My Favorite Mistake (22 page)

Not that I thought he’d notice, but stil .

As I shifted the box of tax papers, my mind clicked ahead to the possible costly outcomes. Since I no longer had an “in” with El en Brant, I couldn’t count on the bonus for her account. If the IRS levied stiff penalties and interest for my mistakes, I’d have to sel my…what?

My wedding gown? The wedding band that Redford had given me? I could have a “has been” bridal yard sale.

And what if Redford had to pay a huge sum? What if it jeopardized the cash flow of his family business?

More than the audit itself, I was dreading seeing him this morning. Dreading the visceral response to him I knew was virtual y irrepressible. A physical reminder that I couldn’t trust my own judgment when I was around him.

I was wel on my way to developing a migraine when I was shown to a smal office containing a long utilitarian table, a few uncomfortable chairs and a wal bookshelf of imposing tax tomes—just in case they had to whip out a revenue code to prove their point, I assumed.

“Someone wil be right with you,” the woman threatened.

I set the box on the table and walked over to the window, parting the miniblinds with my fingers. It was the kind of cold, blustery day that made people hurry—trotting along,

bundled in their coats and scarves, heads down. Redford stood out even more than usual as he walked toward the building, his stride long and precise, his duster coat flapping, a briefcase in his hand, his hat planted on his head, his chin level.

My thighs quickened. Even from this distance, he could affect me. I stepped back, and the blinds snapped closed. I chewed my last remaining fingernail down to the nub, my

nerves ratcheting higher as each minute on the clock ticked by.

When the door opened suddenly, I was so startled I nearly cried out. Redford walked in and nodded to me, his face passive. “Good morning.”

“Good m-morning,” I stammered.

He set the saddle-tan briefcase on the table and shrugged out of his coat, then removed his hat. He wore dark jeans, a white dress shirt, and a gray sport coat. He looked so

handsome, my heart ached.

“How was your visit with your folks?”

I wet my lips. “I told them everything, Redford. About the wedding and the annulment.”

He pursed his mouth. “They must have been shocked, hearing it for the first time.”

I nodded, clasping my hands together. “They were disappointed. I was raised very conservatively. It’s not the sort of thing they expected out of me.” I gave an embarrassed little laugh. “They think I’m Miss Perfect.”

He shifted from foot to foot. “I’m sorry to be the cause of blowing their perception of you.”

“I apologized for them seeing us…together. I explained that it…just happened and that it was a mistake.”

He glanced at my left hand. “I hope it didn’t spoil their celebration of your engagement.”

“No,” I murmured. “They were…understanding.”

His expression was unreadable. “Good.”

The door burst open, admitting a stern-faced man holding a thick folder. He eyed us over half-glasses. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. DeMoss?”

I blinked.

“Formerly,” Redford said, straightening. “I’m Redford DeMoss, and this is Denise Cooke.”

“Adam Helmut. I’l be performing the audit.” The man shook Redford’s hand, then mine. His fingers were cold and stiff. “Have a seat.”

Redford and I sat in adjacent chairs. When I crossed my legs, I accidental y brushed his leg. I jerked back and Redford looked at me, his eyes mocking. I knew what was going

through his mind—Sunday night I had welcomed him deep into my body, and today I could barely touch him.

Mr. Helmut pul ed out our tax form and reviewed a colored sheet of what looked like handwritten notes. After verifying our social security numbers and the tax year in question, he ticked through personal data and made more notes on the sheet.

“When and where were you married?”

I cited the date, then felt my cheeks grow hot. “At the Taking Care of Business wedding chapel in Las Vegas.”

He looked up, then back to the sheet, writing.

“And when did you divorce?”

“The marriage was annul ed,” Redford said in a low tone.

“Ah. In what calendar year?”

“The fol owing year.”

The man nodded as if to say that he’d expected as much. “Do you have the annulment papers with you?”

With a start, I realized I’d left them tucked into my sil y cigar box. “I didn’t bring them.”

Redford reached for his briefcase. “I brought a copy.”

