Leigh Michaels - The Takeover Bid

“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.