Melanie took a step toward the man with the silver eyes. “Excuse me for interrupting, but if you’ve only come here to insult our product, then you may as well stop wasting everyone’s time and go away.”

The man didn’t seem to hear her. “Mel Stafford,” Wyatt said genially. “I believe you’re the manager.”

“Yes, I am. And I’m asking you—no, I’m telling you—that it’s time to go.”

“But I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m your new boss.”

Leigh Michaels has always been a writer, composing dreadful poetry when she was just four years old and dictating it to her long-suffering older sister. She started writing romance in her teens and burned six full manuscripts before submitting her work to a publisher. Now, with more than 70 novels to her credit, she also teaches romance writing seminars at universities, writers’ conferences and on the Internet. Leigh loves to hear from readers. You may contact her at P.O. Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa 52501, U.S.A., or visit her Web site: leigh@leighmichaels.com

Books by Leigh Michaels

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3720—BRIDE BY DESIGN

3731—MAYBE MARRIED

3748—THE MARRIAGE MARKET

3759—THE BILLIONAIRE BID

3772—THE BRIDE ASSIGNMENT

3783—PART-TIME FIANCÉ

The Takeover Bid
Leigh Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE wind was strong, even for April, and the walls and roof of the metal building creaked a mild protest with every gust. Melanie knew perfectly well that it was not nearly as cold outside as it sounded. Still, she thought, the whine of the wind was enough to make Santa Claus shiver. As if in echo, the lop-eared dog at her feet whimpered in his sleep.

She heard the bang of the door between the shop and the office. Melanie turned away from the computer screen and glanced up at the big old-fashioned clock on the office wall as one of the workmen came in, wiping his hands on an already-greasy rag. The dog raised his head inquisitively and then, seeing the workman, put it back down on his front paws.

Melanie pushed her chair back. “I didn’t know you were still here, Robbie.”

“I stayed to put another coat of wax on Mr. Stover’s Buick,” he said. “It just didn’t look quite shiny enough.”

Melanie smiled. “I appreciate that you take care of the cars we work on as if you own them yourself. And he’ll appreciate it when he picks it up tomorrow.”

He shrugged. “We want the customer to be happy. When he’s paying as much as Mr. Stover did to restore a ‘70 Buick, an extra coat of wax is nothing. Want to come and see it?”

She’d seen the car that afternoon. She’d seen it every day for the last month, as a matter of fact, watching every step of the restoration. But the gleam in Robbie’s eyes and the note of pride in his voice told her it would be cruel not to go and admire his work.

She followed him back to the shop, the dog trailing behind. Robbie tossed the rag into a pile and picked up what looked like an equally-greasy one from a nearby bin.

“I’m never sure whether you guys are taking grease off your fingers or putting it on,” Melanie said. Then she looked past him at the car sitting in the nearest bay of the shop, its baby blue paint and snowy white convertible top gleaming quietly under the harsh work lights. Souvenir of another age, it looked as long as an ocean liner by modern standards. “It’s a beauty.”

“Yeah.” Robbie’s voice was almost reverent. He brushed the back of his hand across the fender. “Quite a little different from when you found her sitting out in the back of the yard.”

Melanie didn’t have to think hard to remember what the Buick had looked like. “Buried under a pile of rusty fenders, with a mouse condo in the back seat and an engine that hadn’t seen oil in twenty years—yes, it’s a little different now.”

“She runs like a dream. Want me to start her up?”

He’d love to have the excuse, Melanie knew. “Let’s wait till morning and you can move it into the showroom so Mr. Stover will get the full effect.”

The dog wheeled toward the door leading into the office, then bristled, growled, and started to bark.

Robbie frowned. “It’s a little late for customers, and the door should be locked anyway.”

“That’ll be Jackson. He’s got a key. Knock it off, Scruff.” The dog stopped barking, but a soft growl lingered deep in his throat. Melanie pushed the door open and called, “I’m out in the shop.”

A young man came out of her office, his camel-hair topcoat swinging open to reveal a black tuxedo. His white-blond hair was styled with such perfection that Melanie wondered how it was possible the wind hadn’t ruffled it. Had he stopped to comb it the moment he came in, or was it actually sprayed into place?

He sounded almost grumpy. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten and gone home.”

“Oh, I couldn’t forget your once-a-month visit any more than you would,” Melanie said dryly.

Jackson’s gaze fell on Robbie. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

The tone of his voice obviously wasn’t lost on Robbie, for his face turned red. “Want me to stay, Melanie?”

“No, Angie will be waiting for you.” He went out, and Melanie said gently, “As a matter of fact, Jackson, you are interrupting. I was inspecting our latest project. Robbie just finished working on it.” She walked slowly around the car, noting the finish on the chrome trim and the way light reflected from the paint. Robbie had been right about the effect of that last coat of wax. She’d have to remember to compliment him in the morning.

Jackson looked at the Buick. “Why anyone would pay good money for that…”

“That’s the customer’s choice, and don’t expect me to believe that it bothers you to spend your share. You look very fine tonight, Jackson. And on a Thursday, too…Is it just dinner tonight, or the theater?”

