelines exchanging a few words with a rugged blond athlete who turned out to be Brett O'Connor, the famous ex-football player. Rafe estimated about fifty guests were gathered for the pre-wedding send-off and celebration. They milled about the yard or sat on the deck. The grill was sizzling with prawns and steaks, and an assortment of salads was laid out on tables.

He had to admit, a backyard barbecue beat a lonely meal in a pub.

A passel of young kids romped on the grass with the dogs—a golden retriever and a Jack Russell terrier. A teenage boy and his girlfriend, both blond and
about fourteen years old, sat at the picnic table and talked, holding hands.

Lexie came outside, carrying a platter of raw vegetables to the barbecue. Her hair flowed and curled over her bare shoulders. Her sundress, tiny pink flowers on a turquoise background, molded to her slender curves. As she made her way across the patio he watched her interact with her family and friends. Everyone clearly adored her, even if they thought she was a ditz.

Hetty touched her arm and pointed in his direction. Lexie looked up. There was a moment of stillness when their eyes met. He saw the surprise followed by—

Was that a smile?

Then Brett was saying something to him. “Sorry,” Rafe said, dragging his gaze away from Lexie. “I missed that.”

“I asked if you wanted to join me in throwing the football around with the kids.” Brett tossed the oval ball lightly between his hands.

“Maybe later. I should speak to Lexie.” He walked to meet her, stopping in the shade of a pergola thick with grape vines. “I swear to God, your mother kidnapped me.”

“Yeah, right.” She shook her head but she was definitely smiling. “Couldn't stay away from me, could you? Sienna!” Lexie called, waving to a woman with long curling red hair in a pale green linen dress. She
came over and Lexie introduced Rafe. “My sister-in-law to be.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Rafe said. “I'm impressed by how well Lexie's captured your likeness.” And then damned if his gaze didn't drop to her right breast. He quickly looked back up, red-faced.

To his relief, Sienna laughed. “Don't worry,” she said drily, “you're not the first to do that.” She nodded to Lexie. “How did you go with finding a model of DNA? I've got a biochemistry textbook you can borrow if you like.”

“Thanks, but I got what I needed from the internet.”

“Good.” Sienna waved at an older couple who'd just arrived. “Excuse me. My parents are here. I'll catch up with you later. Nice to meet you, Rafe.”

“Likewise.” Rafe turned to Lexie. “DNA?”

“I don't understand how it works, but structurally, it's very elegant. Great backdrop for Sienna's portrait.”

Hetty came back out of the house bearing the crystal punch bowl brimming with sangria.

“I think your advice to Mum must be working,” Lexie said. “When my dad arrived he had the biggest grin you've ever seen.”

Rafe sipped his beer and glanced around. “I just hope no one else decides I'm some sort of sex counselor and asks for my services.”

“Hey, Lexie,” said a woman behind them. The baby girl in her arms gurgled a laugh.

“Sally. And little Chloe!” Lexie embraced both woman and baby. “I'm glad you could make it.”

Rafe judged Sally, dressed in jeans and a white top, to be in her early thirties. As for Chloe, he didn't have a clue how old she was. She was young enough to wear knitted booties instead of shoes but old enough to hold her head up by herself. She had big hazel eyes, rosy cheeks and wisps of light brown hair.

Over her shoulder Sally carried a tote bag bristling with baby paraphernalia. Judging by the amount of gear she carried, she was planning to stay for a week.

“This is Rafe,” said Lexie, “from the Australian Taxation Office.”

“Hi, Rafe.” Sally chucked Chloe under the chin. “Can you say hello to Lexie and Rafe?”

Chloe cooed at Lexie and then gave the big bad tax man the once-over. A tiny frown pulled her tiny brows together and her tiny bottom lip came out.

Rafe took a pull of his beer.
The feeling's mutual, kid.

“Do you want a bottle of mineral water?” Lexie asked Sally. “I'm just on my way back inside.”

“I'll come, too. I need to use the bathroom.” She glanced around. “Maybe someone will hold Chloe for me.”

“Rafe, would you? Just for a few minutes?” Lexie asked.