Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2) Read online

  Sighing, she did a mental count of the days until this could end. Nine. Nine days until the full ninety-day probate period would be over, and she could officially wave a property title in her name in the faces of these relentless developers. All of them. Even the ones with bedroom eyes and ride-’em-cowboy shoulders. Shoot, was this him?

  The thought rocked her as she slammed on the brakes next to the SUV. Had Wile E. Coyote somehow beaten her here?

  She shoved her bare feet into sandals, trying to stomp away the tendril of heat and anticipation. Surely she wasn’t going to be that girl...the one who went all breathless and giddy at the sight of a sexy rich guy. Not a chance in hell.

  She threw open the door to hear Ozzie and Harriet from inside the mobile home, their high-pitched barks welcoming her home. Not the warning snarl of a Rottweiler that she should have to keep these idiots away.

  Stepping out, she scanned the pen first to be sure all the girls were safe. Four of her goat does were visible, all offering their own distinct bleats to alert her that something was wrong. Still, no one was in sight. Was he around the side in the buck’s pen? Maybe Billionaire Becker was stupid enough to let a horny male goat out of his gate? That might actually be amusing.

  “Hey, where are you?” she called out.

  “Don’t take another step.”

  She froze, inching back at the low voice, searching side to side but unable to see who’d issued the warning. Someone with a serious amount of balls.

  “I mean it.” A man stepped out of the milking shelter that ran along the back of the pen. A man who was definitely not Elliott Becker.

  Not nearly as tall, and wiry thin, the man wore a beige polo shirt and sported thin hair flopped over to cover a bald spot. Before she could get out a word, he held up a phone as if he were taking a picture of her. A wannabe landowner, of course. These nine days could not pass quickly enough.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

  “I’m afraid you can’t come any further, ma’am.”

  “Excuse me?” Was this a joke?

  “You’re on private property.”

  “I sure as hell am. My private property.” She plowed toward the pen, ignoring the happy greetings from her goats. “Who are you and what are you doing on my farm?”

  Inside the pen, he approached the gate, reaching it at almost the same time she did. His eyes were pale blue behind wire-rimmed spectacles, giving her no smile as he shot out his hand to deliver a business card.

  “I’m Michael Burns, attorney-at-law and the personal representative with full power of attorney on behalf of the owner of this land.”

  She almost choked, closing one hand over the metal gate, the other automatically taking his card. “I don’t have a personal representative.”

  “You’re not the owner.”

  A little white spark of anger blinded her for a second, stealing her breath with its power. “I am—”

  “Not the owner,” he interjected, reaching to his back pocket to remove a piece of paper folded in threes, as though it had been in an envelope. “My client, Island Management, LLC, owns this property and has sent me to clear it off so it can be sold. I’m afraid you’ll have to take your animals and find another place to squat, ma’am.”

  There were so many ways to respond to that, she couldn’t even grab hold of one because nothing made sense. Island Management? Clear it? “Squat?”

  “Technically, that’s what you’re doing.” He gave the paper an officious snap to open it. “I have here the Last Will and Testament of Francesco Antonio Cardinale.”

  She blinked, digging for anything that could be an explanation as she opened the pen gate and stepped inside, her grandfather’s voice a soft echo in her head.

  I no have a will, piccolina. I came to the world with no birth certificate and go out with no will.

  The next breath got stuck in her throat, leaving her speechless. “No, that’s not...” Possible.

  Or was it? All she could do was shake her head and steady her hands as she reached for the paper. Words swam as she tried to make sense of them, a slow pulse pounding in her ears.

  “That’s his signature, a legal witness, and the seal of the great state of Florida.” He pointed to the embossing at the top of the page, but Frankie’s gaze stayed riveted on the signature.

  Don’t need to sign a will, piccolina. What’s mine is yours.

  And he’d been right...except not if there was a will. Was that possible, or was this particular shyster just incredibly creative?

