Leigh Michaels - The Takeover Bid

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.