The Takeover Bid. Leigh Michaels

      CHAPTER ONE

      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