Her temper was one of the many reasons on his ever growing WHY TO AVOID FRANCESCA BAUDOUIN list. Although, as of—he looked at his watch and smiled—two minutes ago, irritating her had him reevaluating said list.

“Beautiful—” he said, smiling as his gaze went from the barrel of the gun to her tank top, which was drooping with water and giving him an inspiring view of her breasts—“day, don’t you think, Francesca?”

Clearly seeing the direction of his gaze, she dropped her aim—dangerously low. “Since I’ve been waiting months for a good excuse to shoot you, I’d have to say my day’s looking pretty damn good.”

Not for long, Nate thought, waiting for the sweet zing of victory to kick in. When it didn’t, he had to wonder why.

Frankie’s family wanted this land as much as his did. It wasn’t just about the prime twenty-acre parcel. It was about righting a sixty-year old wrong that waged a feud between the two founding families of St. Helena. Back then, Charles Baudouin had won. Today, the DeLucas had. But when Nate imagined this moment, and he’d imagined it plenty over the years since his parents died, he hadn’t expected victory to feel like shit.

“Look, Francesca,” Nate sighed, taking a small step toward her. This was going to be hard on her, and that bothered him. “Why don’t you drop the gun, and let’s go inside where we can talk?”

“I’ll drop the gun as soon as I see your starched ass disappear over that fence.” She waved the double barrels at the white fence that separated his family’s vineyard from Sorrento Ranch.

Nate looked up at the sky and took in a calming, mild-mannered breath. “Unless you want to end up in cuffs, I suggest you put it down. The sheriff might be able to ignore the trespassing charge. But threatening a man with a gun brings this to a level even your brother can’t make disappear.”

“Well, since Mrs. Sorrento moved out, handing me the keys to the place, that would mean that you’re the trespasser, so I think it would play out more like me protecting what’s mine. So for old time’s sake, I’ll give you and your—” her eyes dropped and she grimaced—“loafers a two minute head start before I start shooting.”

“Your property?” he asked, wondering what was wrong with his loafers.

“As of Monday,” she clarified, a smug smile tilting up those luscious lips.

There were only a few things that could have made Nate’s day any shittier. And that was one of them. Proof that Saul had officially screwed them over.

A crisp autumn breeze kicked up, rustling a leaf loose from Frankie’s hair, but doing nothing for the suffocating feeling Nate had pressing at his chest. The only thing he had going in his favor was that they had started escrow last Thursday, giving him a two business-day lead on the Baudouins. A man couldn’t sell the same property to two people, and since it seemed like Nate had purchased it first, Francesca was two days too late.

“Look,” he tried again. “Why don’t we go inside and talk?”

“Oh, I’m done talking. All I ever get from listening to your dribble is a headache and a world of trouble with my family.”

“Yeah, about that—” Nate ran a hand down his face, not wanting to think about her family or how many times he’d made her standing with them even more difficult and complicated.

Three months ago, Charles had boycotted the Summer Wine Showdown with the sole purpose of canceling the hundred year old fundraiser. He would have succeeded too, if Frankie hadn’t agreed to fill in as the official Baudouin judge.

Nate hadn’t seen much of her since—avoidance being something they had both mastered living in the same small town—so he didn’t know what went down afterward. But that look on Charles’s face when he saw Frankie sitting on the Tasting Tribunal was enough for Nate to understand that Frankie had gone too far over that line.

Judging by the dark smudges under her eyes and her taut, pale skin, these past few months had been hard on her. Guilt, and something he didn’t want to acknowledge, shifted from his gut up to his chest, forming an angry knot.

He studied her face. “Frankie, about the—”

“Don’t worry, golden boy,” she interrupted, racking the gun’s slide and obviously misunderstanding his attempt at an apology. Not that he blamed her. Apology wasn’t something they had much experience with. “I won’t shoot. Yet.”

Nate sighed. He needed Rambo over there to put the gun down and be reasonable, just for two days, two freaking days and then escrow would close and the land would be his. Maybe if he approached Frankie with a generous enough offer he could salvage this screwed-up situation. He knew that her grandpa was having cash flow problems. If he—

Shit!

A police car’s red and blue flashing lights sped down the dirt road, kicking up gravel and dust as it skidded toward them. Frankie raised her hand and squinted into the sun.