My heart thumped against my breastbone as the man so clinical y examined the papers that had expunged our marriage, then made a check on his notes. “So the return in

question is the only year the two of you filed jointly?”

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Have either of you remarried?”

“No,” we said in unison.

He looked up, then down again. “Mr. DeMoss, you were a sergeant in the U.S. Marines?”

“First Sergeant—yes, sir.”

“And what was your pay grade?”

“E-8.”

The man seemed impressed. “Career man?”

Redford nodded. “I retired last year.”

Helmut turned to me and verified my employment at the time and my address, which was the address on the form, then pul ed out a calculator and announced, “Okay, let’s get

down to it. Did you bring copies of your original source documents?”

“I have them,” I said, nervously pul ing the box of papers close to me. When I transferred the stack to the table, the books I’d bought on Thoroughbreds and the Marine Corps

and logistics were in the bottom of the box. My cheeks warmed to see my newlywed eagerness revealed. Redford glanced at them and a wrinkle formed between his eyebrows, but he

didn’t say anything.

For the next two hours, the auditor painstakingly reviewed every figure on every line, questioning every number, recalculating the entire return. My anxiety grew as we moved

toward the schedule of deductions for my home office.

“Ms. Cooke, you were at the time establishing a home-based financial business?”

I nodded. “But since then, I’ve taken a job with Trayser Brothers. Most of my clients fol owed me there.”

He pursed his mouth. “Trayser Brothers…impressive. Wel , let’s take a look at the receipts for these business expenses, shal we?”

My stomach churned, but I pul ed out the documents. One by one, we went over the figures and I tried to defend the expenses for which I didn’t have receipts. He frowned

occasional y and made notes on the colored sheet of paper. The more marks he made, the more worried I became.

“Excuse me for a few minutes,” he said abruptly, then left with our form and his calculator.

When the door closed, Redford turned to me. “How do you think it’s going?”

“Hard to tel ,” I said, touching my temples. But I had a vision of Mr. Helmut gathering troops—a director or someone with police authority—to lower the boom.

“Redford,” I said in a choked voice. “I…might have…fudged a little on the deductions I took.”

One eyebrow went up. “You? Miss Perfect cheated on her taxes?”

I frowned. “Shh! This room might be bugged.”

He laughed, seemingly unfazed by my concern, then gave me a pointed look. “Relax, Denise. Your secrets—al of them—are safe with me.”

I flinched. He was tel ing me that he knew the real me, the me that I kept hidden from everyone around me. Only he saw past the facade of Denise Cooke, neat freak, compulsive saver, reserved investment broker. He saw the woman who could bend the rules, and occasional y break them. The woman who threw caution to the wind and reason out the window.

What he didn’t realize was that he was the only person who saw it, because he was the only person who could bring out that wayward side of me. Strangely, relief sliced through me because I realized that when Redford left, he would take my dirty little secrets with him. And as long as I stayed away from him, I’d eventual y be back to normal. And once this audit was finished, we’d never see each other again.

The door swung open and Mr. Helmut came in, fol owed, as I had feared, by another wel -dressed man with impressive-looking identification cards on lanyards around his neck.

“Mr. and Mrs. DeMoss?”

“Formerly,” we said in unison.

“I’m Stuart Stanley, the director for this field office. Mr. Helmut has just informed me of some discrepancies on your tax form.”

My stomach pitched.

“There are
quite
a few deductions that are being disal owed.”

My intestines cramped.

“But apparently, you weren’t given the extra income credit al owed for military personnel overseas, during the time for which you filed.”

My eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware of an extra income credit.”

The director smiled. “You wouldn’t have been. The original tax relief bil for soldiers was so riddled with problems that some people were actual y penalized for their status.

When the tax code was revamped, the government mandated that the IRS review each tax form and apply the credit were applicable. It seems that yours, Mr. DeMoss, was overlooked.”

He extended his hand. “Our sincere apologies. The credit wil more than offset the disal owed deductions. We’l process an amended form immediately, but by our estimation,

you’l be receiving a smal refund.”