Jackson raised his eyebrows in a well-practiced gesture. “It’s never just dinner when you go to the Century Club.”

Melanie wondered sometimes whether Jackson lightened his hair or darkened his eyebrows; the combination was so improbable that she was sure it had to be one or the other. “Of course. Well, you can’t expect me to know, since I’ve never been there.”

“If you’re hinting for an invitation, Mel—”

“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Jackson laughed. “Well, that’s no doubt true. I’d love to stay and chat, but Jennifer’s waiting for me to pick her up.”

He hadn’t needed to clarify that the no-doubt elegant Jennifer wasn’t waiting outside in his car, because he’d never brought her to the shop. Melanie wondered sometimes if he’d ever told his most-recent girlfriend where he got his money.

“So if you’ve got my check ready—”

“It’s in my desk.” She led the way, turning off the shop lights as she went.

Jackson eyed the figures on the check. “Not much this month. How do you live on this kind of money?”

“I don’t,” Melanie pointed out. “That’s your share of the profits of the partnership for the month. But in addition to my share, I also draw a salary for working here.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Exactly what isn’t fair about it? If we hired a manager, we’d pay him and then split what was left. I’m the manager, so I get paid. If you don’t like the bottom line, you can start working for the business too.”

“I do work for the business. I tell people about it all the time.”

“And in the last year, one of them actually turned up to take a look. Of course, he didn’t buy anything.”

“That’s not my fault. I tried.”

“Well, maybe if you tried harder, you’d notice the results in your check. See you next month, Jackson.”

Melanie locked the door behind him, shut down her computer, and called the dog, who was still standing pugnaciously by the entrance as if expecting Jackson to come back. “You won’t have to defend me from him again for another thirty days, Scruff. Come on, let’s go home.”

She paused beside the back door and looked thoughtfully at the board where at least twenty tagged car keys were hanging from pegs. “What should we drive tonight, Scruff? It’s too windy for a convertible, even with the top up. Do you feel like riding in a Corvette that’s older than I am, or a Thunderbird that’s only slightly younger?”

The Thunderbird was closer to the door, so that decided it. She grabbed the key and went out into the wind, still thinking about Jackson. He must have been in a hurry to get to Jennifer tonight, for he hadn’t started in on Melanie as he usually did about wanting her to buy his share of the business.

Not that she wouldn’t like to buy him out. In fact, she’d do it the very minute she found a spare half-million dollars lying around. Or whenever Jackson decided to be more reasonable about his price.

In Melanie’s opinion, it was a toss-up which would happen first.

By the time Melanie arrived at the shop the next morning, Robbie had already moved the Buick. He hadn’t put it into the showroom as she’d planned, however, but right outside the front door. He’d put the top down and parked the car at a rakish angle so the chrome caught the bright sunlight.

He was buffing the hood when she parked the Thunderbird nearby and strolled over. The dog hopped out of the car and began to make his usual morning rounds of the parking lot.

“Aren’t you afraid it’ll get a speck of dust on the windshield out here?” Melanie teased.

“I figured it would be good publicity.” Robbie jerked a thumb toward the highway which ran along the front of the lot. “Traffic’s been slowing down to take a look.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She shaded her eyes with her hand and watched a pickup truck pull into the lot. “It’s too bad we can’t leave it here all week, but here comes Mr. Stover now.”

She’d learned, in a couple of years in the classic car business, when to keep her mouth shut. So when Mr. Stover got out of the truck, she called, “Good morning,” and then didn’t say another word until he’d had a chance to look his fill.

That took a while—which was another thing that Melanie had learned from experience.

If it did nothing else, she’d found, being in the business of selling exotic, collectible, and antique cars taught patience. Patience with prospective buyers who wanted a specific model and color and wouldn’t settle for anything else no matter how long it took to find. Patience with sellers who couldn’t make up their minds whether to part with their treasures. Patience with the slow and painstaking pace of restoration work.

Of course, it was much more fun to be patient while Mr. Stover got his first look at a fully-restored, shiny-as-new Buick. If he wanted to stare at his new toy for an hour, Melanie would stand there quietly, leaning on a green Chevy, joining in his appreciation of a job well done, and waiting for him to break the silence.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a car pull off the highway and into the lot, and the shape of it rang bells in her brain. A Baritsa? She’d only ever seen one before, in person—but once noticed, the rakish lines and sporty silhouette were hard to forget.

She turned her head to look more closely at the car. It was a Baritsa, all right—a brand-new one, glossy black and showroom-shiny. Not at all the sort of thing that their regular clientele drove.

Maybe Jackson had taken her seriously. If he’d gone to the Century Club last night and started talking up classic cars to people who could afford fleets of them…

Don’t get your hopes up. More likely it’s someone looking for directions.

The Baritsa nosed in between the Chevy she was leaning on and a 1950s Packard with a “sold” sticker on the windshield. But the engine continued to purr.

