Melody Anne's Billionaire Universe: Against the Billionaire's Will (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Love Against Odds Book 3)

Chapter
One

Dawson
Winthrop sat across from his family attorney and tried not to scowl.

He wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

His grandfather passing had thrown the Winthrops into a mountain of new work. Oh, the man had prepared fully for his death in the last years of his life for the smoothest transition of assets and responsibilities, but nothing was ever completely easy when dealing with tens of billions of dollars. Dawson knew. His net worth exceeded one and a half billion
without
his family money. He was a busy man. Very busy. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t send one of his assistants over to deal with whatever remaining issues needed attention on his grandfather’s manuscript of a last will and testament.

He punched his left wrist out from his pinstriped suit cuff and gazed at his watch. “I’ve been sitting here seven minutes, Mr. Henry,” he said without looking at the man behind the desk.

“I apologize. We are awaiting one more person,” he said as he shuffled papers on his desk.

“Who?”

“A Ms. Attree.” Mrs. Henry clasped his hands onto of the inlayed leather. “She—”

His office phone buzzed. “Mr. Henry, Brindle Attree is here to see you.”

After pushing the button on his desk phone, he said, “Send her in.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said as she opened the door.

Dawson looked up and was momentarily transfixed where he stood. The woman was beautiful. Not the stick-thin women he usually found himself attracted to, but she was pretty. Although she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a Nashville country music bar with her plaid shirt, blue jeans, and brown boots. Pushing that thought aside and putting his attention back to Mr. Henry, Dawson said, “I have a flight to catch back to San Francisco. I’m meeting with the board of my grandfather’s information technology company in the morning.”

Mr. Henry indicated the chair next to Dawson for the lady to sit. Once she took her seat, both he and Mr. Henry followed suit.

“I know you’re a busy man, Dawson, so I’ll get right to it.”

“Thank you.” He unbuttoned his jacked and eased back into his seat. He caught sight of the woman next to him. Her gaze darted around the room as if she’d never seen the inside of an upscale office before. It was entirely possible she hadn’t.

“As you know, your grandfather and I have been friends for many years.”

Dawson raised an eyebrow. He didn’t need a history lesson.

“Well,” Mr. Henry shifted his attention to the blonde next to Dawson. “Dawson Winthrop here is the grandson of Mr. Winthrop, the man who owned the Buckley Breeding Ranch in Buckley, Washington.”

She nodded slowly, her plastered partial smile fell a little. “He was a good man,” she said softly.

Dawson’s chest squeezed a little at the sincerity of her words. Most people he encountered were too focused on his grandfather’s money to muster a genuine comment about the man. He inclined his head in appreciation.

“Ms. Attree—”

“Please, call me Brindle,” she said and focused on the attorney again.

“Brindle,” he said with a firm smile. “I’m the executor of the Winthrop estate. I called you in because Mr. Winthrop left you something in his will.”

Dawson’s grandfather had left a lot of people things. This still didn’t explain why
he
had to be here for this.

“Really?” she said, frowning. Dawson almost found it endearing. Usually when people learned they’d inherited something from a billionaire, their expressions barely banked the excitement in their eyes. Ms. Attree—
Brindle, the name fits
—seemed genuinely shocked.

“Yes. With conditions. That’s where you come in,” he said, looking at Dawson, who sat up a little straighter.

Brindle looked at the man with confusion. He felt the same, but after years of fine-tuning his corporate poker face, he knew he didn’t show it, or any other emotion.

Mr. Henry lifted the top page from his desk and read, “Article Forty-Three. I, Winthrop, hereby give my entire interest in the real property located at One Buckley Ranch Drive, Buckly, Washington, hereinafter referred to as Buckley Breeding Ranch, to Brindle Attree of Buckley, Washington.”

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

“Provided the following conditions are met. One,—”

“Spoke too soon,” Dawson said with a chuckle, though he was pretty surprised at his grandfather’s generosity. That ranch contained over two thousand acres and had produced at least three mares that won the Kentucky Oaks.

Mr. Henry’s mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile at Dawson’s rare display of humor before he continued. “One, Buckley Breeding Ranch must realize a gain in profits of at least three percent over the same fiscal quarter from the preceding year. Two, my grandson, Dawson Winthrop, is to personally oversee the financial stability of Buckley Breeding Ranch, including but not limited to reviewing the day-to-day operations, assisting in the transfer of ownership and all that it entails, and providing one-on-one guidance to Brindle Attree for no less than thirty days, which shall commence twenty-four hours following the reading of this will.”

“What?” Dawson roared. This was ridiculous. “I don’t have time to babysit someone for thirty days.” He glanced at the shell-shocked blonde. “No offense.”

Mr. Henry continued reading, “Brindle Attree is not to reveal to the workers, contractors, or associates of Buckley Breeding Ranch that a member of the Winthrop family is on the premises and assisting with the transition. Nor is she to reveal the details of her inheritance to anyone until transfer of ownership is complete.”

“I have not been on a ranch in years,” Dawson, said as soon as the attorney took a breath. “It’ll be more beneficial if I hire someone who’s experienced managing a ranch—”

“I
am
experienced,” Brindle snapped, her cheeks turning red.

He raised a placating hand. “That’s not what I meant.” Then he focused on Mr. Henry. “I do not have time in my schedule to do this. I’m sorry. You’re going to have to find someone else or allow me to hire an experienced
business
—he stressed as his gaze darted to her and back—person to help.”

