Leigh Michaels - The Takeover Bid

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.

Wyatt lounged into the seat across from her, planted his elbows on the wooden arms of the chair, tented his fingers under his chin, and waited.

She moved a chunk of stone out of the way. “I gather, from what you said out there, that you think you’ve bought Jackson out.”

I think I’ve bought him out? You wish I was only thinking, lady. But he had nothing to lose but a little time. Let her talk. Let her fool herself, if she wanted.

Let her think she’s in charge.

Of course, it was none of her business how the change of ownership had happened. “In a manner of speaking,” he said.

She nodded. “Do you know him well?”

What was with the sudden chattiness? He might as well warn her that a feeble effort at charm wasn’t going to get her anywhere. Not after the fireworks she’d already displayed. But why make it easy on her? It might be amusing to watch her attempt to beguile. “A few months, I suppose.”

“I see. How much did you pay him?”

Wyatt lifted his eyebrows. “I don’t see why that would be any of your business, Ms. Stafford.”

“Oh, I assure you it isn’t just idle curiosity—though I must admit to feeling some. The last time he mentioned a figure to me, he wanted half a million dollars.”

“That’s very interesting. You sound as if you think your…um…car business isn’t worth that much.”

She smiled.

Wyatt could smell danger. She looked as if she was having a good time. This was not going quite as he’d planned.

“No, I don’t,” she said. “In fact, I think that price is pretty steep—for his half.”

Half? The bonehead had never bothered to mention that he only owned half of the business. And that surprises you, Reynolds?

Or was it Mel Stafford who was pulling a con, trying to convince Wyatt to give up and go away?

He must have looked suspicious, but she drew herself up squarely. “I have all the paperwork to prove that Jackson’s a half owner.”

Now he was really leery. “Right. It’s here somewhere. And I’m sure you’ll be happy to dig it out and show it to me someday—when you have enough time. Probably around the turn of the next century. Come on, Ms. Stafford, stop trying to run a bluff on me.”

“I assure you, it’s no bluff. Jackson’s father was a small-town mechanic. How he ended up owning half a junkyard, I’m not quite sure—”

Wyatt didn’t think his expression had changed an iota, but she paused and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Oh, yes,” she admitted, “your assessment was quite right. It does resemble a junkyard, because it used to be one. It’s only in the last couple of years that it’s taken on a new role.”

“And become some kind of gold mine.”

She frowned. “More like opals, I’d say. We shovel tons and tons of debris to find one small jewel.”

The woman sounded absolutely serious. But she couldn’t be for real. Could she?

“At any rate,” she went on, “Jackson’s father ran the junkyard for years, stripping and selling parts now and then, but mostly just piling up more and more odd bits of vehicles. Where he got them all, I have no idea. When he died a couple of years ago and Jackson inherited, he wasn’t too wild about the idea of being a junk man, so he immediately started talking about selling out.”

“For half a million dollars.”

“That was the price he named, yes. Of course, nobody’s been crazy enough to actually pay him that much.” Her eyes were very wide, very innocent, very green. “Until now.”

And for your information, lady, nobody’s been that crazy yet. But if she hoped a fishing expedition was going to get her the information she wanted, she’d have to improve the caliber of the bait, because Wyatt wasn’t biting. “So if Jackson’s dear old dad only owned half, who had the rest?”

“My father,” she said. “Who left his share to me.”

Wyatt knew he should have seen it coming. He should have known from the very beginning that getting involved with Jackson was like playing chicken with a diesel locomotive—somebody was bound to get hurt. He just hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize it could be him who ended up pasted to the rails.

She looked up dreamily at the ceiling. “So now that you know the whole story, I’m sure you’ll want to hunt up Jackson and bail out of your agreement. Remember? I did tell you that you’d regret letting him leave this morning.”

“I’m not going to hunt him down.” His voice felt as flat as it sounded.

“But—” He saw consternation flare in her eyes. “But since he didn’t exactly tell you the whole story—”

“No, he didn’t,” Wyatt said grimly.

“Then that’s fraud.”

“Probably so.”

“And that means the deal’s off. If you didn’t understand what you were buying, then he can’t hold you to the agreement.”

“Unfortunately,” Wyatt said, “it wasn’t that sort of agreement. So the bottom line, Ms. Stafford, is that you’ve got yourself a new partner.”

For the first time since he’d walked into the office, he felt the stir of satisfaction—because Mel Stafford’s face looked even greener than Jackson’s had.

PARTNER?

For a few seconds, Melanie was afraid she’d forgotten how to breathe—because when she tried it was like inhaling icicles. Take it slowly, she told herself. A little bit of air at a time.

The entire situation was perfectly clear—at least to her—and the appropriate response was obvious. But apparently the man sitting across the desk from her didn’t see it the same way, or he wouldn’t have blithely announced that he was going to be her new partner.

How on earth, she wondered, could anyone have actually agreed to buy a business without realizing that he was purchasing only half of it? Without checking things like a balance sheet or a profit-and-loss statement?

And even if for some incredible reason the deal had gotten that far, then why hadn’t he gone storming out of the office to find Jackson and get his money back the instant he’d found out that he’d been taken for a ride?

Melanie had been absolutely certain of her ground. As soon as the Baritsa man had announced that he was the new boss, she’d known exactly what had happened. What must have happened.

So all she had to do, she’d thought, was to straighten out this flaw in his thinking. Once she had corrected his mistaken impression that he’d bought the entire business, the rest would take care of itself.

Or, rather, he would take care of it. Exactly how he chose to clear up the mess was none of her business. If he chose to settle matters with Jackson by beating him to a pulp, that would be too bad for Jackson, of course. But if Jackson was idiot enough to mislead a prospective buyer, he deserved whatever he got. It wasn’t up to Melanie to interfere.

But now it seemed that the prospective buyer wasn’t even going to try to straighten out the mess.

It wasn’t that sort of agreement, he’d said. You’ve got a new partner.

Which made no sense at all. Why would he sit still for being taken like that?

Of course, it was becoming increasingly clear to Melanie that Jackson hadn’t been the only fool involved in the deal. Agreeing to buy a business without even knowing for sure what kind of merchandise it carried, without looking over the stock, without checking out the bottom line to be certain the seller was telling the truth—