Beyond the tinted window of the Baritsa Melanie could see only the shape of the driver’s head and shoulders. A man, obviously. Probably tall, judging by the distance from the steering wheel up to the shadow that must be his chin. His hand was raised, as if he was holding a cell phone to his ear. But that was all she could tell.

Mr. Stover called her name, and Melanie jerked upright, wondering how long he’d been standing there in front of her while she gawked at the Baritsa. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

“It’s like a dream, you know.” There was a catch in his voice. “I’ve always regretted selling my Buick, because it was the first car I ever owned. To get one just like it, and have it turn out so beautiful…” He smiled and reached into his pocket to pull out a checkbook. “I guess you’re going to want some money, though—right?”

“Let’s go inside to deal with the dirty work,” Melanie suggested. She couldn’t help looking back toward the Baritsa as she pushed herself away from the Chevy’s fender.

Mr. Stover had obviously seen the Baritsa too. “I wonder what that guy wants. It looks sort of odd, him just sitting there like that.”

“Maybe the Buick caught his eye and he wants to buy it from you.”

“He can try,” Mr. Stover said, and grinned.

Melanie ushered him into her office, handed him the car’s papers, and went back to the showroom to get him a cup of coffee while he looked over the invoice.

The coffee machine was just finishing its cycle. She waited till it was done, poured two cups, and gathered up sugar and cream. The outside door opened, and she felt a flicker of excitement as she looked up. It was perfectly silly, of course, to get all breathless over a prospective customer, no matter what kind of car he drove. Still—a Baritsa…

But the man who came in was Jackson.

She could hardly believe her eyes. Jackson, dropping in on a Friday when he’d picked up his monthly check just the night before? Stopping by in daylight, when someone might actually see him there?

And since when did Jackson drive a Baritsa?

He probably borrowed it from Jennifer, she thought. I wonder what she’d think about him using it to go slumming.

“Mel,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not right now, Jackson. Customers first, you know—and I have one in my office waiting to write a check. A big check.”

“It won’t take long. I just need to tell you I’ve come for—”

She shook her head and walked past him, closing the office door firmly behind her.

Fifteen minutes later, she weighted Mr. Stover’s check to her desk with a chunk of Missouri limestone and walked him through the showroom to the parking lot, watching with satisfaction as the Buick pulled out into traffic. The Baritsa was still there, she noted, but Jackson was nowhere to be seen.

As she went back inside, a muffled commotion from the shop drew her attention, and she walked across to open the door. “What’s going on out here? Is somebody hurt?”

“Not yet.” Robbie sounded grim.

“Then what’s all the ruckus?” Melanie folded her arms across her chest and surveyed the group. Robbie, two of her other workmen, and Jackson had formed a sort of huddle in the empty bay where the Buick had sat till this morning. So this was where Jackson had gone.

Odd, she thought. He never went into the shop unless he had to, and then he’d hover by the door, obviously anxious not to touch anything—as if he was phobic about grease.

Robbie glared at Jackson. “He’s trying to steal a bunch of tools.”

“Steal!” Jackson sputtered. “That’s slander! They were my father’s tools, and now they’re mine. I’m just taking what’s mine.”

Melanie stepped forward. “Wait a minute. Why do you even want them?”

“Good question,” one of the workmen muttered. “He wouldn’t know what to do with them, that’s for sure.”

“And in any case,” Melanie went on, “they weren’t your father’s personal property, they belong to the business. Which you own half of anyway, so why you’re making a fuss about tools—”

The shop door opened behind her and she turned to face the newcomer. “I’ll be right with—” Her standard smile of greeting froze on her face.

The man in the doorway was tall and broad-shouldered, with midnight-black hair and eyes that looked almost silver when he pulled off his sunglasses. His features were too craggy to be considered hand-some—he’d be no competition for Jackson in a Greek-god contest. And yet there was something compelling about his face, something that wouldn’t let her look away. Where Jackson was conventionally good-looking, this man was interesting. And in thirty years, when Jackson’s good looks were long gone, this man would still be worth looking at…

Whoa, she told herself. She swallowed hard and started over. “I’ll be right with you.”

“I’ll wait.” His voice matched his eyes, smooth and polished as sterling silver. “I’m in no hurry.”

“I’m sorry,” Melanie said with genuine regret, “but our insurance company doesn’t allow customers to be in the shop area because of the potential for injuries. If you’ll step back into the showroom for a moment—”

“I’m not a customer.”

Pieces clicked together in Melanie’s mind. It wasn’t Jackson who’d been driving the Baritsa, as she’d assumed. It was this man who had been behind the wheel.

Just my luck that he’s not a customer.

His gaze had slid past her to the group of men. “I’m looking for Mel Stafford.”

Melanie took a step forward. “You found her.”

He looked startled. “Her?” He stared at Melanie.

That was another thing she’d gotten used to, Melanie reflected. People didn’t expect a woman to be selling collectible cars. Keeping the books, maybe—but not running the business.

At least she’d thought she was used to that reaction—and there was certainly no reason to be irritated because this man had made the standard assumption. If he thought it would make a difference when it came to a deal, he’d find out soon enough that he was wrong.