I was stunned. And weak with relief. I looked at Redford and he looked amused. “So are we finished here?” he asked the men.

“Yes,” the director said. “Thank you very much for coming in today. The receptionist wil sign you out.”

When the door closed behind them, I looked at Redford and he laughed.

“Looks like one mistake cancel ed out the other.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at him, my heart twisting. “If only al of life were that way.”

He stared into my eyes and moistened his lips. “Denise…”

“What?” My heart thudded in my ears.

He picked up my left hand. “Don’t marry this guy unless you real y love him.”

I swal owed. “You’re a good one to be handing out marital advice, Redford.”

“I just don’t want to see you make another mistake.”

Anger suffused my chest. “And what do you care?”

His dark eyes looked pained. “I love you, Denise.”

His words sent a tremor through my heart, but in the back of my mind, I kept reminding myself that our reunion had been unplanned. Redford could have looked me up when he

lived in Albany and hadn’t. Wasn’t that proof enough that his interest in me was fleeting and based on proximity…on sex?

“Don’t say that,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know you don’t,” he said, his voice low. “I heard what you told Kenzie yesterday morning. That Sunday night was just a fling, that it always had been just sex between the two of us.”

I inhaled a sharp breath, but didn’t deny what I’d said.

“Maybe it was only sex to you,” he said. “But I’m not going to leave without tel ing you that Sunday night meant something to me.”

I panicked and looked away. He was doing it again—mistaking sex for love. And I was dangerously close to fal ing for it again. “Sunday night…shouldn’t have happened,

Redford.”

His jaw hardened. “Just like our marriage shouldn’t have happened?”

My pulse clicked higher and I looked at him. “That’s right.”

“Wel , maybe we should just cal an attorney and draw up papers to have our night of great sex annul ed!”

My heart shivered. Our relationship always came back to sex. I started gathering up my things. “I have to be somewhere. Goodbye, Redford.”

He was silent, then after several long seconds, he said, “Goodbye, Denise.”

I didn’t look up as he left the room, not until after the door closed. My throat and chest strained to hold back the river of tears. It was for the best, I kept tel ing myself.

I love you, Denise.

And how long would that have lasted? Another six weeks, until we realized that we were too different to make a life together? I needed more than a few impulsive words to hang

the rest of my life on.

I moved my papers haphazardly back to the box, barely able to focus through my tears. I blinked rapidly to diminish the moisture and my gaze landed on the open file at the end of the table. The top of the colored sheet of paper read,
Reason for audit: Anonymous informant alleged improprieties.

I frowned. Informant? Someone had accused us of
cheating
on our taxes? Growing more indignant by the minute, my mind sorted through the possibilities. A disgruntled client of mine? A competitor? A vindictive girlfriend of Redford’s?

I scoured the paper and next to the word “informant” was a phone number, an area code that I didn’t recognize, but that wasn’t saying much. Overcome with curiosity, I wrote

down the number, then shoved it in my wal et and left the building. I forced my mind to think about my appointment with El en Brant. There would be plenty of time this evening to cry over Redford DeMoss.

And tomorrow.

And the next day.

My nerves were stil clacking as I climbed on a bus to take me back into the city. Thoroughly miserable, I dropped into a seat, pul ed out my cel phone and cal ed El en’s

number. If she were going to cancel our appointment because of my split with Barry, I wanted to know before I made the trip to her office.

“El en Brant.”

“El en, this is Denise DeMoss.”

“Pardon me?”

Appal ed, I realized my gaffe. “I mean, this is Denise Cooke.” Where was my head? “I just wanted to make sure we were stil on for this afternoon.”

“I spoke with Barry this morning, Denise. He says the two of you aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

“That’s right,” I said, swal owing hard. “I broke off our engagement. And I understand if that makes you uneasy to have me handling your investments.”

“No, dear. Barry is a wonderful y talented man who wil go far, but I have to admit I didn’t detect any chemistry between the two of you.”

I blinked. “Oh?”

“I rather thought the two of you reminded me of brother and sister.”