The Takeover Bid. Leigh Michaels

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