The Takeover Bid. Leigh Michaels

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