The Takeover Bid

Wyatt found himself puzzling not over the books, but the bookkeeper. The records she kept looked like a labor of love. They were meticulous, painstakingly complete. Yet when he’d asked if she wanted to sell, Wyatt had thought for a minute that she was going to leap at the chance.

He slapped the ledger closed. It was none of his concern whether she wanted to sell or not. And it was even more certain that he didn’t care why.

He figured there were only three things she could do: Be sensible enough to throw in with him and sell the whole thing. Or be halfway sensible and not get in his way while he sold his share. Or lose her mind entirely and try to sabotage the sale.

It would be interesting to see which way she jumped.

He put the books away, glanced at his Rolex, and went out to the showroom to get another cup of coffee. Where had Melanie disappeared to, anyway? Was she walking the dog all the way to Oklahoma?

He inched his way around the end of the Cadillac and stopped dead. A woman was standing near the door to the parking lot, her back turned to the room as if she was uncertain whether to stay or leave. She was young, she was very blond, and she was dressed in the tightest black leather pants he’d ever seen.

We need a buzzer on that door, he thought.

The woman’s head was tipped to one side as she surveyed the bulletin board between the entrance and the office. It was full of photos of twenty, thirty, and forty-year-old cars, tacked up almost at random, and she was looking at the board as if she didn’t believe what she was seeing.

She glanced over her shoulder and said, “It’s about time someone showed up.”

Lucky me. “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t hear you come in.”

She turned around then, her eyes wide as she soaked in the sight of him. “Do you work here?” She sounded astonished.

Wyatt stifled a sigh. “Not exactly. But I’ll try to help.”

She smiled and tossed her long hair. “I was looking for Melanie Stafford—but believe me, you’ll do nicely instead. I’m Erika Winchester.” She held out her hand.

“Wyatt Reynolds. Melanie will be back soon. She’s just out walking her mop. I mean, her dog.”

“I see.” Erika’s eyes narrowed. “The Wyatt Reynolds?”

A movement outside the front window caught Wyatt’s eye. “Here comes Melanie now. That’s a piece of luck.” Especially for me.

The door burst open and Melanie came in on a swirl of wind. Her hair had come down out of its bun and was curling exuberantly around her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink, as was the tip of her nose, and her eyes were bright. She bent to release the dog’s leash. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that the black Mercedes out front is now a part of the inventory, because—” She stood up, caught sight of the woman, and broke off. “Erika?” She sounded almost as if the name had been forced out of her.

With obvious reluctance, Erika took her gaze off Wyatt. “Hello, Melanie. It’s been a long time.”

“A while, yes. What brings you all the way out here?”

Erika wrinkled her nose. “Now that you mention it, you are rather in the sticks, aren’t you? I had no idea there were still little twisty highways like this one anywhere near Kansas City.”

“Oh, we have all sorts of hidden treasures on this side of town.”

Erika’s gaze drifted back to the bulletin board, and then slid on to the Cadillac. “Whatever happened to all of your plans? The alumni office told me you were in the used-car business, but I didn’t realize they meant such very used cars.”

The rest of Melanie’s face went as pink as her wind-reddened cheeks. Wyatt couldn’t help seeing it. Unfortunately, he noted, Erika hadn’t missed it either. Her eyes widened just a little.

And they say women are the gentle sex. “It’s more like recycling,” Wyatt said gravely. “You see—”

Melanie wheeled around to face him. “Thanks, Wyatt. But I don’t think we need an explanation right now.”

I was only trying to help, he wanted to say. But it was fine with him if she didn’t want a hand. She was probably right anyway. Reynolds, you have got to stop letting your Don Quixote impulses get the best of you.

“So what can I do for you, Erika? Obviously you’re not shopping for a car, if you’re driving that black Mercedes.”

Erika laughed. “No, of course not. Actually I’m not at all sure…” She started over with determination in her tone. “I’m working with the girls in the sorority house this year. Their project is raising money for the victims of domestic violence, and they’ve set up a charity auction for next week.”