The attorney cleared his throat and continued as if no words had been spoken other than those of his deceased grandfather. “Once Dawson Winthrop provides thirty days of personal assistance regarding financial, managerial, and all other necessary business expertise to Brindle Attree, as appreciation for this very personal wish of mine his stake in Winthrop Holdings shall increase from fifteen percent to thirty percent.”

That
knocked the argument wind from Dawson’s sails. His grandfather had already left him fifteen percent of his company. Now he was willing to double it? The increase alone would amount to billions of dollars.

For thirty days of his time. Before he could even begin to process the latest development, Mr. Henry said, “If Buckley Breeding Ranch does not see the specified profit in the aforementioned timeframe, Buckley Breeding Ranch, including all real property and assets shall be sold with one hundred percent of the proceeds going to Brindle Attree, and Dawson Winthrop’s increased interest in Winthrop Holdings will still increase to thirty percent.”

Mr. Henry glanced up. The details of this provision in Dawson’s grandfather’s will was still churning in his head. If the attorney expected a comment, Dawson wasn’t ready to supply one.

“The Devices and bequests of this Article Forty-Three are intended to be specific. In the event that this property for any reason is not part of my Estate at the time of my death, such devices and bequests shall lapse.” Mr. Henry placed the paper on his desk. “Questions?”

“What if I don’t agree with what he suggests?” Brindle asked and flicked her thumb in Dawson’s direction.

He cracked a smile as he looked at her. “Sounds like you’re going to lose the ranch.”

“I advise you follow Dawson’s recommendations. It was Mr. Winthrop’s wishes.” Her gaze narrowed, but then she gave a quick nod.

“I have a question,” Dawson said. “Is my father aware of this provision? I’m going to have to rearrange my schedule pretty quickly to make plans to be away. I don’t want any surprise loopholes to develop after I’ve served these thirty days.”

“It’s not a prison sentence,” Brindle muttered.

“Time is money. My grandfather taught me that.”

“This document is air tight. There could be some issues left up to me to determine, but for the most part, there is no way around it. You provide the requested assistance to Ms. Attree, and your stake in your grandfather’s businesses will be increased. I will also note that breeding race horses was a hobby of Mr. Winthrop’s. He wasn’t in it for the money, but this venture created many jobs. If the company has to be sold, those people could be out of work, and that won’t look good.”

“You’ve made it perfectly clear I have no choice in the matter,” Dawson said as he crossed his arms.

“Oh, you have a choice, son. A multi-billion-dollar choice.”

Dawson didn’t get to where he was by making bad business decisions. Even taking away the personal element of this being one of his grandfather’s dying requests, he knew exactly what was at stake.

“Right,” Dawson said. “Like I said. I have no choice.”

He glanced at the blonde woman he would be working beside and stifled a groan. She wasn’t even paying attention. Her gaze remained unfocused as she stared at nothing. Great. Was this what he had to look forward to? Thirty days of his life, teaching an easily distracted woman what he learned over six
years
matriculating at Harvard?

Impossible. But in thirty days he could put this silliness behind him.

Buckley, Washington. With a name like that, he wouldn’t be surprised if Google didn’t even know where it was.

* * * * *

Brindle
Attree had to be dreaming. Or she was being cruelly punked.

When she’d received the certified letter to this meeting, she expected the worst. She hadn’t even dressed up, choosing to wear an old pair of jeans and her favorite pair of Justin boots instead.

When she’d heard the news of Mr. Winthrop’s passing she’d been devastated. The nice old man had come to the ranch once a month for the last few years and each time he’d taken her to lunch and talked about her visions for the ranch. She knew he was a wealthy businessman and had assumed this meeting was going to be about selling the asset that was her livelihood. She’d been ready to go back to waiting tables until she could secure a job at a neighboring ranch or find a place to live since she’d been staying at the main house on the ranch at the owner’s insistence.

Now she wouldn’t have to. The ranch was hers.

Almost

Oh my god, the ranch is going to be mine.
She’d seen the books when Mr. Winthrop had shown them to her on his visits. She knew its value and the amount of money it brought in. She couldn’t wrap her head around that kind of money.

She still couldn’t.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
She chanted to herself. All she ever wanted was to spend her life taking care of horses. With her dad’s shady past and his penchant for always being out for a quick buck, he’d forever tarnished the Attree name. The only jobs she could get were cleaning stalls. Until she’d come in for an interview on a day Mr. Winthrop just happened to stop by the ranch unannounced to check on things. He’d hired her on the spot, though she’d seen the distain in his equine manager’s eyes. Within two years she’d been promoted to that job. A couple of years later, she’d become the ranch manager.

Everything she had, she owed to Mr. Winthrop.

“Ms. Attree?”
the man next to her said as if he’s called her name more than once already.

She jumped in her seat, her head whipping to the side. “Sorry. What?”

“I will be there tomorrow. I’ll have my personal assistant send my things.”

She blinked. “Send where?”

A relaxed—and incredibly sexy—smile formed. “At my grandfather house on the ranch. I’m aware he has one. I’ve just never been there.”

“But, I, er, live there.”

“It didn’t take you long to make yourself at home,” he said eyes narrowing.

She gasped. How dare he think she’d ever do anything to intrude where she didn’t belong. What kind of person did he think she was?

“Dawson,” Mr. Henry said. “Your grandfather insisted she live move in there years ago. He only asked that the guest room be available for any over night visits he made.”

“I apologize,” he said without any feeling whatsoever.

“You’re an asshole,” she said snapped.

He smiled quicker that time. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been called that.”