shrugged. “Take it up with them.” Jet marched down the labyrinthine hallway until she found a door marked IRS. No one answered her knock, so she opened it and stuck her head in.
The office was tiny and contained an old wooden desk. A metal folding chair, identical to those in the waiting area, was positioned across from it. The IRS could have sprung for better accommodations; it collected enough money to do better than this bare cubbyhole. A cheap, utilitarian clock hung on the wall; its secondhand clicked inconsistently—slow, fast, fast, slow—as if it were spitting out Morse code. She paused, wondering if she were in the right place, until she spotted the nameplate that read Landry Fields.
She dropped her backpack by the chair and stood at the lone rectangular window. Quite a show played outside with the swirling rain pounding the parking-lot pavement.
Jet pressed her face against the cool, damp pane. She loved the rain. Loved every pore on her body drenched in raindrops. The only thing better than land-walking on days like this was swimming undersea during a thunderstorm. She’d swim close to the ocean surface, watching raindrops bounce on top of the water and meld into a white, bubbling cauldron of energy while underneath, the pull of the tide crested and heaved in response to the wind. And if a rain shower coincided with the night of a full moon, the energy was electric with intensity.
She closed her eyes and touched her palms to the glass, imagined swimming under the rain’s onslaught right now. Her body came alive, prickling with sensation—
“It’s a mess out there, isn’t it?” came a voice, low, rumbling and way too close.
Jet jumped and spun around. Her eyes bored into a pin-striped suit covering a broad chest. Her gaze traveled upward, taking in a strong jaw and ice-blue eyes that pinned her as if she were a trapped butterfly the man wanted to dissect.
“Mr. Fields?” she guessed. Her voice came out a touch squeaky and she cleared her throat.
He extended a hand. “Miss Bosarge?”
His grip was firm and brief, but far from impersonal, at least on her end. Her palm tingled from the contact and she had a wild urge to curl her fingers over his hand and never let go.
Insane. Jet hastily withdrew her hand and crossed her arms over her stomach. Fields gestured to the folding chair, his face reflecting no sign that their contact had affected him at all. “Have a seat.”
She sank into the chair, feeling underdressed. She usually sported black yoga pants, a T-shirt and sneakers, perfectly fine for helping Lily at the salon or working out at the gym. In honor of this visit, she had slightly altered her normal attire by wearing jeans, a purple long-sleeved top and a purple-and-red scarf. Jet wished she’d taken more time with her appearance and played with Lily’s boxes of lotions and potions. At the very least, she could have styled her asymmetrical bob. Oh, well, she had remembered earrings. Maybe her five-carat diamond studs would deflect attention from her plain, unadorned face. Humans seemed to care inordinately about such things.
Under his probing gaze, Jet readjusted the scarf to ensure it completely covered her three-inch gills, which extended from the top of the collarbone to her windpipe on each side of her neck. Although the slotted marks in her flesh were faint, she was careful to keep them covered to avoid questions by any observant human. And this guy looked way too sharp. Jet mentally noted to grow her hair out a few more inches so it would be long enough to cover the gills by the time summer arrived, when scarves and turtlenecks would appear odd. Since her hair grew an inch a week, it should be plenty long enough at summer’s advent.
Fields pulled out a single file from the front drawer and placed it on the desk’s otherwise bare surface. He opened the file and glanced through it, as if refreshing his memory.
“Your letter stated you only found an irregularity in my tax records,” Jet volunteered.
“Mmm-hmm.” He kept reading, never looking up, even when the printer kicked up an odd whirring sound, as if a hive of angry hornets had swarmed to life. The noise ended as suddenly as it had started.
Jet stifled an exasperated sigh and started swinging one crossed leg. The small room was stifling. The man’s mere presence completely engulfed her senses and she stared at his large hands with the clipped, clean nails. No wedding band, but he wore a ruby ring set in a gold band on his right hand. Some kind of class ring, probably from an elite college. His clothes looked tailored and his facial features bore a patrician vibe. The harsh planes of his face, strong jaw and chilly eyes made him appear stern.
The man certainly didn’t fit in with the shabby surroundings. Jet admired his clean, crisp aura and sniffed discreetly, picking up a lingering scent of soap, as if he’d just showered and dressed. And didn’t that make her squirm. Hell, what was wrong with her today? She didn’t even know this man. News of Perry’s arrival must have unsettled her more than she first suspected.
The silence got on her nerves. “Since when did our town warrant an IRS office?” she asked. “I don’t remember ever seeing one here before.”
His gaze stayed fixed on her file as he answered, “It’s a temporary field office for tax season. We’ll close by the end of May. It’s all part of our agency’s public service.”
Public Service? More like a public nuisance. What was so interesting about her tax records? True, she had bucketloads of money in trust funds, but her inheritance was legit. Her ancestors had always been careful to hire the best attorneys to cover where the real money originated—from expensive undersea trinkets strategically sold in bits and pieces over decades.
He finally gave a small nod and faced her. “I remember viewing your file now. The first thing that caught my attention was the income fluctuation in two of your businesses. Four years ago, you claimed a net annual profit of over fifty thousand dollars with The Pirate’s Chest. The business is still listed as open, yet no more profits have been claimed. Then three years ago, another business of yours, The Mermaid’s Hair Lair, reported steady profits until it shut down last year. For the past six months, you’ve been earning an income solely from the interests and profits of various trust funds and stocks.”
She couldn’t help but notice the slight, contemptuous curve at the corners of his mouth. Jet bristled; it rankled when people assumed she must be some sort of privileged society girl. She’d worked hard to contribute to the Bosarge family fortune with years of physically exhausting and high-risk ventures, reclaiming sea treasure with the rat-bastard Perry Hammonds. Not that she could tell this numbers nerd that particular bit of information. “Is inheriting money against the law? It’s not like I intend to live off the trust fund forever. I’m reopening The Pirate’s Chest. I’ve already purchased a downtown building and I’m stocking inventory. A big shipment of antique furniture should arrive from Mobile tomorrow.”
The auditor remained unruffled and silent while rain splattered the window, loud as a knocking at the door. The beating rain outside created a cozy sense of intimacy in the small room and Jet fantasized what it would be like to lean over the desk and kiss Mr. All-Business-Man until he lost that aloof self-control and had his way with her... Jet shook her head slightly and blinked. This had to stop.
Against her better judgment, she spoke up again, eager to get her mind back on track. “My sister, Lily, and I jointly owned the salon. She’s taken an extended leave of absence to travel. We might open it again one day, though.” Jet bit the inside of her lip at the white lie. Not likely the beauty shop would reopen; Lily seemed happiest living undersea and using her siren talent to attract mermen.
Fields wasn’t interested. “Okay, moving on. In reviewing your