“So you’re asking for donations?”

“Yes. Merchandise, services, vacation packages—of course, I thought of you and I knew if there was any way you could help, you would. It is your old sorority too, after all, even if you were only there for a couple of years.” She turned back to Wyatt. “Tell me, is Melanie still a grind like she was in college? Always with her nose in the books. Biology and chemistry and…” She shivered. “Of course the rest of us all appreciated her, because she singlehandedly pulled up the house grade point average.”

Interesting, Wyatt thought.

Erika looked around again, and put a hand out tentatively to brush the fender of the Cadillac as if wondering whether it could be real. “Honestly, it feels like a time warp in here.”

“Thank you,” Melanie said gently. “That’s what we try to do—make every car look and drive as well as when it was brand-new.”

Erika looked puzzled, then she shook her head and smiled. “Right. Anyway, that’s why we’re asking for donations. Though I’m not quite sure if you have anything…Well, perhaps you’ll think of an idea.”

The mop, who’d been sniffing the Cadillac’s tires, stiffened and growled.

“Sit,” Wyatt ordered him.

To his surprise, the dog sat.

“Well, I can’t exactly donate a car without consulting my partner,” Melanie said. “Let us talk about it and I’ll get back to you. If you leave a number when I can reach you, Erika—”

Erika turned to stare at Wyatt. “Partner? You’re a partner in this operation? You’ve actually got money in it?” She smiled. “No wonder you said you didn’t exactly work here. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s not what it looks like, since you’re involved, Wyatt.”

Wyatt said, “I’m sure we could do something, partner—since it’s for such a good cause.”

Melanie glared at him. “And what do you have in mind—partner?”

“How about the Model T the guys are working on?”

Melanie gasped. “That’s sold. You can’t just give it away.”

“How about giving it away for an evening?”

“If a musty old rattletrap is the best you can do—” Erika turned up her nose.

“I mean the use of a genuine antique car, restored to perfection, for an evening. If not the Model T, then perhaps this Cadillac.” He patted the fender.

“Are you out of your mind?” Melanie’s voice was low and almost hoarse. “Loaning out a car? I don’t even let people test-drive these things without someone riding along. You can’t take the chance of putting this car into the hands of a hot-rodder. It’ll do a hundred and thirty on a straightaway—”

Wyatt cut across her. “A chauffeured antique car for an evening. And we’ll throw in…let’s say…dinner at Felicity’s.”

Melanie was sputtering. Between the red hair and the sparks she was putting off, she looked like a firecracker that was about to explode.

“We’ll get back to you with the details, Erika,” Wyatt said. “But in the meantime—you can count on us for dinner for two at Felicity’s, with chauffeur service.”

Erika smiled at him. “Make it a really nice car,” she murmured, “and I’ll bid on the package myself.”

She drifted out, and a couple of minutes later the Mercedes spun gravel in the parking lot.

Wyatt leaned against the Cadillac’s fender, folded his arms across his chest, and waited.

“Well, it’s obvious those leather pants of hers got to you,” Melanie said.

“What? Oh, come on. It’s a good cause.”

“Maybe. But dinner at Felicity’s? I thought you were going to look over the books. Surely you realize there is no money anywhere in the budget for dinner at Felicity’s.”

“I’ll toss it in as my contribution to the cause.”

“But why?”

“Just think of the attention it’ll get when one of our cars pulls up in front of Felicity’s. It’ll cause quite a buzz. In fact, we should make a point of regularly getting the cars off the lot and out where they can be seen.”

“I do,” Melanie said. “I drive a different one every day.”

“Where?” he asked shrewdly. “Back and forth to work? To the grocery store and the dry cleaner’s?”

