A Taxing Affair

by Victoria Gordon

  ‘Dare I suggest we adjourn to the casino for a drink while we scheme and plot a dastardly revenge on baby sister?’ he asked. ‘We can drop your car off on the way, unless you’re set on maintaining your independence to the bitter end.’

  ‘I’ll see you at my place,’ Vashti replied before she could change her mind, and skipped across the street to her car before he could move to accompany her.

  ‘You’re an idiot, girl,’ she muttered as she drove home. ‘You don’t make a whit of sense; not even to yourself.’ And then laughed. Did it matter? Did anything really matter? It was a nice night, she’d just enjoyed a splendid performance, and been invited for a drink at the Wrest Point casino. She was dressed for it, in the mood for it, and so indeed — why not?

  The totally carefree atmosphere was less easy to maintain once she’d parked her own car and got out to find Phelan Keen waiting to hand her into his own—a magnificent Jaguar that reeked of luxury and comfort. As they drove through the city and south towards Sandy Bay and the casino, she found herself chattering almost non-stop, as if by noise alone she could eliminate the feeling of luxurious intimacy created by both man and automobile.

  Keene drove with seemingly careless flair, yet on several occasions during the journey she noticed how he deftly slowed or switched lanes to avoid possible problems, how he was totally alert to the traffic around and ahead of him without appearing to be. Was he equally alert to her, to her jangled feelings, her forced spontaneity?

  If so, he concealed it well, handing her out of the big car at Wrest Point having said hardly a word since they’d left her home, casually taking her arm for the walk through the parking lot, but touching her only with his fingertips. And his eyes.

  Vashti wasn’t so confused that she didn’t notice the admiring glances she attracted as they strolled through the hotel’s reception area, Phelan apparently seeking a relatively quiet place where they could sit down with their drinks. He, too, attracted a degree of attention, she noticed, and wasn’t a bit surprised.

  He finally found a place for them, got Vashti seated and then said, ‘White wine for you, Mssss, or something a bit more ... adventurous?’ She shivered inwardly at the stretched-out Mssss, then noticed his eyes were laughing; he was only being cheeky, she hoped.

  ‘Oh, definitely more adventurous,’ she found herself replying. ‘A pina colada, I think.’

  ‘The perfect choice,’ he replied. ‘I shall return quite quickly, lest you succumb to the lecherous glances I see all round the room.’

  Gone before she could even smile at his phoney pompous attitude, he was, indeed, back quite quickly with an enormous goblet for her and what seemed an innocuous glass of something colourless for himself.

  ‘Now what shall we drink to?’ he mused as he handed over her drink. ‘I’d say revenge, but that’s far too general, much too simplistic. There really ought to be a twenty-dollar word that fits, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re the wordsmith,’ Vashti replied, her mind blank, empty now even of simplistic synonyms to take his meaning.

  Their glasses had yet to touch, and he was holding her glance over the rim of his, somehow making the toast frivolous and serious at the same time.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘"vengeance" isn’t bad, although I’m told it’s the prerogative of the Bloke Upstairs. Some of our more primitive north-eastern neighbours call it “pe-bak” — in pidgin, of course. But that would mean all sorts of hard work, because we’d have to take her head and smoke it and shrink it, or eat her heart, or something equally gruesome. Too damned much trouble, say I. And “lex talionis”, which is the Latin bit that requires punishment to fit the crime, wouldn’t let us go quite that far, although I rather fancy the smoked head bit.’

  ‘I just don’t see myself as an avenging angel,’ Vashti replied, smothering a grin and, still held by his pale eyes, suddenly dying of thirst, but unwilling to taste her drink without the formality of a toast. ‘Couldn’t we just let her off with a warning or something?’

  ‘Not a chance!’ And he clinked his glass firmly against hers. ‘Here’s to retaliation,’ he said, stretching the syllables into, Vashti thought, a fifteen-dollar word, at least. But still...’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she said dramatically. And did so, wishing she had the nerve to just come straight out and tell him that she was not, and would not be, a particularly vindictive person. Not, she supposed, that he would believe it anyway.

