Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(3)
Author: Roxanne St. Claire

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.