The Takeover Bid

“But the two of you must have talked about it, because you had a figure in mind.”

“Lucky you,” Melanie said dryly, “to get there first and beat me out.”

“I could be persuaded to sell, you know.”

“I just bet you could—Bub.”

“Wyatt Reynolds,” he said, almost absently. “In fact, I’d like to sell.”

“No fooling. And I’m sure all you want out of the deal is a teeny-weeny little bit more than you paid.”

“I am a businessman, Melanie.”

“If you say so—though if you regularly go around buying things sight unseen, I have my doubts about your judgment. Of course,” she conceded, “even a few thousand would be a tidy little profit, considering you’ve owned it for just about twelve hours. I wonder what the interest rate would add up to on that investment.”

“Would you care to talk about a price?”

Melanie looked him over thoughtfully. “Only if you’d be willing to buy my half at the price you’re asking for yours.”

“No, thanks.”

“That’s what I thought.” Something was nagging at the back of Melanie’s mind. “Reynolds—Do you mean as in the Reynolds family?”

“That was my father’s name, yes,” he said dryly.

“You know perfectly well I’m talking about the Reynolds family that started off with a mill on the banks of the Missouri River, selling flour to pioneers heading west in covered wagons, and ended up with a wheat empire that stretched all the way across Kansas.”

“You know your local history.”

“Seriously? You’re part of that family tree?”

“A twig,” he admitted.

“A good-size twig if you can afford to go around buying things without paying any attention to what you’re getting. So what’s the problem? You thought you’d bought the whole business last night. Why not finish the job and buy my half now?”

“You seriously want to sell it?”

Melanie started to nod, and then paused. Did she want to sell out?

It wasn’t as if it had been her childhood dream to be in the old-car business. It had just happened, almost accidentally. She’d taken the lemon that life had handed her and tried not to dwell on the fact that she’d never liked the taste of lemonade.

But now that the possibility of getting out of the business was actually dangling over her head, she was hesitating, and she didn’t know why.

It wasn’t because she loved her job—though she had to admit she didn’t hate it anymore, either. At first, she had had to square her shoulders and grit her teeth every morning, and push herself with physical labor through the day so she’d be tired enough to sleep at night. But as the months and then the years went by, a weed-infested old junkyard had morphed into a moderately-successful broker of classic cars. And somewhere along the line, Melanie must have changed, too, or she’d be leaping at the bait Wyatt Reynolds was dangling.

Was she hesitating because she’d gotten to like the challenges of being in business? Or because selling would be like saying a final farewell to her father…? No, she wouldn’t think about that.

More likely, she thought, it was because habit and inertia suggested that staying in a job she’d grown used to was less risky than venturing out into the world to chase a wild dream. But if the price was good enough…

“How much are you offering?” she countered.

“I’m not.”

Melanie was annoyed that she’d let herself consider the possibility, even briefly. There was nothing to be gained by yearning over aspirations which were long gone. “Then what’s the point in having this conversation?” She glanced at the old-fashioned clock mounted high on the wall. “I have work to do, Wyatt. I’ll see you in a month.”

He frowned. “A month?”

“To settle up,” she said impatiently. “Jackson and I have—had—a pretty straightforward agreement. Once a month, I pay the bills and write the employees’ checks. Then I take whatever’s left and split it, half to each owner. Since he just picked up his check last night, the next one’s not due for thirty days.”

Wyatt was looking at her as if she’d snatched his brand-new wad of bubble gum.

“I see he also didn’t tell you that he’d already collected this month’s dividend.” Melanie shook her head, feigning sadness. “You really don’t know Jackson as well as you thought, do you?” The phone rang again and she reached for it. “When you leave, close the door behind you, please.”

It was past noon when Melanie came out of her office, looking for coffee and an aspirin. She had to squeeze past the jutting tail-fin of a red Cadillac, and she wondered how on earth Robbie had managed to maneuver the car into a showroom that was approximately six inches wider than the car itself was. She was mildly relieved that she hadn’t been there to watch.

The coffeepot was gone. The machine was still there, but the carafe to hold the brewed coffee had disappeared.

She growled and headed for the shop to raid the first-aid kit and the soda machine. But when she opened the door between showroom and shop, the mingled scents of engine exhaust, motor oil, and pepperoni almost knocked her over.

Three bays down, Robbie’s guys had spread pizza boxes across the hood of an old Nash and pulled up stools, ladders, and odd parts to serve as chairs. Robbie’s guys—and Wyatt. He was sitting atop a barrel which had once held clean rags, pouring coffee from the missing carafe.

“What are you doing out here?” Melanie demanded.

“Having lunch,” Wyatt said. “We’d have invited you, but you said you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“You know perfectly well I’m not asking about the pizza. Why are you still here?”

“I’m getting acquainted with the employees. Finding out about the business. Waiting for your lawyer to call back and tell you that you can’t throw me out or void Jackson’s deal.”

“How did you—” She stopped herself, but it took a mighty effort.

“So you did try,” Wyatt said.

Melanie decided not to dignify that with a comment. “I said I’d see you next month.”

“That may have been the agreement you had with Jackson, but I don’t happen to be the silent partner type.”

“I’m getting the picture.”

Robbie cleared his throat. “Time to get back to work, guys.”

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt the male bonding process.” Melanie opened the wall-mounted first-aid kit and tore open a packet of aspirin. “If you can spare a cup of coffee, though…”

Wyatt filled a paper cup and handed it to her.

Melanie stared doubtfully at the cup. “You’re sure this is coffee? It looks like ink.” She took a tentative sip and winced.

“If that’s all you’re having for lunch, no wonder you’re so hard to deal with.”