  ‘And so you should,’ he said with a grin that widened as he reached out with a napkin to dab ever so gently at the corner of her mouth. ‘Froth in your moustache,’ he said quite seriously. ‘Should be more careful with frothy drinks.’

  And laughed aloud at her instinctive gasp of surprise and the hand that flew to her mouth after his, leaving a curious feeling of intimacy, had gone.

  Vashti could only laugh too then, but in her own ears it sounded false and contrived. Had she reacted too strongly? Certainly she’d been unprepared for such a gesture, was still having to force herself to be cautious with this man, to be angry with him, as she was supposed to be. But it was hard, indeed damned near impossible.

  All he had done the other night, she was forced to admit, was make it very, very clear that he fancied her, that there was a strong sexual attraction. If she was going to deny vindictiveness, she could hardly lie even to herself about the fact that the attraction was mutual. But did she dare let herself relax?

  ‘I know the classic line is something about you being so lovely when you’re angry,’ he said in that gentle, musing tone he sometimes used. ‘But you’re not. Or rather, you are, but it’s nothing compared to how beautiful you are when you’re not angry, when you’re just being, well, you.’

  Vashti giggled; she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Thus sayeth the great communicator, the master wordsmith,’ she chuckled, inordinately pleased at having, for once, caught him flat-footed. Then even more pleased, somehow, to have him join her in laughter. No super-ego here, she thought; a man who could cheerfully laugh at himself couldn’t be all bad.

  ‘I may have to take you on as a collaborator,’ he said. ‘Or, better yet, as a fair-dinkum research assistant.’

  Vashti couldn’t resist the opportunity.

  ‘I thought you already had,’ she countered. Then added, hoping against hope, ‘Or have you given up this mad idea of writing a book centred around the tax department?’

  ‘Not on your life!’ he replied vigorously. ‘There’s a wonderful book there if I can just get a handle on it. And I will; all it takes is time. And of course the right approach. Which is where you’ll find yourself more involved than you might imagine.’

  ‘You want me to rush around in my spare time investigating the various aspects of murder, sex and general mayhem? In the staid, conservative old tax office?’ Vashti chuckled, couldn’t help it, really. The idea seemed quite ridiculous.

  ‘No, not exactly that either,’ he replied, and now she saw the devilment in his eyes. It was no longer relevant who had started this little game; Phelan was also starting to enjoy himself.

  ‘The mystery and intrigue part, then? No good. I’m hopeless at mysteries; sometimes I don’t even know whodunit after it’s been explained to me.’

  Silence, but silence with a shake of his head and one lifted eyebrow.

  ‘Well, it can’t be the steamy bits, because I’m …’ She had to pause, realising only too late bow easily he’d trapped her; or she’d trapped herself.

  ‘Off the boil? I never would have guessed.’

  And now the devil laughed in his eyes, eyes that forced her to laugh with him, to accept, as he had, the joke on herself.

  ‘^Right off the boil,’ Vashti replied sternly after granting him hardly more than a smile. He was too tricky, too devious by half, she thought. And she decided to be far more careful with what she might say.

  Phelan didn’t seem the least concerned. He shrugged off her stern message and gazed thoughtfully for a moment.

 
; ‘OK,’ he finally said, ‘we’ll let that one go for a bit and look at the practicalities of the matter. Is this evening tax-deductible?’

  ‘I...’ She paused, eyes narrowed as she glared at him for bringing business into what had been a lovely evening despite its unusual beginning. Then decided to hell with it. ‘I couldn’t imagine how,’ she declared. ‘Everybody knows by now, surely, that entertainment expenses are no longer allowed.’

  ‘Well, please don’t take this wrong, because I’m only being hypothetical,’ he said, ‘but what if I’m not just “entertaining” you? What if what I’m doing is research?’