But he’s not a customer, Melanie reminded herself. So what is he? “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze was roaming over the building as if taking inventory of the eight bays, from the almost-finished Model T Ford right behind the group of workmen to the shell of a Mustang in the farthest corner.

“Jackson,” he said, “I thought you told me this business deals in classic cars.”

So maybe she hadn’t been altogether wrong after all. Maybe Jackson had actually taken seriously what she’d said about promoting the business. Not that he seemed to have been very selective about who he talked to.

Jackson looked out from behind Robbie’s shoulder. “Well, it does. Sort of.”

“It’s not what I’d call the Lamborghini capital of the world.”

“I never said—”

“In fact, it looks more like a junkyard.”

Melanie took a step toward the man with the silver eyes. “Excuse me for interrupting, but if you’ve only come here to insult our products, then you may as well stop wasting everyone’s time and go away.”

She heard Robbie gasp, and she had to admit that she was almost as surprised as he obviously was. She’d certainly never thrown out a customer before. Or a non-customer, for that matter.

The man didn’t seem to hear her. “Mel Stafford,” he said genially. “I believe you’re the manager.”

“Yes, I am. And I’m asking you—no, I’m telling you—that it’s time to go.”

“But I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m your new boss.”

Wyatt had expected the news might come as a bit of a shock, because the moment he’d caught sight of Jackson—or more to the point, the instant Jackson had caught sight of him—he’d realized that Jackson hadn’t yet shared the news with the employees. If he had, he wouldn’t have ducked behind the nearest set of broad shoulders.

He’s probably trying to pretend none of this is happening.

But Wyatt hadn’t anticipated that his announcement would hit with the same concussion as a grenade. The three guys in grease-smeared coveralls looked as if he’d hit each of them right in the chin with a spade. Jackson turned an even more sickly shade of green and rubbed his index finger along the bridge of his nose. Trying to hide behind his hand, Wyatt thought.

And then the manager—what kind of a woman called herself Mel, for heaven’s sake?—started to clap her hands together as if he were in the middle ring of a circus and had just pulled off an especially entertaining trick.

No, not at all the kind of reaction he’d anticipated.

She finally stopped applauding. “Nice try. As practical jokes go, that isn’t a bad one. I don’t quite know why Jackson would bother to set us up, but we’ve all certainly gotten his money’s worth from the stunt. Now if you’ll let us go back to work—”

Wyatt moved a little closer. “This is no practical joke, Mel.”

Her eyes were green, he noted. At least the part of them that wasn’t shooting sparks at him looked green. A green-eyed redhead—now there was a dangerous combination.

“That’s Ms. Stafford to you, Bub.”

“All right, Ms. Stafford. If this is a practical joke, why is my good buddy Jackson standing over there looking the color of mashed peas, instead of laughing?”

She wheeled around to stare at Jackson, and Wyatt watched with satisfaction as reality hit her. “What the hell have you done?” she breathed.

Jackson seemed to shrivel.

Interesting phenomenon, Wyatt thought. That’s the first change we’ll be making, because I can’t have a manager who thinks she can order the boss around.

He watched emotions chase each other across her face. Incredulity was followed by horror, which gave way to a sort of resigned shock. She blinked and finally noticed the gaggle of workmen who were watching, mouths agape.

“Robbie, get your crew to work,” she said crisply. “Mr. Barnett will be expecting his Model T to be finished this week. Gentlemen, if you’ll step into my office, the three of us will discuss this.”

“Mel, I—” Jackson was almost whimpering.

Wyatt took pity on him. “There’s no need for Jackson to be involved. He and I arranged the matter of ownership between ourselves last night. So it’s only you and I who need to take up the details—Ms. Stafford.”

Jackson appeared too pathetically grateful even to speak. He slithered past the workmen and out the side door before Mel Stafford could even react. Then she glared at Wyatt as intently as a vulture who’d been robbed of her prey. “You’ll regret letting him go,” she announced.

“We’ll see.” Wyatt stood aside to let her lead the way.

As he followed her across the shop and into the showroom, he noticed the crisp button-down Oxford tucked neatly into the waistband of her trim, well-worn jeans. And he wondered if the decided wiggle to her hips was an offshoot of being mad or if it was just a natural part of her walk. Not that he would have time to find out, for Ms. Stafford wasn’t going to be around for long.

She led the way to the one small office which opened off the showroom and sat down firmly behind the cluttered desk. Wyatt decided not to squabble over who had a better right to the boss’s chair. She was still the manager, after all. For the moment.

From under the desk a shaggy head protruded, and a long nose sniffed noisily at Wyatt’s ankles. It looked like a mop with ears.

“Down, Scruff,” Mel Stafford said firmly, and the mop retreated.

Wyatt lounged into the seat across from her, planted his elbows on the wooden arms of the chair, tented his fingers under his chin, and waited.

She moved a chunk of stone out of the way. “I gather, from what you said out there, that you think you’ve bought Jackson out.”