  “Who is Island Management, LLC?” she asked, absently closing the gate behind her because Clementine was already pressing her little white nose closer.

  “I can’t say.”

  “You can’t...” She looked up, those white flashes of fury blinding again as everything suddenly fell into place.

  The billionaire cowboy, of course. Forget beating her to the property—he’d beaten her to the punch. Somehow.

  Oh, she knew how. Money can buy anything. “Don’t tell me. Island Management is owned by an egotistical, smart-ass hotshot in a helicopter named Elliott Becker.”

  “I’m not at liberty, nor am I required by law, to reveal my client’s identity.”

  Disgust and anger roiled up, matched by the sound of Ozzie’s endless bark and Harriet’s desperate whines for Frankie to come and greet them. Next to the man, Clementine and Ruffles bleated softly, staring up at him like they were actually following the insane conversation.

  Then all those sounds disappeared at the purr of a motor and the crackle of tires spitting dirt in the distance.

  Turning, Frankie wasn’t even surprised to see a sleek silver sedan worth more than all twenty of the acres she was clinging to barreling onto her land. Coming in to hammer a nail in the coffin, Billionaire Becker? Oh, man, it was going to be fun to take this bastard down a few pegs.

  Except, what if Nonno had signed a will? No. No, she refused to let herself even entertain that possibility.

  “Oh, look, here’s your client now.” Still holding the paper, she whipped open the gate to go back out to the yard. Then she sucked in a slow, deep breath to be sure she had enough air in her lungs to give him holy hell. A strong hand clamped on her elbow.

  “No one sent me,” the lawyer said. “Hold it.”

  She yanked her arm free. “I know what this is about. Good guy, bad guy. You’re going to play hardball with some fake”—she flicked at the paper—“piece-of-crap forgery, and he’s going to throw insane amounts of money around. But trust me on this, neither one of you will get a thing.”

  The sedan door opened and, sure enough, Elliott Becker emerged, this time without his stupid ten-gallon hat. Which, God help her, only made him more attractive. He stared at them, his head angled as if he were sizing up the situation. Wondering if she’d caved yet, no doubt.

  “It won’t work, Becker!” she called.

  Behind her, the other man grabbed her again. “Who is that?” he demanded.

  He didn’t know? She threw him a surprised look and attempted to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but he held tight. “Let me go, asshole!”

  “Hey!” Elliott’s voice boomed across the farm as he strode forward. “Let her go.”

  Oh, yeah, good cop, bad cop. She wasn’t falling for it.

  “You’re trespassing,” the man behind her barked.

  True enough, but…they really didn’t know each other? Frankie looked from one to the other, then tried again to free her arm. “Let go of me!”

  When he didn’t, Elliott charged closer, hoisting himself over the fence in one smooth move. “Get the hell off her,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

  Clementine snorted while Agnes and Lucretia, the wee pygmy goats, trotted closer like kids on a playground attracted to a fight.

  “You know this guy?” Elliott asked without looking at her.

  “Don’t you?”

  He threw her an incredulous look. “I landed on this rock less than an hour
ago. Is he hurting you?”

  The anger and protectiveness in his voice touched her, but she squelched the female reaction. “He just showed up here with”—phony papers and lies—“threats.”

  Elliott’s eyes tapered even more as he practically breathed fire at the smaller man. “Get out of here.”

  “I have business with Miss Cardinale.”

  “Business to maul her?” he fired back, looming over the man. “Do you want him to leave?”

  “Yes.” She wanted them both to leave.

  “Get out.” He got his chest—a big, mighty, impressive as hell chest—right in the smaller man’s face.

  “I have a legal docu—”

  Elliott reached out and closed a sizable fist over the guy’s collar, jerking him toward the gate. “Get the hell out.”

  The other man’s eyes widened as he fought to keep his composure. “Fine. Let me go.”

  Elliott didn’t move, his nostrils flaring.

