A Taxing Affair Read online

  Vashti grinned to herself, silently wondering how far she could carry the performance. She forgot, for the moment, that she was working, and plunged into the game with a vengeance.

  ‘A manuscript? Is that really the way you see me?’ she purred, lost in a mental picture of the book’s scenario as Phelan Keene had created it.

  ‘Be an interesting concept — if I were blind — for both of us,’ he replied, and now that rich chocolate- brown voice was softer, sliding into a resonance that was dangerously seductive.

  Vashti, reading as he spoke, found herself mentally picturing Phelan Keene himself as the hero of the piece. And, strangely, almost dreamily, herself as the heroine. It wasn’t all that difficult; the girl in the book was also short, with long ash-blonde hair, and wore glasses. Her figure ... well, Vashti had never considered herself quite so voluptuous, but by the same token she was quite happy with her body. She did, she knew, have very good legs — at least as good as Keene’s heroine.

  ‘Braille? I’d ... hate to think my skin was all that rough,’ she replied, reading and yet not reading; acting.

  ‘So would I.’

  …His voice was husky now, as be reached out to take her wrist in his fingers, fingers that brushed the thin skin of her inner wrist with the delicacy of a kiss...

  She pulled away, suddenly fearful, her heart hammering. This man could too easily take control of this situation, she realised, could too easily take control of her!.

  ‘The masculine honorific, after all, doesn’t concern itself with whether a man’s married or not,’ Vashti said.

  …But even free, she could feel his touch like a burn on her wrist, could feel the tingle all the way through her body. She thought she was trembling, tried not to...

  ‘Perhaps because it doesn’t matter?’

  His voice was still soft, his eyes now close—too close. She could see the tiny dark rays that ran through the startling blue, could actually see the desire in..,

  ‘Fair is fair,’ Vashti replied. ‘If Mr doesn’t tell me whether you’re married or not, then I can’t see why a woman should be forced to —’

  ‘Forced?’

  …Now it was his eyes that touched her, and if anything that was worse. Because his eyes didn’t stop at her wrist; his eyes touched all of her, brushed firmness into her nipples, crept enticingly along the flat plane of her stomach...

  ‘Who said anything about force, Ms Sinclair?’

  The pages of the book blurred before Vashti’s eyes; she momentarily lost her place and found herself gasping for a quick breath, a shake of her head that left her wide-eyed at the strangeness she felt. ‘You ... you ...’ she faltered…

  ‘...wrote the book!’ he snapped, now departed from the script, no longer the heroic, fictional character in a book, now a too real voice on the telephone that threatened to drop from Vashti’s suddenly nerveless fingers.

  No chocolate fudge in the voice now. It snapped across the phone wires like a lash, flaying both her ear and her conscience.

  ‘Credit for trying, Ms Sinclair. Inventive, to say the very least. But you should have finished the book before you started playing silly little games. You might have found out that she didn’t win in the end, didn’t get the hero in the end.’

  The sound of him hanging up was like a physical blow; there was a dreadful sense of finality to it that was curiously mingled with foreboding.

  Vashti sat there, staring sightlessly at Phelan Keene’s book on the desk before her, the telephone receiver now humming. The book had flapped shut and his picture stared up at her accusingly, the half-smile caught by the photographer suddenly not a smile at all, but the beginnings of a predatory grin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The second time Vashti spoke with Phelan Keene started as another unmitigated disaster, improved not at all by the fact that Vashti knew it was all her own fault.

  She was sitting in Janice Gentry’s office when he arrived, along with his brother and sister, and had they come without Phelan she actually might have been quite glad to see them.

  Being ten minutes early — Vashti had often considered her habits of punctuality to be a curse — had forced her into a lengthy session of supposedly polite chatter with the accountant. Polite on the surface, at least. Vashti hadn’t liked Janice Gentry when they’d been at university together, and had since found little to change her mind about the woman.

  Not that she would ever, during her time at university, have expected Janice Gentry even to know she existed. They had moved in vastly different social circles, to put it mildly.