I think I’ve bought him out? You wish I was only thinking, lady. But he had nothing to lose but a little time. Let her talk. Let her fool herself, if she wanted.

Let her think she’s in charge.

Of course, it was none of her business how the change of ownership had happened. “In a manner of speaking,” he said.

She nodded. “Do you know him well?”

What was with the sudden chattiness? He might as well warn her that a feeble effort at charm wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Not after the fireworks she’d already displayed. But why make it easy on her? It might be amusing to watch her attempt to beguile. “A few months, I suppose.”

“I see. How much did you pay him?”

Wyatt lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t see why that would be any of your business, Ms. Stafford.”

“Oh, I assure you it isn’t just idle curiosity—though I must admit to feeling some. The last time he mentioned a figure to me, he wanted half a million dollars.”

“That’s very interesting. You sound as if you think your…um…car business isn’t worth that much.”

She smiled.

Wyatt could smell danger. She looked as if she was having a good time. This was not going quite as he’d planned.

“No, I don’t,” she said. “In fact, I think that price is pretty steep—for his half.”

Half? The bonehead had never bothered to mention that he only owned half of the business. And that surprises you, Reynolds?

Or was it Mel Stafford who was pulling a con, trying to convince Wyatt to give up and go away?

He must have looked suspicious, but she drew herself up squarely. “I have all the paperwork to prove that Jackson’s a half owner.”

Now he was really leery. “Right. It’s here somewhere. And I’m sure you’ll be happy to dig it out and show it to me someday—when you have enough time. Probably around the turn of the next century. Come on, Ms. Stafford, stop trying to run a bluff on me.”

“I assure you, it’s no bluff. Jackson’s father was a small-town mechanic. How he ended up owning half a junkyard, I’m not quite sure—”

Wyatt didn’t think his expression had changed an iota, but she paused and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes,” she admitted, “your assessment was quite right. It does resemble a junkyard, because it used to be one. It’s only in the last couple of years that it’s taken on a new role.”

“And become some kind of gold mine.”

She frowned. “More like opals, I’d say. We shovel tons and tons of debris to find one small jewel.”

The woman sounded absolutely serious. But she couldn’t be for real. Could she?

“At any rate,” she went on, “Jackson’s father ran the junkyard for years, stripping and selling parts now and then, but mostly just piling up more and more odd bits of vehicles. Where he got them all, I have no idea. When he died a couple of years ago and Jackson inherited, he wasn’t too wild about the idea of being a junk man, so he immediately started talking about selling out.”

“For half a million dollars.”

“That was the price he named, yes. Of course, nobody’s been crazy enough to actually pay him that much.” Her eyes were very wide, very innocent, very green. “Until now.”

And for your information, lady, nobody’s been that crazy yet. But if she hoped a fishing expedition was going to get her the information she wanted, she’d have to improve the caliber of the bait, because Wyatt wasn’t biting. “So if Jackson’s dear old dad only owned half, who had the rest?”

“My father,” she said. “Who left his share to me.”

Wyatt knew he should have seen it coming. He should have known from the very beginning that getting involved with Jackson was like playing chicken with a diesel locomotive—somebody was bound to get hurt. He just hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize it could be him who ended up pasted to the rails.

She looked up dreamily at the ceiling. “So now that you know the whole story, I’m sure you’ll want to hunt up Jackson and bail out of your agreement. Remember? I did tell you that you’d regret letting him leave this morning.”

“I’m not going to hunt him down.” His voice felt as flat as it sounded.

“But—” He saw consternation flare in her eyes. “But since he didn’t exactly tell you the whole story—”

“No, he didn’t,” Wyatt said grimly.

“Then that’s fraud.”

“Probably so.”

“And that means the deal’s off. If you didn’t understand what you were buying, then he can’t hold you to the agreement.”

“Unfortunately,” Wyatt said, “it wasn’t that sort of agreement. So the bottom line, Ms. Stafford, is that you’ve got yourself a new partner.”

For the first time since he’d walked into the office, he felt the stir of satisfaction—because Mel Stafford’s face looked even greener than Jackson’s had.

CHAPTER TWO

PARTNER?

For a few seconds, Melanie was afraid she’d forgotten how to breathe—because when she tried it was like inhaling icicles. Take it slowly, she told herself. A little bit of air at a time.

The entire situation was perfectly clear—at least to her—and the appropriate response was obvious. But apparently the man sitting across the desk from her didn’t see it the same way, or he wouldn’t have blithely announced that he was going to be her new partner.

How on earth, she wondered, could anyone have actually agreed to buy a business without realizing that he was purchasing only half of it? Without checking things like a balance sheet or a profit-and-loss statement?

And even if for some incredible reason the deal had gotten that far, then why hadn’t he gone storming out of the office to find Jackson and get his money back the instant he’d found out that he’d been taken for a ride?

Melanie had been absolutely certain of her ground. As soon as the Baritsa man had announced that he was the new boss, she’d known exactly what had happened. What must have happened.

So all she had to do, she’d thought, was to straighten out this flaw in his thinking. Once she had corrected his mistaken impression that he’d bought the entire business, the rest would take care of itself.

