Sherryl Woods - Yesterday's Love

Tate grinned at her complacently. “Oh, I think I can afford to be lenient. Take as long as you like.”

“You really don’t think I can do this, do you?”

“No.”

“You haven’t said what happens if I lose.”

“You hire an accountant and get your finances straightened out.”

“My finances are fine, thank you. I’ve never missed a mortgage payment. My electricity’s never been turned off. And I don’t even own a credit card.” She absolutely refused to tell him that she’d lost them and never gotten around to obtaining replacements.

“Thank God,” he murmured fervently under his breath.

She regarded him indignantly. “Are you insulting me?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“Then why did you say that?”

“Let’s just say that individuals more organized than you seem to have gotten themselves in way over their heads by haphazardly buying with plastic.”

To be perfectly truthful, that was exactly why Victoria had decided not to replace the credit cards. It wasn’t that she’d overspent. It was that she had this silly habit of misplacing the bills so that she never knew whether they’d been paid or not. By buying with cash she was relatively certain that she, not the credit card company, owned her possessions.

She did not, however, intend to stand here and discuss the relative merits of plastic money with Tate McAndrews. Not when he’d just bet her that she couldn’t turn over the receipts she needed to back up her tax return. Taking a deep breath, she surveyed the room and went to work, picking up, studying and then discarding stacks of paper that had been stashed in boxes and bags of every size and shape. Every so often, she triumphantly dumped something new in Tate’s lap or at his feet, gloating at his increasingly bemused expression.

“There,” she said at last, standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. “I think that’s everything.” It had taken her exactly twenty minutes.

Tate looked at the four shoeboxes, two bulging shopping bags, three manila envelopes and one beat-up purse that she’d deposited with him. “This is it?” he said skeptically. “Price Waterhouse would be impressed.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Sorry. What exactly do I have here?”

“These two boxes have the receipts for everything I bought for the shop last year. These two are all the bills for fixing it up, the mortgage payments on the shop and so on.”

“The shopping bags?”

“My cash register receipts. The envelopes have all of my other stuff. Medical bills. Interest payments. Insurance.”

“I know I’m going to hate myself for asking, but what’s in the purse?”

“Contributions to charity. You know like when you’re driving along, and somebody’s on a street corner collecting for muscular dystrophy and you give `em a dollar.”

“You actually kept track of that? I’m impressed,” he said, opening the purse. He pulled out a Popsicle stick with “2/M.D.” scribbled on it, followed by a button from the heart fund drive clipped to a scrap of paper that said 50 cents. There were also stubs for at least a dozen charity raffles and the ends from three boxes of chocolate mint Girl Scout cookies. He groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Victoria demanded. “It’s all very clear.”

“Yes. I suppose it is,” Tate admitted. “It’s just that I’m used to…”

“You’re used to nice, tidy books with columns of numbers that all add up.”

The way she put it sounded insulting, as though there was something wrong with believing in order. “I can’t help it if I’ve been trained to respect reliable accounting methods. This is…it’s…” He couldn’t even find a word to express his utter dismay at her lackadaisical approach to record keeping.

“Mr. McAndrews,” Victoria said, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes flashing. “I have better things to do with my time than write a bunch of figures down in some book. They all add up the same whether they’re in a book or in that shopping bag.”

Tate’s head was starting to pound. He was beginning to feel the way he had earlier when he’d understood her logic in expecting that ridiculous tax refund. “I suppose,” he agreed without very much conviction. He stood up and tried to balance the stack of shoeboxes in one arm, while grabbing the two shopping bags and the purse with the other. He motioned toward the envelopes. “Can you get those?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I’m going to take it into the office and try to make some sense of it. That’s what an audit is all about. I have to assure the IRS that you haven’t tried to cheat them.”

Victoria sighed. “I haven’t, you know,” she said softly, her voice filled with something that sounded like disappointment at his continued disbelief.

Tate nodded. Ironically, he did believe her. No one whose head was as high in the clouds as Victoria Marshall’s would ever dream of cheating on her taxes. And even if the thought had crossed her mind, he doubted if she could figure out how to do it.

Victoria followed him down the stairs and out to his car, noting that it was what she would have expected him to drive: a very conservative, American made, four-door sedan. Anyone with his precise, orderly mind definitely would not be into flash and dazzle. She was a little worried, though, about the effect the afternoon seemed to have had on him. He did not look like the same determined, self-confident man who’d walked into her life a few hours earlier. He appeared defeated somehow, though his brown eyes did twinkle a little when he said goodbye.

“What happened to dinner?” she taunted. “I did win the bet, you know.”

“As soon as I figure this out, I’ll be in touch,” he promised with a sizzling, sensual smile that sent her blood pressure soaring. “And we’ll celebrate your victory over IRS with champagne, caviar and beef Wellington.”

As he drove off, Victoria sighed. If he threw in candlelight and roses, she’d be a goner.

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