  Janice Gentry was ‘old’ money in Tasmanian terms. Her family had been among the island state’s so-called ‘squattocracy’, descendants of early land-grant settlers at a time when, historically, most of the island’s population was drawn from convicts or former convicts. Her family had left the land and formed a dynasty in Hobart business circles before Janice came on the scene, Vashti knew, but the dark-haired accountant’s claim to social acceptance was solid enough.

  While Vashti had worked her way through university with the help of a scholarship, Janice Gentry had used her father’s money and social position to the utmost. No academic slouch by any standard, she had gained her degree by working only just hard enough; studies came a poor second place to the social opportunities.

  She had moved into her father’s firm, as expected, and then, also as expected, had gravitated to head the firm at his poor-health-forced retirement only a year before. But, even before Janice took over, the firm had been less than popular with the taxation office; her ascendancy to the top had improved nothing.

  And if she hadn’t noticed Vashti during their days at university, it was clear she wasn’t about to start now. They had spent the ten minutes on reminiscences so startlingly different, they mightn’t have been at the same university.

  The enforced falseness of this polite time-wasting had done little for Vashti’s already fragile mood. This would be, she hoped, the final official meeting required to tidy up all the loose ends in the field audit, but she had been dreading the meeting just on the presumption that Phelan Keene might attend; when he walked into the office she could only rise to her feet politely and hope her nerveless legs would support her.

  Suddenly she knew, without even knowing why she knew, that it wouldn’t be the final meeting, that somehow Phelan Keene was going to complicate things. And that the complications would have nothing at all to do with the book he was supposedly researching.

  Bevan and Alana greeted her with their usual friendliness, Alana especially effusive in her greeting. Vashti had liked the ‘baby’ of the family from their very first meeting, and although both girls claimed compatibility because of their size — Alana was an inch shorter even than Vashti — it really went beyond that.

  ‘You don’t look all that well, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Alana said with concern as she reached out to take both of Vashti’s hands in her own. ‘Have you got the dreaded lurg that’s been going round?’

  Vashti didn’t dare look at Phelan Keene, who stood behind his brother and sister. How would he, she wondered, react to hearing himself described as a contagious disease?

  ‘I’m fine,’ she assured the diminutive Alana. ‘I’ve just had a few ... late nights lately.’ She dared to look up then, only to realise she’d put her foot in it again!

  Phelan’s pale eyes fairly danced with satisfaction as he murmured, ‘With a good book?’ then gave a fierce bark of laughter as Vashti flushed with embarrassment.

  The soft query brought questioning glances from his brother and sister, but Phelan ignored them, striding over to sit at the side of the room, where he fixed Vashti with his pale eyes and proceeded to thoroughly demoralise her.

  He’d chosen his position, she realised immediately, just so that he could deliberately stir. The angle of his position let him watch Vashti’s every move and, worse, force her attention to be diverted at his choosing, without the others catching him at it.


  They were concentrating mostly on what Janice Gentry was saying, and on Vashti’s responses. Vashti found herself attacked on both flanks, and unable to defend either one adequately as a result.

  This is a farce, she told herself, having had to ask the same question for the third time as Phelan’s scrutiny and faint sneer destroyed her concentration. Most of the discussion involved going over old ground, but even that familiarity couldn’t help her forever.

  ‘There just isn’t the documentation,’ she found herself saying, again repeating herself. Oh, damn ... damn ... damn, she thought, increasingly annoyed at how easily Phelan Keene could get her goat, and knowing it was all because she’d let herself be drawn into playing silly games on the telephone.

  The worst of it was that Phelan hardly said a word. He let Janice Gentry and his brother Bevan carry the arguments, with no more than the occasional slightly cocked eyebrow, usually at Vashti’s responses.

  But he didn’t really have to speak to be effective. He managed that only too well, just with his eyes and his overall body language.