Or, rather, he would take care of it. Exactly how he chose to clear up the mess was none of her business. If he chose to settle matters with Jackson by beating him to a pulp, that would be too bad for Jackson, of course. But if Jackson was idiot enough to mislead a prospective buyer, he deserved whatever he got. It wasn’t up to Melanie to interfere.

But now it seemed that the prospective buyer wasn’t even going to try to straighten out the mess.

It wasn’t that sort of agreement, he’d said. You’ve got a new partner.

Which made no sense at all. Why would he sit still for being taken like that?

Of course, it was becoming increasingly clear to Melanie that Jackson hadn’t been the only fool involved in the deal. Agreeing to buy a business without even knowing for sure what kind of merchandise it carried, without looking over the stock, without checking out the bottom line to be certain the seller was telling the truth—

“That’s the sort of thing my father would have done,” she muttered.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing.” But at last a little light had dawned in Melanie’s head.

Nobody would make a deal like that, blindly and without investigation, if he thought there was a chance he was being cheated. But the only kind of person who wouldn’t have a healthy dose of skepticism over an offer of that sort was one who thought he was getting a sure thing. Or maybe one who’d been doing a little double-dealing of his own.

If he had believed he was the one doing the cheating, he wouldn’t have been on guard against Jackson.

She doubted the Baritsa man would put it quite that clearly, of course. But it was the only thing she could think of which accounted for everything—including his unwillingness to go after Jackson now. It wasn’t that sort of agreement…

“Do you have a name?” she asked abruptly.

“Oh, you can just keep calling me Bub. Bub and Mel’s Used Cars—it has a certain ring to it.”

Maybe he was delusional, Melanie thought wildly, and none of it had happened at all. “I don’t suppose you have proof of this transaction.”

His eyebrows lifted inquisitively, and Melanie couldn’t help noticing that they had a natural aristocratic arch that was very unlike the practiced curve of Jackson’s brows. “After watching your former partner ooze out of here on a wave of guilt that would fill a swimming pool, you still think you need proof that his share of the business changed hands last night?”

She couldn’t argue with his point. How could she have forgotten for an instant the pathetic way that Jackson had crept out of the shop, refusing even to look at her?

No, there was no question the two men had agreed to some kind of a deal. The question was what she was going to be able to do about it.

Play along, she told herself. Don’t agree to anything. Just get him out of here and then you can call a lawyer and find out where you stand.

He pushed himself up from his chair and started to look around the office. “You have a very interesting philosophy of decorating, Ms. Stafford. Why take down expired calendars when you can just hang this year’s at the end of the row? Of course, eventually you’ll run out of wall space. May I call you Mel, now that we’re partners?”

“No,” she said, a little more sharply than she intended. “I mean, I prefer to use my full name. It’s Melanie.”

“Interesting.”

She was puzzled. “My name? I’m glad you think so, but—”

“I mean the idea that Jackson would ignore your wishes about your name as well as the business. At least I assume you don’t approve of him selling his half.”

“Perceptive, aren’t you?”

“The question is why. I can think of several possibilities.”

The phone rang. She put a hand on it and looked up at him. “Hold it right there till I finish with this call. I don’t want to miss a word of your logic.”

The caller was a regular customer, looking for a part for a car he was restoring. She put the phone down and reached for the intercom. “Robbie, when Fred has time, ask him to pull the driver’s side door off the blue Mustang that’s sitting out by the back fence. Bill Myers wants to pick it up this afternoon.”

Robbie’s voice came back, tinny and distant. “Sure thing.”

She released the intercom button. “Now—you were saying?”

“Do you know every piece you have in inventory by heart?”

“Of course not. There’s a whole corner of the junk-yard we’ve hardly gotten into yet. But don’t let me distract you from figuring out why I don’t want Jackson to sell.”

He held up a hand and began to tick off points on his fingertips. “You like having him around and wanted him to keep his share so you’d see him regularly.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Really? Then if you weren’t gung-ho about having Jackson as a partner, what’s so bad about him selling out?”

Melanie opened her mouth and closed it again. He had something there, she realized. Jackson had been a liability as a partner, a constant drag on the business. His unwillingness to reinvest any of his share of the profits had slowed the growth of Classical Cars, preventing Melanie from taking advantage of opportunities on more occasions than she could count. But since she couldn’t do anything about Jackson’s attitude, she’d concentrated on the things that she could control.

Now that he was gone, however…things were certainly going to be different.

“Another possibility,” he went on, “is that you wanted to buy his half yourself.”

“Not especially.”

“But the two of you must have talked about it, because you had a figure in mind.”

“Lucky you,” Melanie said dryly, “to get there first and beat me out.”

“I could be persuaded to sell, you know.”

“I just bet you could—Bub.”

“Wyatt Reynolds,” he said, almost absently. “In fact, I’d like to sell.”

“No fooling. And I’m sure all you want out of the deal is a teeny-weeny little bit more than you paid.”

“I am a businessman, Melanie.”

