he wants to buy it from you.”
“He can try,” Mr. Stover said, and grinned.
Melanie ushered him into her office, handed him the car’s papers, and went back to the showroom to get him a cup of coffee while he looked over the invoice.
The coffee machine was just finishing its cycle. She waited till it was done, poured two cups, and gathered up sugar and cream. The outside door opened, and she felt a flicker of excitement as she looked up. It was perfectly silly, of course, to get all breathless over a prospective customer, no matter what kind of car he drove. Still—a Baritsa…
But the man who came in was Jackson.
She could hardly believe her eyes. Jackson, dropping in on a Friday when he’d picked up his monthly check just the night before? Stopping by in daylight, when someone might actually see him there?
And since when did Jackson drive a Baritsa?
He probably borrowed it from Jennifer, she thought. I wonder what she’d think about him using it to go slumming.
“Mel,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”
“Not right now, Jackson. Customers first, you know—and I have one in my office waiting to write a check. A big check.”
“It won’t take long. I just need to tell you I’ve come for—”
She shook her head and walked past him, closing the office door firmly behind her.
Fifteen minutes later, she weighted Mr. Stover’s check to her desk with a chunk of Missouri limestone and walked him through the showroom to the parking lot, watching with satisfaction as the Buick pulled out into traffic. The Baritsa was still there, she noted, but Jackson was nowhere to be seen.
As she went back inside, a muffled commotion from the shop drew her attention, and she walked across to open the door. “What’s going on out here? Is somebody hurt?”
“Not yet.” Robbie sounded grim.
“Then what’s all the ruckus?” Melanie folded her arms across her chest and surveyed the group. Robbie, two of her other workmen, and Jackson had formed a sort of huddle in the empty bay where the Buick had sat till this morning. So this was where Jackson had gone.
Odd, she thought. He never went into the shop unless he had to, and then he’d hover by the door, obviously anxious not to touch anything—as if he was phobic about grease.
Robbie glared at Jackson. “He’s trying to steal a bunch of tools.”
“Steal!” Jackson sputtered. “That’s slander! They were my father’s tools, and now they’re mine. I’m just taking what’s mine.”
Melanie stepped forward. “Wait a minute. Why do you even want them?”
“Good question,” one of the workmen muttered. “He wouldn’t know what to do with them, that’s for sure.”
“And in any case,” Melanie went on, “they weren’t your father’s personal property, they belong to the business. Which you own half of anyway, so why you’re making a fuss about tools—”
The shop door opened behind her and she turned to face the newcomer. “I’ll be right with—” Her standard smile of greeting froze on her face.
The man in the doorway was tall and broad-shouldered, with midnight-black hair and eyes that looked almost silver when he pulled off his sunglasses. His features were too craggy to be considered hand-some—he’d be no competition for Jackson in a Greek-god contest. And yet there was something compelling about his face, something that wouldn’t let her look away. Where Jackson was conventionally good-looking, this man was interesting. And in thirty years, when Jackson’s good looks were long gone, this man would still be worth looking at…
Whoa, she told herself. She swallowed hard and started over. “I’ll be right with you.”
“I’ll wait.” His voice matched his eyes, smooth and polished as sterling silver. “I’m in no hurry.”
“I’m sorry,” Melanie said with genuine regret, “but our insurance company doesn’t allow customers to be in the shop area because of the potential for injuries. If you’ll step back into the showroom for a moment—”
“I’m not a customer.”
Pieces clicked together in Melanie’s mind. It wasn’t Jackson who’d been driving the Baritsa, as she’d assumed. It was this man who had been behind the wheel.
Just my luck that he’s not a customer.
His gaze had slid past her to the group of men. “I’m looking for Mel Stafford.”
Melanie took a step forward. “You found her.”
He looked startled. “Her?” He stared at Melanie.
That was another thing she’d gotten used to, Melanie reflected. People didn’t expect a woman to be selling collectible cars. Keeping the books, maybe—but not running the business.
At least she’d thought she was used to that reaction—and there was certainly no reason to be irritated because this man had made the standard assumption. If he thought it would make a difference when it came to a deal, he’d find out soon enough that he was wrong.
But he’s not a customer, Melanie reminded herself. So what is he? “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”
He didn’t answer. His gaze was roaming over the building as if taking inventory of the eight bays, from the almost-finished Model T Ford right behind the group of workmen to the shell of a Mustang in the farthest corner.
“Jackson,” he said, “I thought you told me this business deals in classic cars.”
So maybe she hadn’t been altogether wrong after all. Maybe Jackson had actually taken seriously what she’d said about promoting the business. Not that he seemed to have been very selective about who he talked to.
Jackson looked out from behind Robbie’s shoulder. “Well, it does. Sort of.”
“It’s not what I’d call the Lamborghini capital of the world.”
“I never said—”
“In fact, it looks more like a junkyard.”
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 products, then you may as well stop wasting everyone’s time and go away.”
She heard Robbie gasp, and she had to admit that she was almost as surprised as he obviously was. She’d certainly never thrown out a customer before. Or a non-customer, for that matter.
The man didn’t seem to hear her. “Mel Stafford,” he 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.”
Wyatt had expected the news might come as a bit of a shock, because the moment he’d caught sight of Jackson—or more to the point, the instant Jackson had caught sight of him—he’d realized that Jackson hadn’t yet shared the news with the employees. If he had, he wouldn’t have ducked behind the nearest set of broad shoulders.
He’s probably trying to pretend none of this is happening.
But Wyatt hadn’t anticipated that his announcement would hit with the same concussion as a grenade. The three guys in grease-smeared coveralls looked as if he’d hit each of them right in the chin with a spade. Jackson turned an even more sickly shade of green and rubbed his index finger along the bridge of his nose. Trying to hide behind his hand, Wyatt thought.
And then the manager—what kind of a woman called herself Mel, for heaven’s sake?—started