He’d got her, and it was clear that she knew it. “Not the dry cleaner’s,” she admitted, “because if a piece of clothing isn’t washable, I don’t buy it. Fine—it’s your idea, you take care of it. Just think hard about which car you choose. Since Erika doesn’t seem to be enthusiastic about vintage Cadillacs, you might try one of the Corvettes. Be careful, though—the transmissions can be tricky on those if you’re not used to a stick shift.”

“Oh, I’m not going to be driving it.”

“I beg your pardon? I thought you understood I’m not about to loan—”

“Since you’re so sensitive about who gets behind the wheel of your cars, and I’m the one who’s providing dinner—”

He saw the instant she realized she’d been conned. “Oh, no.”

“Then it’s only fair that you be the chauffeur,” Wyatt said gently. “As you said yourself, we’re partners. Right?”

CHAPTER THREE

HE’D boxed her in very neatly, Melanie had to admit. Though in a way she’d almost done it to herself, without much effort at all on Wyatt’s part.

She’d had no intention of making a donation to Erika’s cause, because she simply couldn’t afford it. At least, she couldn’t afford to give on the scale that Erika would find acceptable—and if Melanie offered anything less, Erika would probably have turned up her aristocratic little nose, refused, and then said something even more condescending than the remarks she’d already made. Melanie was still gritting her teeth over that crack about selling extremely-used cars.

Still, even if it had meant listening to Erika oozing false sympathy over Melanie’s terrible financial condition, she should have just told the truth instead of dodging the question. Erika’s fake pity would have lasted five minutes at the top end, and then she’d have stopped wasting her time with Melanie and moved on to the next potential donor.

But instead Melanie had made an excuse, and it was going to cost her dearly. I have to consult my partner…

She should have realized that acting as if Wyatt had a say in the matter would make him believe that he really did. Even so, she was still in shock at how he’d taken the idea and run with it—and then dragged her in, despite herself.

Chauffeuring someone around for a night on the town…what fun that was going to be. Especially if it turned out to be Erika Winchester. Melanie wasn’t going to whine about it, though, because that would only encourage him.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “this could be a very interesting dilemma. If I’m driving, a Corvette won’t be big enough because it only holds two passengers. However, Erika will want it to be just the two of you. So that means the Corvette would be perfect after all, except that you don’t want to drive it, so we’re back to needing a seat for the chauffeur…. I’ve got it. I’ll teach you how to handle it, and then you and Erika can have a cozy—”

Wyatt shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to take driving lessons from someone who knows exactly how fast that Cadillac will go on a straightaway.”

“Actually,” Melanie said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. Not firsthand.”

“That’s a relief. Who actually tried it out? Robbie, or one of the other guys?”

“I mean that I don’t know precisely how fast it’ll go, because I’m only guessing. The speedometer was buried and the car was still accelerating when I saw the curve coming and let off the gas.”

“I hope you’re going to tell me this was on a track and not a regular road.”

“If it will make you feel better, I can tell you anything you want to hear.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes.

“For heaven’s sake, of course it was on a track. You don’t think I’m idiot enough to drive that fast on a public highway, do you?”

“I don’t think I should answer that,” Wyatt murmured. “Anyway, let’s worry about all the details when the time comes. Erika may not be the top bidder.”

“You can hope. I suspect she’ll not only win, but she’ll want to spend part of the evening parked in a lovers’ lane. Come to think of it, maybe the Corvette isn’t such a good idea after all.”

“Bucket seats,” Wyatt mused. “Gearshift. I see what you mean.”

“Definitely the Cadillac has more potential as a love nest. In the meantime, I have work to do.” She eyed the narrow space between the car and the wall. Wyatt was occupying a good deal of it, and she would have to squeeze past him to get to the office. It would be easier to go around the car and climb through the back seat—except that would mean figuring out how to get the door open wide enough to get in. How had Robbie gotten out, anyway, with the car’s convertible top up?

“If you’re going to be hanging around here all the time,” she added dryly, “I can find something better for you to do than polish that fender with the seat of your trousers.”

He pushed himself away from the car. “I was just thinking about making a promotional tour.”

