“Is that legal?”
“It isn’t illegal if no one contests the will or they unload the property before a family member gets involved. And that’s what Burns is doing. He’s sold it to the highest bidder for so much more than market value, it should be a crime.”
“How much?”
“I don’t even want to tell you because I can’t stand to hear a grown woman cry.”
Oh, God. No. “How much?”
“More than you can beat, unless you have a few million or ten stashed away. Who even has that kind of money?”
She stared at the door. Elliott did. A man who could be...unreal.
“Who’s the buyer?” she asked, the metallic taste of dread and shame filling her mouth.
“I can’t—”
“Liza, please. You have to tell me. I have a feeling I just...I almost had sex with him.” And, worse, dreamed of a future.
“Oh, God, I hate men. Have I told you how much I hate men? Hate.”
“Liza?”
“The name is Becker. Elliott A. Becker. I’m guessing the A is for Asshole.”
Frankie closed her eyes as the blow hit her heart. “You’d be guessing right,” she muttered, already scooping up her bag and turning to the door. “Let me ask you something, Liza.” She kept her voice low as she tiptoed down the hall to the living room.
“Sure. I’ve broken every rule in the County Clerk’s bylaws and employee handbook by calling you. What’s one more?”
Very quietly, without making a sound, she turned the front doorknob. “Can you give me a phone number for that Burns guy?”
“I...can’t.”
“He gave me his card, but I...” Left it in a place for Elliott Becker to find. Damn him! “Liza, please.”
Outside, she slid into the golf-cart seat and reached for the start button. “I have to do this,” she whispered, hating the catch in her throat.
“Can you write it down?”
“I won’t forget it. I won’t forget anything.” Like just how close she’d come to being screwed in every way possible.
The electric cart barely made a sound as she rolled toward the paved road, memorizing the number Liza gave her before they hung up. But just as she passed the next villa, she heard her name, loud and clear.
“Frankie! Damn it, Frankie, where are you going?”
Feet slammed on the pavement behind her, but she gunned the cart and swerved around some shocked resort guests.
“Francesca Cardinale, stop that cart and listen to me!”
Did he have no idea who he was dealing with? Was he so shortsighted that he didn’t think she could beat him at his own game of pretend?
“Frankie, please! I’m sorry! I want you! I belong with you!”
You belong in hell, Becker.
She shoved her hand in the air, thrust her middle finger to the sky, and kept driving.
Chapter Eleven
Voice mail. Voice mail. Voice fucking mail. Then nothing. The damn thing didn’t even ring anymore.
It was like Michael S. Burns, attorney-at-law, no longer existed. Elliott flung the business card on the bed, tossed the phone on top of it, and let himself follow both, stuffing his face into the blankets that an hour later still smelled like...
Where I belong.
Except he didn’t belong anywhere, especially not in the arms of a genuine, amazing, one-of-a-kind angel who deserved so much more than a fake. Because that’s all Elliott Becker was. A phony, manipulative bastard who thought he could hedge his bets and play both ends against the middle and every other gambling cliché that always worked for him because it was easy and he was lucky.
Not anymore.
Now he was the empty shell of a fool who’d made a mistake and couldn’t cover it up.
He flipped over, staring at the ceiling. Who’d called her? Burns? Why would he do that? Someone had found out. Maybe Jocelyn Palmer had alerted her. Hell, maybe Nate had sabotaged this.
At the thought, he shot up, furious and ready to kill his friend.
That would be just like that spoiled prick who got everything he wanted. Probably thought if he wrecked the romance, then Elliott would go ahead with the—
Three hard raps at the front door of the villa pushed him to his feet. If that was Nate, he might punch the bastard. If it was Zeke, maybe he could help. Elliott had to do something. He had to track the guy down and withdraw the offer and then go grovel in the hay and beg for—
“Mr. Becker! It’s Michael Burns!”
Burns. Elliott whipped open the door and stared at the weasel with a comb-over, relief nearly buckling his knees. Thank God, his luck still held in some regards.
“Get in here.” Elliott grabbed the guy’s arm and practically yanked him. “I’ve been calling you nonstop for an hour!”
“Sorry. I was in a bank vault, and that cuts off the signal to my phone.”
“I need to—”
“Here’s your check, Mr. Becker.”
Elliott stared at it, then closed his eyes. This transcended lucky. This was downright miraculous. “So you got my message that I wanted to end the deal before you finalized any paperwork?”
“Oh, I finalized plenty of paperwork, sir. The deal went through an hour ago.”
Shit! “Then why are you giving me this check back?”
“Not your deal. I sold the land to the highest bidder, and I must say, that bidder doubled your offer with hard, cold cash. I honestly didn’t think it was worthwhile to try to get you to counter.”
Her land was gone? “No, you didn’t sell it! You can’t sell it!” He practically dove on the guy. “Whatever the amount, whatever it is, I’ll beat it.” He’d buy it back and give it to her. She couldn’t lose La Dolce Vita. It was where she belonged. And where he—
“My deal’s done. You can work with the new buyer, but I doubt she’ll budge an inch. That woman laid down more money than I ever dreamed I could get and, between you and me, way more than it’s worth. I have other—”
“Who bought it?” Except, he kind of knew, didn’t he? In fact, who else would buy it?
“That squatter with the goats.” Burns shook his head. “You just never know who has money, do you? I peeked over the bank manager’s shoulder and got a whiff of her net worth.” He leaned forward, eyes wide. “I could have sworn there were nine goose eggs in that number. Can you imagine?”
Yes, he could imagine. He could very well imagine that a girl who’d come from extreme wealth and never touched the money, investing it wisely for over a decade, maybe hitting some gold of her own, would have “some money” stashed away, as she’d said. Rare, unlikely, but who knew better than him how the right investment could pay off?