  “Let me go,” the lawyer said again. “And I’ll leave.”

  Very slowly, Elliott opened his fingers, and the lawyer tried to shake off the contact, brushing his polo shirt.

  Elliott leaned in to make his point. “If you ever lay a hand on this woman again, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

  The threat hung in the air, until Arlene let out a long nay and nuzzled her flat nose into Elliott’s thigh. She might as well have sighed, “My hero!”

  “You can keep that paper, miss,” the lawyer said as he opened the gate to leave the way normal men did. “The old man signed two copies, and I have the other one. You have exactly nine days to get yourself and your stinky animals off my client’s land.”

  He walked away before she could react, but Elliott whipped around and looked at her. “What did he say?”

  “You really don’t know him? You really didn’t send him?”

  He gave her a shake of his head.

  She stuffed the business card into the twisted wire of the gate like a little white flag of surrender. “Then you just became the lesser of two evils.”

  Chapter Three

  When the SUV disappeared around the bend, Elliott finally took a moment to drink in exactly where he was. In a cage full of strange-looking animals. Two no bigger than a medium-sized dog, and the bright orange one stuck its nose in his belly and started to bleat like a…

  “Are these…nanny goats?”

  “These are does,” she replied. “The buck is in another pen around there.”

  “And that’s, like, a billy goat?”

  “Only if you are a graceless clod. No one with any real class would call them nannies or billies unless you are referring to meat goats. Mine make milk and soap.” She closed her eyes as if an adrenaline dump hit her system. “I guess I should say thank you for getting rid of him. He was peskier than most.”

  She raised goats? And scoffed at a legit offer of a million? More? He inched back, taking another look at her frilly skirt and sandals, the wild-from-the-wind long hair, and the natural cream of her skin, sizing her up in a second.

  A hippie chick earth mother who might be hot as Hades but surely could be bought. Maybe a million didn’t make her go all gooey and send her on a beeline for the mall like most women, but a sweet little donation to her cause du jour and enough cash to take her critters to another farm? Easy peasy.

  All righty then. Game on, goat girl.

  He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tipped his head to look a little modest and respectful. “So, what was that all about, if you don’t mind me asking, ma’am?” He held out his hand in a quick correction. “Not that you look like a ma’am. Can I use your first name? Francesca?”

  “Frankie,” she corrected absently, focused on the paper she held. “This can’t be real.”

  “May I?” He reached for the document, their fingers brushing in the exchange, allowing him to feel the tension in her knuckles. “Relax,” he said softly. “He’s gone.”

  “For now.”

  “I won’t let him hurt you.”

  “I hate to break it to you, big guy, but I probably could have handled one wormy lawyer with a bad comb-over. But that paper?” She curled her lip at the document. “That’s a little scary, because my grandfather didn’t have a will.”

  “This would say differently.” He scanned the words, simple enough to follow: Frank Cardinale had left his property and everything on it to Island Management, LLC. “Do you know what that company is?”

  “Don’t have a clue. Do you?” There was enough accusation in her voice that he knew she suspected he did.

  He shook his head, rereading the document. If this was real—and it sure looked legit—the person he should be negotiating with was that lawyer he’d just tried to punch, not the lady and her Billy Goats Gruff. “Didn’t you say you had other interest and offers on the land?”

  “Plenty of interest, and I just ignore the offers. I have no plans to sell.” Next to her, a brown and white goat with massive ears nuzzled into her waist, and she stroked its head, the only noise the incessant barking of dogs inside.

  He gestured toward the trailer. “You want to get them?”

  “They’ll settle down,” she said. The goat next to her nayed again, pushing Frankie harder while another—a miniature with a twin—did the same on her other side.

  “I know, I know, ladies,” she cooed, rubbing their bodies. “I’ll take care of you in a minute.”

  Elliott handed back the paper. “What are you going to do about this?”