“If you say so—though if you regularly go around buying things sight unseen, I have my doubts about your judgment. Of course,” she conceded, “even a few thousand would be a tidy little profit, considering you’ve owned it for just about twelve hours. I wonder what the interest rate would add up to on that investment.”

“Would you care to talk about a price?”

Melanie looked him over thoughtfully. “Only if you’d be willing to buy my half at the price you’re asking for yours.”

“No, thanks.”

“That’s what I thought.” Something was nagging at the back of Melanie’s mind. “Reynolds—Do you mean as in the Reynolds family?”

“That was my father’s name, yes,” he said dryly.

“You know perfectly well I’m talking about the Reynolds family that started off with a mill on the banks of the Missouri River, selling flour to pioneers heading west in covered wagons, and ended up with a wheat empire that stretched all the way across Kansas.”

“You know your local history.”

“Seriously? You’re part of that family tree?”

“A twig,” he admitted.

“A good-size twig if you can afford to go around buying things without paying any attention to what you’re getting. So what’s the problem? You thought you’d bought the whole business last night. Why not finish the job and buy my half now?”

“You seriously want to sell it?”

Melanie started to nod, and then paused. Did she want to sell out?

It wasn’t as if it had been her childhood dream to be in the old-car business. It had just happened, almost accidentally. She’d taken the lemon that life had handed her and tried not to dwell on the fact that she’d never liked the taste of lemonade.

But now that the possibility of getting out of the business was actually dangling over her head, she was hesitating, and she didn’t know why.

It wasn’t because she loved her job—though she had to admit she didn’t hate it anymore, either. At first, she had had to square her shoulders and grit her teeth every morning, and push herself with physical labor through the day so she’d be tired enough to sleep at night. But as the months and then the years went by, a weed-infested old junkyard had morphed into a moderately-successful broker of classic cars. And somewhere along the line, Melanie must have changed, too, or she’d be leaping at the bait Wyatt Reynolds was dangling.

Was she hesitating because she’d gotten to like the challenges of being in business? Or because selling would be like saying a final farewell to her father…? No, she wouldn’t think about that.

More likely, she thought, it was because habit and inertia suggested that staying in a job she’d grown used to was less risky than venturing out into the world to chase a wild dream. But if the price was good enough…

“How much are you offering?” she countered.

“I’m not.”

Melanie was annoyed that she’d let herself consider the possibility, even briefly. There was nothing to be gained by yearning over aspirations which were long gone. “Then what’s the point in having this conversation?” She glanced at the old-fashioned clock mounted high on the wall. “I have work to do, Wyatt. I’ll see you in a month.”

He frowned. “A month?”

“To settle up,” she said impatiently. “Jackson and I have—had—a pretty straightforward agreement. Once a month, I pay the bills and write the employees’ checks. Then I take whatever’s left and split it, half to each owner. Since he just picked up his check last night, the next one’s not due for thirty days.”

Wyatt was looking at her as if she’d snatched his brand-new wad of bubble gum.

“I see he also didn’t tell you that he’d already collected this month’s dividend.” Melanie shook her head, feigning sadness. “You really don’t know Jackson as well as you thought, do you?” The phone rang again and she reached for it. “When you leave, close the door behind you, please.”

It was past noon when Melanie came out of her office, looking for coffee and an aspirin. She had to squeeze past the jutting tail-fin of a red Cadillac, and she wondered how on earth Robbie had managed to maneuver the car into a showroom that was approximately six inches wider than the car itself was. She was mildly relieved that she hadn’t been there to watch.

The coffeepot was gone. The machine was still there, but the carafe to hold the brewed coffee had disappeared.

She growled and headed for the shop to raid the first-aid kit and the soda machine. But when she opened the door between showroom and shop, the mingled scents of engine exhaust, motor oil, and pepperoni almost knocked her over.

Three bays down, Robbie’s guys had spread pizza boxes across the hood of an old Nash and pulled up stools, ladders, and odd parts to serve as chairs. Robbie’s guys—and Wyatt. He was sitting atop a barrel which had once held clean rags, pouring coffee from the missing carafe.

“What are you doing out here?” Melanie demanded.

“Having lunch,” Wyatt said. “We’d have invited you, but you said you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You know perfectly well I’m not asking about the pizza. Why are you still here?”

“I’m getting acquainted with the employees. Finding out about the business. Waiting for your lawyer to call back and tell you that you can’t throw me out or void Jackson’s deal.”

“How did you—” She stopped herself, but it took a mighty effort.

“So you did try,” Wyatt said.

Melanie decided not to dignify that with a comment. “I said I’d see you next month.”

“That may have been the agreement you had with Jackson, but I don’t happen to be the silent partner type.”

“I’m getting the picture.”

Robbie cleared his throat. “Time to get back to work, guys.”

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt the male bonding process.” Melanie opened the wall-mounted first-aid kit and tore open a packet of aspirin. “If you can spare a cup of coffee, though…”

Wyatt filled a paper cup and handed it to her.

Melanie stared doubtfully at the cup. “You’re sure this is coffee? It looks like ink.” She took a tentative sip and winced.