“Really?” She spun around and hit him with a very hostile glare. “You called my brother?”

“No,” he said, confused as to why that would be an issue. If anything, her brother would find a way to haul his ass in while Frankie got away scot-free and his deal fell apart. “I called the sheriff. Your brother just happens to be the responding officer.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Frankie rolled her eyes, going for annoyed, but he saw the way her gaze kept darting back to the passenger in the cruiser as it pulled to a stop.

“Afternoon, Nate. Frankie,” Sheriff Bryant said, maneuvering his belly around the steering column and stepping out of the cruiser. “Got a call about an armed intruder.”

“Armed intruder?” Francesca laughed, sliding Nate an amused look before lowering the gun and smiling up at the sheriff—who smiled back. “I was just walking my property, Sheriff.”

Frankie’s grin faded as her mountain of a brother, Deputy Jonah Baudouin, slid out of the passenger side of the car. He was impressively dangerous looking and, Nate reminded himself, packing. On a normal day, when unarmed, Nate could hold his own against the deputy. But he knew that when it came to protecting baby sisters, men could be ruthless. Hell, he’d do just about anything to make sure his sister Abby was happy and safe.

So when Jonah stood there, silently watching Frankie with a total lack of emotion on his face, Nate found himself wondering just what their relationship was like.

“Frankie,” Jonah said tipping his hat as though she wasn’t his sister. Then he turned to Nate with the same expressionless look. “What’s going on?”

That’s exactly what Nate wanted to know. Why did Frankie look like she’d been busted? And why was Jonah asking Nate when Frankie was the one holding the gun?

“I’m sorry,” Frankie began, her voice shaking with something that did stupid things to Nate’s chest. “I was going to tell you about the property, but I wanted to make sure—”

Frankie trailed off because—holy shit—Miss Bad Ass looked close to tears and Jonah wasn’t even reacting, just patiently waiting for her to continue.

“Actually, it’s my property,” Nate clarified, wanting to get that on the record, and get everyone’s attention off Frankie. “So there’s nothing to tell except that she had a gun and I didn’t know it was her, so I called you guys just in case. I know armed robberies carry four times the fatality rate.”

“Let me guess, you read that in one of your fancy magazines,” Frankie said with a small smile and Nate didn’t respond because she was right, he’d read it in the Wall Street Journal—and because she didn’t look like she was about to cry anymore.

Then her smile faded and her eyes narrowed, and damn it if he hadn’t imagined the whole vulnerable woman act. “Wait! Just what are you accusing me of robbing?”

“My alpacas,” he finally said, ignoring the way the two men exchanged shit-eating grins, and felt even stupider. “Last week there was a herd of them and I noticed this morning that they were all gone. Well, except for her.”

Nate jerked his chin toward the animal who immediately started stomping her hooves in typical female fashion. Then her lips started working overtime and Nate took a giant step back. “Is she going to spit? I read online that alpacas spit when they get mad.”

“So then you called to file a stolen property report?” the sheriff asked, his bushy eyebrows furrowed, his mustache twitching.

“The property, being the house and the alpaca, is mine,” Frankie said, stroking the fluffball’s head.

“So, there’s no report then?” the sheriff asked.

Frankie ignored the sheriff and glared at Nate. “And she is male, which explains the need to stomp his hooves and spit when he’s mad.”

With a loud exhale, the sheriff unclipped his walkie-talkie. “Dispatch, this is Sheriff Bryant. Tell all units responding to Sorrento Ranch that they can go available.” There was some squawking back, and then, “Nah, it’s just a domestic dispute, we can handle this call.”

“Domestic?” Frankie spat. “There is nothing domestic about us. I don’t even like him.” She flapped a hand furiously back and forth.

Nate leaned in. “That’s not what I remember you panting a few months ago.”

Frankie leaned in too, her full mouth so close he could feel her breath tease him—from his lips all the way down to his dick. Damn, he usually had better control.

“I was drunk and bored. You misunderstood. Plus, I like my men to pack a bigger set than me.” She glanced down and then back up through her water spiked lashes. “Never going to happen, DeLuca.”

“Who owns the land?” the sheriff interrupted loudly, taking off his hat and rubbing at his forehead.