  ‘Hypothetical research?’ Vashti definitely, she decided, did not like the direction this was going. But she couldn’t see an easy way out; nothing short of a blunt refusal to play the hypothetical game would work.

  ‘Research research,’ Phelan insisted. ‘Now try and be objective about this; we’re only speculating, after all;

  ‘OK,’ she replied, feeling no assurance whatsoever.

  ‘Right.’ Phelan was enjoying this; she could see the glint of battle in his eyes. ‘Now you remember at lunch that day when I insisted that if I’m awake I’m working?’

  ‘I do. Was that luncheon ‘‘research" too?’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ he growled. ‘You know damned well it wasn’t.’

  ‘That doesn’t prohibit your presuming your portion was research,’ she replied astutely. And nearly laughed at the expression on his face as he thought about that and was forced to accept her point.

  ‘OK, I could have. Let’s say I did. But it’s tonight — hypothetically! — that we’re looking at. Surely it’s a legitimate business activity for a writer to bring a girl to a place like this to research how she reacts to the place, how she dresses, how the bar service works, how the drinks look, how ... well ... everything? After all, I can’t very well put it in a book if I’ve never seen it, now, can I?’

  Vashti thought about his theory long and hard, so long that he finally grinned hugely, then got up and went off to get fresh drinks. When he returned, she was ready.

  ‘But you’ve been here before,’ she submitted. ‘And you’ve been here with a woman before, I’m sure.’ She faltered only slightly as a vision of Janice Gentry intruded. ‘How many times do you expect the tax office to accept that as research?’

  ‘I’ve never been here before with you.’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to be my ... let’s say heroine, then it’s your reactions that I’m researching, surely. Not somebody else’s.’

  ‘But I’m not your heroine,’ she protested. Feebly, because this was getting all too complicated, therefore dangerous. Phelan didn’t laugh, but his eyes were ready to. She was on shaky ground here, and didn’t know where to step.

  ‘Hypothetical, don’t forget.’

  ‘All right. Hypothetically, I’m your heroine. But I think you’re really stretching this a bit. Surely any woman would do?’

  ‘Certainly not! After all, if I’m doing a book in which you are the heroine, then I have to know how you react to everything. I already know how ... how some other women react, but if you’re going to be the heroine, then you’re the person whose reactions I have to research.’

  And every time he stressed the you, something flickered in his eyes, something that Vashti felt could actually reach out and touch her, caress her. Dangerous!

  ‘So tonight I’m a hypothetical woman being researched as a hypothetical heroine,’ she finally charged. ‘What happens tomorrow night if you bring me here again? There has to be a limit somewhere.’

  ‘I accept.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased; I didn’t think you’d give in that easily,’ Vashti replied, honestly surprised.

  ‘Who said anything about giving in? I just said I accept your invitation for tomorrow night; that’s all.’

  ‘Now who’s being silly?’ she replied lightly, hoping to divert him, to defuse the trap before she was hopelessly snared.

  And it worked!

  ‘Tomorrow night,’ he said quite seriously, ‘I could bring you in, let’s say, grotty clothes, or clothes that didn’t fit, didn’t suit you. Still the heroine, but I reckon the research element is still there.’

  ‘And so on and so on,’ Vashti mused, intrigued by his logic and ninety-nine per cent certain of how Ross Chandler would react to it. Then she thought about how close to the wind she might be sailing from a purely ethical basis.

  ‘I think ... I think we’d better let this go,’ she said.

  ‘A bit too close to home? Don’t forget it’s only hypothetical,’ Phelan replied directly. ‘And don’t forget too that you, personally, are never going to have to find yourself having to deal with it professionally.’

  ‘You’re aiming to put me in a terribly compromising position, but it’s all right because it’s only hypothetical? Thank you so very much, I think.’

  ‘I am indeed, and it’s got nothing to do with taxes.’

  He was only half joking, if that. His eyes told her that, his glance reaching out to stroke her cheek, to touch her lips, run a line of fire down her throat.

