Leigh Michaels - The Takeover Bid

She shivered. Which was silly, of course—he was only goading her to make his point.

At least, she hoped that was all he was doing.

Suddenly the room seemed stifling. She pushed back her chair, and Scruffy sat up in his basket and whined softly, the way he always did when he needed to go out. Good old Scruff comes through again. “I’m going to go walk the dog,” she said.

“Great,” Wyatt said genially. “You think about it and let me know. I’ll be right here, getting up to speed on the business end of things. Which file drawer do you keep your records in?”

The bottom line was better than Wyatt had expected, though of course it was nothing which would excite a tycoon. And the cash flow was respectable, though there were times when the checkbook reflected a bank balance so low it would have kept Rip van Winkle awake at night.

He wondered if Melanie tossed and turned sometimes, worried about the business. He was dead certain Jackson hadn’t.

The books were neat and clear and precise. Every part she’d ever sold—to a walk-in customer or at auction on the Internet—was documented. Every car that she had handled had its own code and its own file. Every piece which had been added to it and every hour’s work were annotated, and with a glance Wyatt could tell precisely how much each job had cost and how much it had brought in. She didn’t make a lot on any given car, but as far as he could see, she’d had only a couple that had been unprofitable. And they’d been early on—she learned from her mistakes.

But she hadn’t been stretching the truth when she’d said she couldn’t afford to buy him out. The wonder was that she’d managed to keep going, and keep growing the business, even with Jackson pulling his share of the profits out month after month.

Wyatt found himself puzzling not over the books, but the bookkeeper. The records she kept looked like a labor of love. They were meticulous, painstakingly complete. Yet when he’d asked if she wanted to sell, Wyatt had thought for a minute that she was going to leap at the chance.

He slapped the ledger closed. It was none of his concern whether she wanted to sell or not. And it was even more certain that he didn’t care why.

He figured there were only three things she could do: Be sensible enough to throw in with him and sell the whole thing. Or be halfway sensible and not get in his way while he sold his share. Or lose her mind entirely and try to sabotage the sale.

It would be interesting to see which way she jumped.

He put the books away, glanced at his Rolex, and went out to the showroom to get another cup of coffee. Where had Melanie disappeared to, anyway? Was she walking the dog all the way to Oklahoma?

He inched his way around the end of the Cadillac and stopped dead. A woman was standing near the door to the parking lot, her back turned to the room as if she was uncertain whether to stay or leave. She was young, she was very blond, and she was dressed in the tightest black leather pants he’d ever seen.

We need a buzzer on that door, he thought.

The woman’s head was tipped to one side as she surveyed the bulletin board between the entrance and the office. It was full of photos of twenty, thirty, and forty-year-old cars, tacked up almost at random, and she was looking at the board as if she didn’t believe what she was seeing.

She glanced over her shoulder and said, “It’s about time someone showed up.”

Lucky me. “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t hear you come in.”

She turned around then, her eyes wide as she soaked in the sight of him. “Do you work here?” She sounded astonished.

Wyatt stifled a sigh. “Not exactly. But I’ll try to help.”

She smiled and tossed her long hair. “I was looking for Melanie Stafford—but believe me, you’ll do nicely instead. I’m Erika Winchester.” She held out her hand.

“Wyatt Reynolds. Melanie will be back soon. She’s just out walking her mop. I mean, her dog.”

“I see.” Erika’s eyes narrowed. “The Wyatt Reynolds?”

A movement outside the front window caught Wyatt’s eye. “Here comes Melanie now. That’s a piece of luck.” Especially for me.

The door burst open and Melanie came in on a swirl of wind. Her hair had come down out of its bun and was curling exuberantly around her shoulders. Her cheeks were pink, as was the tip of her nose, and her eyes were bright. She bent to release the dog’s leash. “I hope you’re not going to tell me that the black Mercedes out front is now a part of the inventory, because—” She stood up, caught sight of the woman, and broke off. “Erika?” She sounded almost as if the name had been forced out of her.

With obvious reluctance, Erika took her gaze off Wyatt. “Hello, Melanie. It’s been a long time.”

“A while, yes. What brings you all the way out here?”

Erika wrinkled her nose. “Now that you mention it, you are rather in the sticks, aren’t you? I had no idea there were still little twisty highways like this one anywhere near Kansas City.”

“Oh, we have all sorts of hidden treasures on this side of town.”

Erika’s gaze drifted back to the bulletin board, and then slid on to the Cadillac. “Whatever happened to all of your plans? The alumni office told me you were in the used-car business, but I didn’t realize they meant such very used cars.”

The rest of Melanie’s face went as pink as her wind-reddened cheeks. Wyatt couldn’t help seeing it. Unfortunately, he noted, Erika hadn’t missed it either. Her eyes widened just a little.

And they say women are the gentle sex. “It’s more like recycling,” Wyatt said gravely. “You see—”

Melanie wheeled around to face him. “Thanks, Wyatt. But I don’t think we need an explanation right now.”

I was only trying to help, he wanted to say. But it was fine with him if she didn’t want a hand. She was probably right anyway. Reynolds, you have got to stop letting your Don Quixote impulses get the best of you.

“So what can I do for you, Erika? Obviously you’re not shopping for a car, if you’re driving that black Mercedes.”

Erika laughed. “No, of course not. Actually I’m not at all sure…” She started over with determination in her tone. “I’m working with the girls in the sorority house this year. Their project is raising money for the victims of domestic violence, and they’ve set up a charity auction for next week.”

“So you’re asking for donations?”

“Yes. Merchandise, services, vacation packages—of course, I thought of you and I knew if there was any way you could help, you would. It is your old sorority too, after all, even if you were only there for a couple of years.” She turned back to Wyatt. “Tell me, is Melanie still a grind like she was in college? Always with her nose in the books. Biology and chemistry and…” She shivered. “Of course the rest of us all appreciated her, because she singlehandedly pulled up the house grade point average.”

Interesting, Wyatt thought.

Erika looked around again, and put a hand out tentatively to brush the fender of the Cadillac as if wondering whether it could be real. “Honestly, it feels like a time warp in here.”

“Thank you,” Melanie said gently. “That’s what we try to do—make every car look and drive as well as when it was brand-new.”

Erika looked puzzled, then she shook her head and smiled. “Right. Anyway, that’s why we’re asking for donations. Though I’m not quite sure if you have anything…Well, perhaps you’ll think of an idea.”

The mop, who’d been sniffing the Cadillac’s tires, stiffened and growled.

“Sit,” Wyatt ordered him.

To his surprise, the dog sat.

“Well, I can’t exactly donate a car without consulting my partner,” Melanie said. “Let us talk about it and I’ll get back to you. If you leave a number when I can reach you, Erika—”