  “I don’t know.” She crouched down, face-to-face with the orange goat, reaching under its belly before looking up at him with a disarmingly pretty smile. “But first I’m going to milk my goats. You can leave anytime or...watch.”

  Holy hell, that sounded...unappealing. “By all means, milk.”

  She stood and nudged the animal toward the back of the pen, to a long, enclosed wooden structure with no doors and square holes for windows and a corrugated tin roof. “I have to do this every twelve hours whether I want to or not. That’s my life now.” A mix of irony and humor tinged her voice, piquing his interest.

  He followed her, another goat at his side and two more behind her, fuzzy, noisy, curious little things that had no sense of personal space.

  “So you’re, like, a goatherder?” he asked.

  As she stepped into the building, he heard her laugh softly. “Just like one.”

  He followed her in, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, his nose swamped with the musty, earthy smell of hay. Bales of the stuff were piled to the rafters of the wooden structure, filling up half of it. The other half was much cleaner, with a tile floor and a small kitchen-like area with a sink, cabinets, and an industrial-size fridge.

  “You can sit by the milking station.” She indicated a bench under a window that let in the last of the fading light and some fresh air. The bench faced a contraption that looked like a long wooden chair with a hole in the seat. One of the goats walked up to it, then turned to stare down Elliott.

  “Hi.” Elliott bent over and looked into two massive brown eyes and big teeth bared in a... “Is he smiling at me?”

  She let out a sharp laugh as she wove her fingers into her hair and started sliding one strand over the other. “He? I’m about to milk her.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Elliott settled on the bench not far from the goat, much more interested in the other female in the place. She faced him, her hands still busy with her hair—braiding it, he realized—with deft, swift hands. The position showcased a narrow waist and nicely round breasts that he had to force himself not to examine too obviously. “I don’t know much about goats,” he admitted.

  “You don’t say.” She turned to the sink to wash her hands, and then opened a drawer, pulling out a box of latex gloves and an array of stainless steel equipment that she placed on a tray with easy grace.

  With her back to him, he was free to take in every curve of her feminine form. The long braid settled down the
middle of her back, pointing to a sweetly shaped backside. She tied an apron around her waist and turned, catching him staring at her.

  “You don’t look like a goatherder,” he observed.

  As she carried the tray to the contraption where the goat waited patiently, she fought a smile. “Just goatherd. You don’t say shepherd-er, do you?”

  He didn’t say either one very often. “I didn’t even know people still owned goats. I thought they were at petting zoos and in kids’ books.”

  She laughed again, a sweet, musical sound that made him only want to hear more, as she got her pretty face close to the flat-nosed, floppy-eared goat. “You are so misunderstood, aren’t you, Ruffles?”

  Straddling a small bench so her skirt fell to either side, she placed a bucket and patted the platform next to her. “C’mere, girl, and let’s do this.”

  The goat let out a long staccato nay and then ambled into place, jumping up a foot or so to get her hind legs over the hole where the bucket was.

  “I’m going to guess you’ve never seen anyone milk a goat before,” Frankie said as she snapped on a pair of gloves.

  “Or a cow.”

  She looked up, surprise in her eyes. “With that hat and accent? I figured you just walked off the range.”

  Busted. “City Texan,” he admitted. “Big difference.” The year they’d lived in San Antonio hardly qualified him as a real Lone Star Stater, but he’d gotten his use out of it.

  The goat bayed again as Frankie’s hands started to squeeze and stroke, followed by the sound of liquid splashing into the stainless steel bucket.

  “There we go,” she whispered into the goat’s ear, adding a soft kiss. “That’s the dirty part, Ruffles.”

  She pushed back and dragged the bucket out of the way, then replaced it with a fresh one. Her feet hooked under the bench as she leaned forward, serious now, the muscles of her legs visible through the thin skirt. With spare, confident movements, she stroked the goat’s…udders? Teats? He had no idea what a goat rack was called and wasn’t about to amuse her any further by asking.