The Takeover Bid

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

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.