style="font-size:15px;"> She turned back to the canvas. Contrasting note, huh? He might actually have something there. The trick was hitting the right note.
Lexie mulled it over while she continued to search the studio for the envelopes. At the end of half an hour she had no further clues to her painting. Hadn’t located the envelopes, either. Giving up, she grabbed a pad of heavy paper and a handful of pencils and went back inside the house. Sometimes when she sketched at random, ideas came to her.
Rafe was carrying a large purple cardboard box over to the coffee table when she walked into the living room. “I found this in your hall closet.”
Lexie recognized the all-purpose box she’d bought at a stationery store. She tossed stuff in there to get it out of sight. Sinking onto the couch, she propped herself on a layer of cushions and tucked her legs beneath her skirt. She doubted he’d find any receipts in there but looking would keep him busy.
She opened the sketch pad, intending to play around with ideas, drawing things she associated with Sienna—a stethoscope, Venus on the half shell. Instead she found herself studying Rafe as he opened the box. As if anticipating treasure, his eyes gleamed.
With a 4B pencil she drew dramatic slashes of black, blocking in his thick eyebrows. Working quickly, she captured his face in a few bold strokes. Not satisfied with the jaw, she smudged out the line with her gum eraser and made it sharper, the angle steeper. Then she chose a finer pencil to work in the shading on the hollows of the cheeks, around the eyes, the black stubble.
As he leafed through the bits and pieces in the box he began to frown. No receipts. She hadn’t thought so. He rolled his shoulders, working out the kinks.
Lexie paused. He carried a lot of tension. She could see it in the lines of his face and the set of his neck. She was the one who should be tense; she was being audited. But she was good at putting unpleasant things out of her mind. Maybe a little too good.
He dug through the box, shaking his head as he lifted out nail clippers, a pencil sharpener, a broken pedometer, a small wooden bowl, assorted colored pencils, marbles, paper clips and matchbooks.
He had eyes that slanted down at the outer corner, an aquiline nose and a mouth that was far too sensuous for someone who worked with columns and rows.
Glancing up, Rafe noticed her sketch pad on her upraised knee. “What are you drawing?”
“Nothing. Just playing around.” Lexie started on his ear. Every person’s whorls were different, like fingerprints.
“Playing?” he repeated as he piled everything back into the box. “Perhaps you don’t understand the seriousness of your situation.”
Lexie stretched her legs along the length of the couch, wriggling her bare toes.
Rafe’s gaze, drawn to the movement, lingered on her bare calves. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second. Lexie’s mind flashed back to the outline of his thigh muscle under his pants. She drew her skirt down. Rafe glanced away.
He cleared his throat. “You need to—” He broke off, frowning. Apparently he was having trouble formulating the sentence. “You need to find those receipts if you want to offset expenses against the income from the paintings you sold to the American. If not, you’ll be charged the maximum amount of tax.”
Lexie stilled. “What would that be?”
He started piling things back into the box. “Tax on the forty thousand dollars, with minimal deductions, would be around fifteen thousand.”
Fifteen thousand dollars.
“Where am I going to get that kind of money?” she demanded. She may have sounded angry, but she wasn’t. She was scared.
He shrugged. Not his problem, in other words.
She had to find those envelopes.
But she also had to finish Sienna’s portrait. It was the best thing she’d ever done and she really thought she had a shot at winning the Archibald Prize and the fifty-thousand dollars that went to first place. Fear speared through her. She had to win the cash prize. She would need it to pay her tax bill.
Lexie closed her eyes and slowly breathed out all the way. Calm. Peace. Light.
“Utility bills?” Rafe reminded her.
Ooh.
“I’ll go look for them now.” She set her sketch pad aside and rose. He was going to be in her house for days, possibly the rest of the week. Even without being blocked it was hard to see how she was going to get any work done.
Lexie went down the hall, past her bedroom to the spare room where she kept a small whitewashed desk and a single bed covered in a patchwork quilt. Her early paintings, seascapes mainly, covered the walls. Rifling the desk drawers, she came up with…nothing. This was ridiculous even for her. She knew she didn’t have five years’ worth of household bills, but she’d kept some. They must be with her tax envelopes. Where were they?
She opened the double doors of the closet. Piles of old clothing she would never wear again, jigsaw puzzles—mostly with one or two pieces missing—and the hair dryer that sparked. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t throw away broken and useless items? It was no wonder she could never find anything. Pretty soon she’d have to rent another house just to store the things she didn’t use.
What was this? She pulled out a small antique clock. She’d forgotten she had this. It had a hand-painted white enamel face and was mounted on a rosewood base. She’d been attracted to it originally because the mechanism was exposed. Every cog, wheel and spring was visible and could be seen moving. When it worked.
“That’s a skeleton clock.”
She leaped back and almost dropped the thing. How long had he been standing in the doorway? “You have to stop sneaking up on me.”
Rafe ignored her reaction and moved closer to get a better look. “Quite a nice example, too. My father repairs clocks for a living. He’s taught me a bit over the years. Where did you get that one?”
“I must have picked it up at a flea market years ago.” She looked underneath and found a tiny key taped to the base. She inserted it into the slot and wound it. Nothing happened. “It’s broken,” she said, disappointed.
“Let me see.”
While he inspected the mechanism of springs and cogged wheels, she studied the thick black hair that fell over his forehead, the way his mouth compressed in concentration.
Suddenly, he stilled, as if aware of how close they were standing. “Speaking of time, it’s getting late.” He handed the clock back to her, cautious about making contact, either by skin or by eye.
Rafe walked back to the dining room. Lexie followed carrying the clock. He began packing up his briefcase. His movements appeared casual, but she noticed he was cramming papers in any old how.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Rafe said. “I suggest you keep looking—”
Someone knocked.
Before Lexie could answer it, the front door opened. Her mother, Hetty, stood on the step in a long tunic