“If that’s all you’re having for lunch, no wonder you’re so hard to deal with.”

“I am not hard to deal—”

“Let’s talk about it in private.” Wyatt picked up one of the cardboard rounds from a pizza box and chose three slices from the various leftovers.

One of the guys whispered to another, “A buck says he talks her around.”

Robbie glared at him. “No betting on the premises, Karl.”

Melanie led the way back to the office. Scruff sat up in his basket and begged, and Wyatt pulled a scrap of ground beef off the pizza and tossed it to him. He set the makeshift plate on her blotter and perched on the corner of the desk.

Melanie walked around behind it and claimed her chair. She’d better, she figured, or he’d have his name engraved in the back before sundown. “I’m amazed you’re still here. Surely you have other interests which require your attention.”

“Not today. Now that you’ve had some time to think about it, Melanie…”

“What’s to think about? It appears I’m stuck with you.” She sat down. “You’re right about the attorney, by the way. He read me a lecture about not getting a partnership contract drawn up a long time ago, but since Jackson and I have never agreed to any specifics about how to split up the business, he’s perfectly free to sell his half to the first chump who comes along. Sorry—I meant, he’s free to sell it to anybody he chooses.”

“Thank you for telling me that.”

“Why?” Melanie asked dryly. “Because it saved you the trouble of paying your own lawyer?”

“You could have strung me along.”

“Would it have done me any good to try?” She picked a piece of pepperoni off the pizza and munched it absently.

“None at all. But your being honest makes things a little easier. Look, Melanie, this is the way it shapes up. You don’t want me as a partner, but you can’t afford to buy me out.”

“That’s about the size of it. And you don’t want me as a partner—”

“And I don’t want to buy you out. Which leaves both of us in a pickle.”

She fiddled with a strand of cheese. “Are you summarizing for the fun of wallowing in pain, or do you have a plan for what we can do about it?”

Wyatt looked down at her, his eyes almost hooded. “We look for another buyer—and sell the whole thing.”

“Easier to say than to do. Have you got any idea how long Jackson’s been trying to sell out? Besides, I never told you I wanted to sell.”

“Not in so many words, no,” he agreed. “And of course I can’t force you to. But the alternative is that you keep your share and I look for a buyer for my half.”

Melanie shrugged. “Go ahead. I don’t see that I’d be any worse off.”

“Are you certain of that? You just pointed out yourself that without a signed agreement on how to handle a breakup, there’s nothing preventing me from selling it to the first—how did you put it? Oh, yes—the first chump who comes along.”

Melanie shook her head. “Nobody’s going to buy it unless they’re interested in old cars. Well, it’s true you did, but even you have to admit you’re not the average guy running around acquiring businesses.”

“I wondered if you’d think of that. Your next partner might actually be the hands-on type.”

“And even more trouble to have around than you are? That’s hard to believe.” He was right, however, and Melanie knew it. She’d thought Jackson was the world’s worst partner because he hadn’t been involved in the business. Now she was feeling nostalgic for the good old days. “Anyway, your chump will need to have half a million dollars to spend, too. The combination cuts the field down quite remarkably, I’d say.”

“I never told you what I paid for my share. And I never said what I’d sell it for.”

Melanie bit her lip.

“If I don’t find a buyer soon,” Wyatt went on, “I might even cut my losses entirely and give my share to the state prison system.”

She couldn’t stop herself. “What?”

He shrugged. “It’s a natural. Some of those guys are already experienced at stripping cars down for parts. Of course they’d have to get used to the idea of buying the cars first, but I feel sure that you—as their partner—could persuade them to adjust.”

She shivered. Which was silly, of course—he was only goading her to make his point.

At least, she hoped that was all he was doing.

Suddenly the room seemed stifling. She pushed back her chair, and Scruffy sat up in his basket and whined softly, the way he always did when he needed to go out. Good old Scruff comes through again. “I’m going to go walk the dog,” she said.

“Great,” Wyatt said genially. “You think about it and let me know. I’ll be right here, getting up to speed on the business end of things. Which file drawer do you keep your records in?”

The bottom line was better than Wyatt had expected, though of course it was nothing which would excite a tycoon. And the cash flow was respectable, though there were times when the checkbook reflected a bank balance so low it would have kept Rip van Winkle awake at night.

He wondered if Melanie tossed and turned sometimes, worried about the business. He was dead certain Jackson hadn’t.

The books were neat and clear and precise. Every part she’d ever sold—to a walk-in customer or at auction on the Internet—was documented. Every car that she had handled had its own code and its own file. Every piece which had been added to it and every hour’s work were annotated, and with a glance Wyatt could tell precisely how much each job had cost and how much it had brought in. She didn’t make a lot on any given car, but as far as he could see, she’d had only a couple that had been unprofitable. And they’d been early on—she learned from her mistakes.

But she hadn’t been stretching the truth when she’d said she couldn’t afford to buy him out. The wonder was that she’d managed to keep going, and keep growing the business, even with Jackson pulling his share of the profits out month after month.

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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