The Takeover Bid

“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—”

Erika turned to stare at Wyatt. “Partner? You’re a partner in this operation? You’ve actually got money in it?” She smiled. “No wonder you said you didn’t exactly work here. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s not what it looks like, since you’re involved, Wyatt.”

Wyatt said, “I’m sure we could do something, partner—since it’s for such a good cause.”

Melanie glared at him. “And what do you have in mind—partner?”

“How about the Model T the guys are working on?”

Melanie gasped. “That’s sold. You can’t just give it away.”

“How about giving it away for an evening?”

“If a musty old rattletrap is the best you can do—” Erika turned up her nose.

“I mean the use of a genuine antique car, restored to perfection, for an evening. If not the Model T, then perhaps this Cadillac.” He patted the fender.

“Are you out of your mind?” Melanie’s voice was low and almost hoarse. “Loaning out a car? I don’t even let people test-drive these things without someone riding along. You can’t take the chance of putting this car into the hands of a hot-rodder. It’ll do a hundred and thirty on a straightaway—”

Wyatt cut across her. “A chauffeured antique car for an evening. And we’ll throw in…let’s say…dinner at Felicity’s.”

Melanie was sputtering. Between the red hair and the sparks she was putting off, she looked like a firecracker that was about to explode.

“We’ll get back to you with the details, Erika,” Wyatt said. “But in the meantime—you can count on us for dinner for two at Felicity’s, with chauffeur service.”

Erika smiled at him. “Make it a really nice car,” she murmured, “and I’ll bid on the package myself.”

She drifted out, and a couple of minutes later the Mercedes spun gravel in the parking lot.

Wyatt leaned against the Cadillac’s fender, folded his arms across his chest, and waited.

“Well, it’s obvious those leather pants of hers got to you,” Melanie said.

“What? Oh, come on. It’s a good cause.”

“Maybe. But dinner at Felicity’s? I thought you were going to look over the books. Surely you realize there is no money anywhere in the budget for dinner at Felicity’s.”

“I’ll toss it in as my contribution to the cause.”

“But why?”

“Just think of the attention it’ll get when one of our cars pulls up in front of Felicity’s. It’ll cause quite a buzz. In fact, we should make a point of regularly getting the cars off the lot and out where they can be seen.”

“I do,” Melanie said. “I drive a different one every day.”

“Where?” he asked shrewdly. “Back and forth to work? To the grocery store and the dry cleaner’s?”

He’d got her, and it was clear that she knew it. “Not the dry cleaner’s,” she admitted, “because if a piece of clothing isn’t washable, I don’t buy it. Fine—it’s your idea, you take care of it. Just think hard about which car you choose. Since Erika doesn’t seem to be enthusiastic about vintage Cadillacs, you might try one of the Corvettes. Be careful, though—the transmissions can be tricky on those if you’re not used to a stick shift.”

“Oh, I’m not going to be driving it.”