The Takeover Bid. Leigh Michaels

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