Joan Kilby - Two Against the Odds

Lexie laughed incredulously. “You’re saying I am?”

“You don’t take your responsibilities seriously,” Rafe explained. “Absentmindedness is no excuse for failing to file a tax return.”

“Humph.” She stood in an indignant tinkling of bells, swished away a few paces before she spun around in a whirl of skirt. “You’re just like my family. Oh, that scatterbrained Lexie—she can’t handle her finances, she can’t take care of herself, much less a baby. Maybe I have different priorities. Maybe money and…and receipts aren’t the most important things in life. Maybe people are.”

“That’s what I’m saying. People need hospitals and schools and roads—” His hands rested on the keyboard as he stared at her. “What baby?”

Dear Reader,

Life, it seems to me, is largely a matter of timing. What if you meet your soul mate but one or both of you aren’t ready to settle down? Would you say goodbye and hope you’ll find someone else someday who’ll be as perfect for you? Or would you grab him and never let him go, regardless of the monkey wrench it throws in your life’s plans?

When to have children is another major life decision that depends so much on “being ready.” What if one person wants a baby and the other doesn’t—or at least doesn’t yet? Is that a deal breaker?

I wasn’t interested in marriage and children until I was close to thirty years old. But when I was finally ready to settle down, my husband came along. It felt as if I’d been waiting, without knowing it, just for him.

I’ve had fun playing around with questions of timing in Two Against the Odds. Life doesn’t flow quite as smoothly for my hero and heroine as it did for me and my hubby. Add to that the fact that Lexie Thatcher is twelve years older than Rafe Ellersley and the question of babies and timing takes on a new urgency.

Two Against the Odds is the third book in the Summerside Stories trilogy. Lexie’s parents, Hetty and Steve, who have been having their own trials throughout these stories, finally find the key to their own happiness.

I love to hear from readers.

You can email me at www.joankilby.com or

write to me

c/o Harlequin Enterprises Limited,

225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills,

Ontario, Canada

M3B 3K9.

Joan Kilby

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Joan Kilby enjoys drawing and painting as a hobby. However, between her writing, her husband and three almost-grown children, going to the gym, cooking and walking her dog, Toby, she doesn’t have a lot of spare time to indulge her other interests. Instead, she lives vicariously through characters like the heroine of Two Against the Odds, artist Lexie Thatcher. Joan also loves art galleries and every year makes a point of going to see the exhibition of the Archibald Prize finalists.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

RAFE ELLERSLEY WAS kind of like Snoopy—always daydreaming about things he’d rather be doing, such as going fishing. Unlike Snoopy, he didn’t have a doghouse to lie atop, just a cramped cubicle at the Australian tax office.

“I need a volunteer for an audit in Summerside.” Larry Kiefer, balding and forty, with a slight gut, walked among the cubicles filled with tax accountants at the Australian tax office. “Who’s interested?”

Rafe shot to his feet. “I’ll do it.” He’d have gone anywhere just to get out of the office, but Summerside was ace. A small bayside village southeast of Melbourne, it was prime red snapper territory.

Sunshine, blue sky and salt water. Oh, yeah.

Larry pretended not to see him. “Anyone? This lady—” He consulted a file folder in his hand. “Lexie Thatcher is a portrait artist. She hasn’t filed a return in four years.”

Rafe cleared his throat. “Larry, I said I’d do it.”

His colleagues nearby glanced at him, then at Larry. They didn’t say a word. It was unwritten code that if someone put up their hand for a case, everyone else would bow out. One by one, they bent their heads and went back to work.

Rafe remained standing. But not quite as tall as before.

His previous audit hadn’t gone so well….

Larry made a sour face and shook his head. He was the boss. He could simply assign the case to whomever he chose. But Rafe knew he tried to hand the out-of-town files to whomever was interested.

He walked slowly over to Rafe’s cubicle, gave a last glance around then, when no one looked up, he said to Rafe, “What makes you think you’re the right guy for this job?”

“I want to make up for last time.” Rafe fumbled for an antacid and popped it in his mouth. His five-year plan depended on keeping his position and if that meant pretending to be sorry for what he’d done, so be it. The great fishing would be a bonus.

Larry checked out Rafe’s cubicle. The partition walls were papered with photos of boats, his dog Murphy and Far Side cartoons he’d clipped out of the newspaper.

“Your last audit, Mrs. Caporetto, was working under the table and collecting welfare,” Larry reminded him. “She wasn’t paying a cent of tax on her waitressing income. Do you think that’s fair to other taxpayers?”

“She was supporting her son who had cancer, plus his three children,” Rafe said, arguing anyway, to defend Mrs. Caporetto, and himself. “Like I told you, the dole wasn’t enough money for them all to live on. Not with the meds her son needed.”

“We’ve been through this. That’s not our problem,” Larry said wearily. “You deliberately turned a blind eye and didn’t impose penalties when they were clearly called for. It’s not your job to make sure auditees pay the least amount of taxes possible. You do know that, don’t you?”

Rafe nodded. He picked up a pen, clicking it in and out. Across the way, his buddy Chris Talbot faced his computer screen, heavy blond hair falling over his glasses, and pretended not to be listening.

“Not 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.