  ‘I can’t be a heroine and a tax auditor too,’ she stressed, trying to hide her confusion.

  ‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve got it all worked out. What I’ll do is a romance: female tax auditor — make that beautiful female tax auditor — gets all involved with the tax affairs of handsome, charming, debonair writer who has strange but firm ideas about how his tax should be assessed ...’

  He was looking at her quite strangely now, she thought, his words rocketing directionless through her mind.

  ‘They could meet for the first time, let’s say, in a remote little country cemetery, maybe, some place really dark and spooky and vivid with atmosphere. What do you reckon?’

  Vashti didn’t reply. She felt suddenly cold, as if someone had abruptly taken away all the heat in the room. She reached out for her glass, realising only then that it was once again empty.

  ‘Another?’ Phelan was on his feet, reaching out to take the glass from her. She nodded, still silent. He moved off into the crowd and Vashti unfolded her wrap and threw it over her shoulders.

  What kind of game was he playing? For an instant, she found her mind clouded with stark terror. She was halfway to her feet, ready to run, before she managed to take a deep breath and regain control, or at least some semblance of control. By then it was too late to run.

  ‘I don’t think you fancy being my heroine, somehow,’ Phelan was saying as he set her drink in front of her, then reached out to take her hand in his. ‘And you’re cold. Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes. Just ... cold,’ she replied. Worse than cold now. Freezing. Except that one hand, burning in his grasp as if both their hands were on fire.

  Vashti felt like a mouse trapped by a cat. Not a hungry cat, which would at least perhaps ensure a quick and certain death. A cruel cat, a cat that would toy with its prey, tease, torment. Just, she thought, for the fun of it.

  ‘Would you rather collaborate on retribution?’ he was asking. ‘You seemed to enjoy that more, I think.’

  No, she wanted to shout. I don’t want to collaborate on anything. I just want this to end. It was too dangerous, too risky by half — emotionally and ethically and personally and professionally.

  She wasn’t even aware of shaking her head, but she was aware of him lifting his eyes to look beyond her, of him suddenly releasing her hand, of his glance changing, evolving from what had seemed vaguely concerned to that tense, predatory alertness.

  ‘Too late, I fancy. Best you gird up your lovely loins for battle, darling Vashti. And if you can’t help, for God’s sake don’t get in the way.’

  And before she could reply he was on his feet, grinning broadly, warmly, welcoming.

  ‘Alana! Well, well. This is a surprise. Bit late for you to be out, isn’t it, dear sist
er?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Vashti came to her feet so quickly, trying to turn at the same time, that she stumbled, saved only by Phelan’s hand catching her arm, pulling her against him, and then reaching round to hold her that way.

  Her eyes seemed out of focus for just that instant; she opened them to see Alana, dressed resplendently in the palest mauve, on the arm of a tall, strikingly attractive man about Vashti’s own age.

  Alana was open-mouthed, staring at her brother with the haunted, enormous eyes of a trapped animal. Poised to flee, but held by her unwitting companion, Alana seemed caught in a pool of silence; she stood there, eyes whipping back and forth from Phelan to Vashti, at first with pleading, then a sort of resigned acceptance.

  Vashti couldn’t speak. All her anger at the girl’s deception had frothed up to lodge in her throat then dissipate as she empathised with Alana’s plight.

  The freezing moment thawed, melted by Phelan’s gentle voice as he smiled at his sister and reached a hand out to her companion. Introductions were made; Vashti forgot the young man’s name as quickly as she heard it. It was, she knew, irrelevant in the face of the explosion to come.

  Only it didn’t. Phelan insisted Alana and her friend must join them for a drink, noted their preference, and walked off to leave the girls and Alana’s unknowing companion. Vashti was numb, unsure of what to say, what to do. Alana, she fancied, was worse.

  Someone’s voice — Vashti realised after an instant that it was her own — chopped the silence into appropriate slices of small talk, forcing a response from Alana, coaxing one from her companion. Phelan was gone for minutes — hours, it seemed.