Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(4)

“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.”