Leigh Michaels - The Takeover Bid

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 product, then you may as well stop wasting everyone’s time and go away.”

The man didn’t seem to hear her. “Mel Stafford,” Wyatt 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.”

Leigh Michaels has always been a writer, composing dreadful poetry when she was just four years old and dictating it to her long-suffering older sister. She started writing romance in her teens and burned six full manuscripts before submitting her work to a publisher. Now, with more than 70 novels to her credit, she also teaches romance writing seminars at universities, writers’ conferences and on the Internet. Leigh loves to hear from readers. You may contact her at P.O. Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa 52501, U.S.A., or visit her Web site: leigh@leighmichaels.com

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3720—BRIDE BY DESIGN

3731—MAYBE MARRIED

3748—THE MARRIAGE MARKET

3759—THE BILLIONAIRE BID

3772—THE BRIDE ASSIGNMENT

3783—PART-TIME FIANCÉ

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

THE wind was strong, even for April, and the walls and roof of the metal building creaked a mild protest with every gust. Melanie knew perfectly well that it was not nearly as cold outside as it sounded. Still, she thought, the whine of the wind was enough to make Santa Claus shiver. As if in echo, the lop-eared dog at her feet whimpered in his sleep.

She heard the bang of the door between the shop and the office. Melanie turned away from the computer screen and glanced up at the big old-fashioned clock on the office wall as one of the workmen came in, wiping his hands on an already-greasy rag. The dog raised his head inquisitively and then, seeing the workman, put it back down on his front paws.

Melanie pushed her chair back. “I didn’t know you were still here, Robbie.”

“I stayed to put another coat of wax on Mr. Stover’s Buick,” he said. “It just didn’t look quite shiny enough.”

Melanie smiled. “I appreciate that you take care of the cars we work on as if you own them yourself. And he’ll appreciate it when he picks it up tomorrow.”

He shrugged. “We want the customer to be happy. When he’s paying as much as Mr. Stover did to restore a ‘70 Buick, an extra coat of wax is nothing. Want to come and see it?”

She’d seen the car that afternoon. She’d seen it every day for the last month, as a matter of fact, watching every step of the restoration. But the gleam in Robbie’s eyes and the note of pride in his voice told her it would be cruel not to go and admire his work.

She followed him back to the shop, the dog trailing behind. Robbie tossed the rag into a pile and picked up what looked like an equally-greasy one from a nearby bin.

“I’m never sure whether you guys are taking grease off your fingers or putting it on,” Melanie said. Then she looked past him at the car sitting in the nearest bay of the shop, its baby blue paint and snowy white convertible top gleaming quietly under the harsh work lights. Souvenir of another age, it looked as long as an ocean liner by modern standards. “It’s a beauty.”

“Yeah.” Robbie’s voice was almost reverent. He brushed the back of his hand across the fender. “Quite a little different from when you found her sitting out in the back of the yard.”

Melanie didn’t have to think hard to remember what the Buick had looked like. “Buried under a pile of rusty fenders, with a mouse condo in the back seat and an engine that hadn’t seen oil in twenty years—yes, it’s a little different now.”

“She runs like a dream. Want me to start her up?”

He’d love to have the excuse, Melanie knew. “Let’s wait till morning and you can move it into the showroom so Mr. Stover will get the full effect.”

The dog wheeled toward the door leading into the office, then bristled, growled, and started to bark.

Robbie frowned. “It’s a little late for customers, and the door should be locked anyway.”

“That’ll be Jackson. He’s got a key. Knock it off, Scruff.” The dog stopped barking, but a soft growl lingered deep in his throat. Melanie pushed the door open and called, “I’m out in the shop.”

A young man came out of her office, his camel-hair topcoat swinging open to reveal a black tuxedo. His white-blond hair was styled with such perfection that Melanie wondered how it was possible the wind hadn’t ruffled it. Had he stopped to comb it the moment he came in, or was it actually sprayed into place?

He sounded almost grumpy. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten and gone home.”

“Oh, I couldn’t forget your once-a-month visit any more than you would,” Melanie said dryly.

Jackson’s gaze fell on Robbie. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

The tone of his voice obviously wasn’t lost on Robbie, for his face turned red. “Want me to stay, Melanie?”

“No, Angie will be waiting for you.” He went out, and Melanie said gently, “As a matter of fact, Jackson, you are interrupting. I was inspecting our latest project. Robbie just finished working on it.” She walked slowly around the car, noting the finish on the chrome trim and the way light reflected from the paint. Robbie had been right about the effect of that last coat of wax. She’d have to remember to compliment him in the morning.

Jackson looked at the Buick. “Why anyone would pay good money for that…”

“That’s the customer’s choice, and don’t expect me to believe that it bothers you to spend your share. You look very fine tonight, Jackson. And on a Thursday, too…Is it just dinner tonight, or the theater?”

Jackson raised his eyebrows in a well-practiced gesture. “It’s never just dinner when you go to the Century Club.”

Melanie wondered sometimes whether Jackson lightened his hair or darkened his eyebrows; the combination was so improbable that she was sure it had to be one or the other. “Of course. Well, you can’t expect me to know, since I’ve never been there.”

“If you’re hinting for an invitation, Mel—”

“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Jackson laughed. “Well, that’s no doubt true. I’d love to stay and chat, but Jennifer’s waiting for me to pick her up.”

He hadn’t needed to clarify that the no-doubt elegant Jennifer wasn’t waiting outside in his car, because he’d never brought her to the shop. Melanie wondered sometimes if he’d ever told his most-recent girlfriend where he got his money.

“So if you’ve got my check ready—”

“It’s in my desk.” She led the way, turning off the shop lights as she went.

Jackson eyed the figures on the check. “Not much this month. How do you live on this kind of money?”

“I don’t,” Melanie pointed out. “That’s your share of the profits of the partnership for the month. But in addition to my share, I also draw a salary for working here.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Exactly what isn’t fair about it? If we hired a manager, we’d pay him and then split what was left. I’m the manager, so I get paid. If you don’t like the bottom line, you can start working for the business too.”