Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(7)

“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.

“Nonno was a little confused before he died.”

The statement threw him, coming from nowhere and yanking him back to the real business at hand

—who really owned the land he wanted.

“Your grandfather?” he guessed.

She nodded.

“Confused enough to sign a will you didn’t know about?”

She sighed, her fingers squeezing and moving like a well-practiced professional. He sat stone still and watched the choreography, mesmerized and suddenly, surprisingly uncomfortable. Damn, who would have thought a woman milking a goat would be sexy?

“Do you think the will might be legitimate?” he asked.

She didn’t answer for a long time, concentrating on her goat. “I guess anything is possible, but unlikely.” She looked up, a single strand of dark hair that had escaped her braid slipping over one eye. “For example, you showing up at exactly the same time as this lawyer with a fake will. Why did that happen in the same hour if you aren’t teaming up on me?”

“We’re not,” he said honestly.

“Then that’s one hell of a weird coincidence. Which, by the way, I don’t believe in.”

“I do.”

She snorted softly. “Well, I don’t.”

“Coincidence, karma, good fortune or lady luck, whatever you call it, I happen to be a living, breathing believer in it all,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “And my guess is the universe is trying to tell you it’s time to sell this land. To me.”

The fire in her eyes damn near fried him. “The universe is not telling me a damn thing except to stay away from smarm-fests like that lawyer and...and...”

He grinned. “I can’t wait to hear how you describe me.”

A slow, deep blush gave away how right he was. “How do you know what I’m going to say?”

“Your eyes. They’re eating me up trying to come up with something insulting, which, of course, you can’t.”

She choked a hearty laugh. “And egotistical, arrogant, entitled billionaires. How’s that?”



He answered with a shrug. “I’ve heard worse. On the beach an hour ago, as a matter of fact. From you.”

“What you didn’t hear, obviously, is this: My property isn’t for sale.”

“It might not even be yours.”

Her hands froze, and tension tightened her shoulders. “It’s mine.”

But was it? “Are you sure your grandfather didn’t make some kind of backdoor deal you didn’t know about? I have to admit, it wasn’t easy to find any record of him alive or dead when we were tracking this property.”

She made a face but didn’t reply, her hands moving a little faster to wring milk out of poor Ruffles.

After a few minutes, she backed off, and he could have sworn the goat sighed with relief.

“All done, Ruff.” She swatted the goat’s backside and scooted her off the platform, twisting to pick up the bucket and carry it to another tray. “Clem, you’re up!” she called, and another one, a little smaller and almost all brown but for a spot on her forehead, ambled over for her turn at the station.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked.

“Eighty-one days.”

Eighty-one days, twice a day, with half a dozen goats? “No wonder you’re such a natural.”

She worked on the next goat in line, repeating the same series of actions she had with the first animal.

“It’s not that difficult.” She swiped that stray hair with the back of her gloved hand and then blew out a long, slow breath. “And as far as my grandfather, he was never big on paperwork. He used to say he was born without formalities and he’d die without them, too.”

“No one is born without some sort of paperwork,” he said.

“Nonno was. He was born in a farmhouse in Italy, and they didn’t bother with a birth certificate.”

“Not a town record?”

“He did have a baptism, and that was logged in a local church, but they weren’t sure how old he was then. Best we can tell, he was eighty-eight, maybe eighty-nine when he died.”