“Good idea.” She tried to stand aside to let him pass, but there was nowhere to go. As he slid by her, she felt the brush of his tweed jacket against her breasts. He paused, and Melanie had to restrain herself from climbing onto the hood of the Cadillac to get away.

How utterly foolish that impulse was, she told herself, because there had been nothing sensual about the contact. It certainly wasn’t as if the man was incapable of controlling his impulses if he got too close to her. In fact, he’d probably laugh at the very idea of being overwhelmed by Melanie’s sex appeal—especially with the image of Erika’s black leather pants fresh in his mind. Furthermore, Melanie wasn’t attracted to him any more than he was to her.

But when the door closed behind him, she didn’t go into the office. Instead, she opened the shop door and told Robbie to get the Titanic-size Cadillac out of the showroom immediately and bring in a car which would actually fit, with room left to walk around.

She told herself she was only doing it to show the merchandise in a better light and make it easier for the customers to get a good look.

It had nothing to do with Wyatt. Nothing at all.

Closing time passed, and Melanie locked the door. But an hour later she was still standing at the narrow counter which held the coffee machine, clearing up the last of the day’s orders.

It had been busy all afternoon. Bill Myers had come as promised to pick up the replacement door for his Mustang, but instead of going home to work on the car, he’d planted himself beside her desk to chat for half an hour. The owner of the Model T which was nearing completion back in the shop had come to her to complain that the new upholstery wasn’t quite the color he’d had in mind, and Melanie had had to talk him out of doing the interior in flame orange. And back in the shop, Karl had cut himself on the edge of a rusty fender and had to have three stitches and a tetanus shot.

Only during her walk with Scruffy had Melanie had a chance to think at all, and then her mind had been going in circles because of Wyatt’s plan to sell the whole business.

She’d never given the possibility much thought before. As long as Jackson’s share was drawing no nibbles, there had been no point in even thinking of selling her own. But Wyatt’s conviction was contagious. If he was right, and they really could sell out…

The farther she’d walked, the more colorful her dreams had become. If the price was high enough, she wouldn’t have to get another job. She could go back to school and follow through on the plans she’d made so long ago—the plans she’d had to put on the shelf when her father died. If only the price was high enough…

Then she’d come back to the shop. She had stood at the edge of the highway just outside the fence and looked at the makeshift metal building with its peeling paint and awkward lean-to additions. She’d looked at the row of cars out front, in various stages of restoration and repair. She’d looked beyond them to the still-weedy back half of the lot. And the grandiose dreams had burst like an overinflated bubble.

It was easy to dream when she wasn’t looking directly at the facts. But once she was back on the lot, facing reality, it was impossible to fool herself. She didn’t even have to dig out the ledgers; she knew the numbers almost by heart.

While the business was profitable, it wasn’t such a stunning success that it could command top dollar from a buyer. Besides, she asked herself bluntly, who was going to want it?

It wasn’t the sort of business anyone would buy as an investment, because there were easier ways to make a buck. Restoring old cars required large doses of labor, individual attention, and devotion to detail—not exactly the road map to high profits. So what were the odds of finding someone who not only had the money to finance the purchase but was fascinated with old cars as well?

Then there was the question of what Wyatt would consider to be a good price. Melanie was sure he’d want more than he’d paid—if he could get it. But how much was that? And even before he’d looked at the books, he’d as much as said that he wouldn’t hesitate to cut his losses if he had to. What kind of penalty would he be willing to pay to get out of a bad situation?

It was an important question because the price he got would determine her cut as well. But if the payoff wasn’t enough to fund her dream…

Then she would simply be trading this job for a different one. And if that was the case, she might as well stay right where she was. She knew she could make this work, because she’d done it for several years. And at least here she was her own boss.

She pulled a strip of tape off the roll and was slapping it onto a box when a key clicked in the door. Scruffy growled, but as Wyatt came in the dog gave one sharp yelp of greeting and bounced across the showroom toward him.

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