  If Vashti dared glance his way, it was to find those knowing, icy grey-green eyes undressing her, peeling away her clothing as distinctly as if he could physically touch her, could actually undo the buttons of her sensible office blouse, could feel for himself the whimsical lace of her bra, the soft swelling of her breasts.

  Certainly she could feel the physical manifestation of his mental assault. Beneath the bra her nipples throbbed, as sensitive to her thoughts as to his touch.

  She had to consciously restrain herself from shifting in her chair, her thighs warm beneath her tights.

  Damn him anyway, she thought, mentally squirming, because she couldn’t do so physically. Bad enough he was able to manipulate her so — but the rotter was so obviously enjoying it!

  By the meeting’s end, she had conceded several points, mostly because she had intended to in any event. Even with sketchy documentation, old Bede Keene’s intentions were clear enough, and there was no evidence even to suggest tax evasion on his part.

  One major issue still remained, however, the ultimate interpretation of which could have significant effects throughout the wool-growing sector. It was this which had sparked the field audit in the first place, only to be submerged in the welter of partially related affairs linked to old Bede Keene’s personal dealings. One more meeting, at least, Vashti realised, would be required to finally sort that one out, since Bevan Keene said he thought there might be a bit more documentation available.

  ‘I’m sure I saw it when we were sorting things out at the farm,’ he said, for the first time drawing Phelan into the discussion.

  ‘More than possible; I’m still finding things I didn’t know existed,’ was the reply. ‘The old man got to be even more of a pack-rat as he got older. I’m surprised we’re having any trouble at all finding written evidence of his dealings; he kept everything else.’

  ‘Phelan’s staying on at the farm for now,’ his brother explained to Vashti, who already knew Bevan and Alana lived on separate family properties—he in the northern Midlands and she on a smaller, intensively cropped property served by the new irrigation scheme centred below the Colebrook reservoir.

  ‘We’re off to lunch, Vashti. Why don’t you join us?’ asked Alana with her usual spontaneity. The invitation, to Vashti’s great surprise, caused a noticeable flicker of annoyance to cross Janice Gentry’s face.

  Vashti’s immediate reaction was an overwhelming no. Not just that it was rather against policy, not even that she’d had more than enough already of Janice Gentry... It was the look she caught from Phelan Keene.

  But before she had a chance to say anything, he did.

  ‘It isn’t that I want to be antisocial,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure Ms Sinclair doesn’t either. But we have further business to discuss, she and I, so if it’s all right with you lot we’ll be having lunch ... together but without you.’

  ‘I…’ She got no further.

  ‘You don’t believe in lunching with clients, I suppose,’ he interjected. ‘But it is lunchtime and you do have to eat, same as the rest of us, and we do have a few things to discuss, do we not?’

  ‘Yes ... but...’

  ‘Yes ... but what? If you’re worried about being compromised I suggest you think again. I don’t compromise pretty girls in public, and I’m off back to the bush right after, so stop being all public service and thing, and come along. We’ll go over the road, I think.’

  He had taken her arm and was leading her from the office before Vashti could properly object, waving a farewell to the others and saying at the same time, ‘I did mention on the phone that I’d hoped to have lunch with you; there’s no need to seem quite so surprised.’

  Vashti said nothing. She found herself struck mute, as if his fingers above her elbow had cut off some vital nerve to her tongue. They walked to the lift together, descended to street level, and emerged into Hobart’s city centre without her saying a single word.

  Phelan Keene didn’t even appear to notice. He chatted on about something — she might have been deaf as well because it just didn’t get into her ears—holding her arm in the meanwhile as if they were the best of friends or ... or more.

  And suddenly it was too much — too much and far too fast. Twisting free, Vashti gabbled out the first excuse that came to mind — anything to keep herself free of his touch.

  ‘I ... I’ve just remembered I have to get to the bank,’ she stammered. ‘In case I don’t have time after work.’ The light had changed, but Vashti was no longer paying attention. Half her mind was on walking back towards the Trust Bank of Tasmania building; all of her instincts were crying out to her to just run ... run anywhere that would get her away from Phelan Keene.

