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

Very slowly, she shook her head.
 

Oh, for cryin’ out loud, let’s get this done
. “Five million? Ten? Fifteen? Everyone has a price, Francesca.”

Then her face relaxed and her lips curled up and her eyes lit with something that reached right down into his gut and sucker punched him. “Not for a billion. Which I doubt you have.”

She started to walk away again, and he lost the fight not to touch her. Reaching out, he closed his hand over her elbow and stopped her, pulling her very gently toward him so he could turn over his trump card, low and sweet and right in her ear.
 

“I have two billion. And a half, to be precise. I’m willing to part with enough to buy your land, make you a rich woman, and celebrate over dinner together. Do we have a deal?”

A glimmer of amusement lit her eyes, as gold as the sunset behind her now. “Is everything this easy for you?”

He laughed softly, mostly at the truth of that statement. “Just about.”

“Was it easy to become a billionaire?”

Disgustingly so. He went for a self-effacing shrug. “Mostly a mix of good timing, dumb luck, and my irresistible boyish charm.”
 

“Really?” One beautifully arched eyebrow lifted toward the sky. “Well, guess what, Elliott Becker?” She cooed his name, already softening. The
B
in billion usually did that when his world-class flirting missed the mark. “Your luck ran out, your timing sucks, and I don’t find you charming, boyish, or the least bit irresistible.”

Undaunted, he took a step closer and lifted his hand, grazing her chin. “Bet I can change your mind.”

“Bet you can’t.” She pivoted and took off so fast, she kicked a clump of sand on his jeans.
 

Brushing it, he just grinned. “How much are you willing to bet?” he called out. “I put fifteen million on the table!”

She stuck up her middle finger and kept running.

Sweet.

The only thing Becker liked more than a sexy woman with attitude was a sexy woman with attitude
and
a piece of real estate he wanted. This could be a good time. Maybe not quite as easy as he’d thought, but sometimes
hard
could be fun, too.

Chapter Two

Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Of course, Frankie looked. What red-blooded human female wouldn’t? And the cowboy was already ambling down the beach in the other direction, as fine from the rear as the front.
 

Under the cowboy hat, long, dark hair brushed the collar of his T-shirt. Faded jeans rested casually on a stare-worthy ass, drawing every woman’s eyes to narrow hips and long, lean thighs that took huge strides as he loped away.

But she was a sucker for shoulders and, son of a bitch, he had those for days. Broad, strong, muscular. Along with a killer smile and bedroom eyes and...a billion freaking dollars. No, no. Two and a half billion freaking dollars.

Hello, deal breaker.

Had he actually said
fifteen million
dollars?
 

That blew every other offer out of the water, and from by far the best-looking bloodhound to come sniffing after her prime property. But, like the others, he’d soon learn she was serious about not selling. The land belonged in the Cardinale family, and it would stay in the Cardinale family as long as there was blood in her veins and breath in her lungs. No man—not even one who no doubt got whatever he wanted from 99.9 percent of the female population—could ever make her break that promise to her grandfather.

He’d learn soon enough that Frankie was the exception to whatever rules got him through his charmed life.

With a quick glance behind her, she abandoned the event and any chance of playing more verbal volleyball with the cowboy billionaire. She’d been there long enough to introduce herself to the Casa Blanca spa manager and arrange a meeting, which had been her only goal at the reunion.
 

Happy she’d left her sandals in her truck, she headed home before the sun disappeared in the water. Well, not home.
Kind
of
home. Temporary home. Home for the moment, which was supposed to be a week or two and had extended to three months now.

It
felt
like home a lot more than that high-gloss, high-tech high-rise in DC. How had this tropical island stuck in the middle of nowhere become her home? For the second time in her life, too.

Sure, the place was a lush, undiscovered gem glittering in the Gulf of Mexico. A few years ago, the hills and lakes of central Barefoot Bay had been lost among the more desirable real estate along the coasts. But ever since Casa Blanca Resort & Spa had been built along the shore, money had been dripping into this island. Or dropping in by helicopter, she thought with a mirthless smile.
 

It was like they’d gotten a newsflash when her grandfather had died without a will. Well, too bad, suckers. Florida’s probate and intestate laws were crystal clear, as was her extremely sparse family tree. She’d inherited the twenty-some acres of glorious tall pines and gently sloping hills...and all that was on it.

Coming around the last corner, she slowed down to brace for the sight of exactly what that entailed:
 
seven goats, two dogs, a milking shelter, and a less-than-luxurious single-wide that Nonno had rolled onto the land after his house was wiped out by a hurricane a few years ago. Yep, oddly, inexplicably, this wretched little goat farm had become her home.

Not
so
inexplicable, she thought as she rolled up the dirt road. This was the very place where she’d taken refuge thirteen years ago when her world came tumbling down. On those bleak days in the fall of 2001, when the world mourned people they didn’t know and she mourned the parents she’d lost, she’d loved the security and simplicity of the goat farm. It was sunny and easy, with sweet goats and precious Nonno to make her forget the ache of being an orphan. She’d loved it then, and she loved it now.
 

Only now, without Nonno, it was lonely.

As she rounded the last bend, her gaze froze on a black SUV parked in front of the trailer. Holy hell, would these bloodhounds never give up?
It’s not for sale, people!

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.