  Keene, who didn’t appear to notice her confusion, was oblivious to her panic. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But don’t be too long about it; I’m more than just a bit peckish.’

  Vashti nodded her assurance, meanwhile reaching into her handbag for her wallet and the card that would activate the automatic cash machine.

  Phelan stood back courteously as she fed the card into the machine, punched in the complicated series of identification numbers, and collected the notes that eventually emerged.

  She stuffed the money into her wallet and turned to find him standing there, shaking his head and frowning slightly. ‘You really ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ he said.

  ‘Why, for goodness’ sake?’ Vashti genuinely had no idea what he was on about, and wasn’t, it appeared, to be told just yet, either.

  ‘Later, maybe,’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘It might just be me; I tend to get cranky on an empty stomach.’

  They crossed the street and turned up Murray Street to an historic hotel, where Vashti was somehow unsurprised to find Phelan greeted by name when they entered, and they were courteously shown to a quiet comer table in the restaurant. She so seldom dined out that she’d be lucky to recognise a restaurant’s name, much less have staff remember hers, Vashti thought, then shrugged the thought away as unworthy.

  Phelan, she thought, looked perfectly at home here. He was dressed in the type of semi-casual clothes preferred by country folk in Tasmania: a Harris Tweed sports jacket, moleskin trousers and elastic-sided boots. And now that he wasn’t glaring furiously at her, as he had during the funeral, he looked more the man on the cover of his books.

  The crisp, curly dark brown hair was well cut and tidy enough, except when he thrust his fingers through it in absent thought. His grin was almost infectious, if rare. Only the eyes hadn’t changed. Against the depth of his tan they were astonishingly pale, difficult to read.

  They ordered, Vashti refusing a drink on the legitimate grounds that ‘I wouldn’t get any work at all done this afternoon; a big lunch will be quite enough of a shock to the system, thank you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine your system being that easily shocked,’ was the response. ‘But then again...’ He let the comment drag out, stretching i
t much as he had persisted in stretching out the ‘Mssss’ whenever he addressed her.

  ‘It’s a very simple system, I assure you,’ she replied, almost calm now, almost composed, despite knowing he could upset her composure almost at will.

  Vashti sipped at her tomato juice when it arrived, too aware of his eyes upon her, of how he seemed to be ever watchful, attuned to her every movement and thought.

  His telephone accusation, not once mentioned during the meeting or — yet — now that they were alone together, still grated. How dared he accuse her like that? she thought. And immediately felt her anger begin to push away her spate of nerves.

  She took a deep breath, as subtly as she could manage it, then put down the glass and reached up to adjust her glasses as she looked at him squarely.

  ‘Now, Mr Keene,’ she said firmly, ‘perhaps we can begin?’

  ‘Do that again,’ he replied, and she saw his eyes gleam with what seemed to be laughter.

  ‘Do what again?’ she countered, immediately cautious. What on earth was he on about this time?’

  Now he grinned, and reached out to shove imaginary glasses into place on his nose. ‘Makes you look all fierce and authoritarian, like an ... a ... schoolteacher.’

  ‘What kind of schoolteacher?’ She hadn’t missed the hesitation, could have inserted ‘old maid’ easily enough herself, but suddenly wanted to see if she could push him into admitting it.

  ‘A rather pretty one, actually,’ he replied, his grin broadening but his eyes somehow making the comment far more intimate than it sounded.

  Vashti shook her head, but said nothing. It was too dangerous to play word games with this man, she told herself, but couldn’t help it.

  Neither could she help the habitual gesture of adjusting her glasses, and, without realising it until too late, she did it again! And Phelan Keene, of course, nodded his approval with a quirky grin. She could have kicked herself.

  ‘I suppose you’re bound and determined this is to be all business,’ he said then with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Can’t we at least wait until we’ve had the starter? I’m absolutely famished and, as I told you, I get fair-dinkum cranky when I’m hungry.’