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

by St. Claire, Roxanne

  “Nonno was a little confused before he died.”

  The statement threw him, coming from nowhere and yanking him back to the real business at hand—who really owned the land he wanted.

  “Your grandfather?” he guessed.

  She nodded.

  “Confused enough to sign a will you didn’t know about?”

  She sighed, her fingers squeezing and moving like a well-practiced professional. He sat stone still and watched the choreography, mesmerized and suddenly, surprisingly uncomfortable. Damn, who would have thought a woman milking a goat would be sexy?

  “Do you think the will might be legitimate?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer for a long time, concentrating on her goat. “I guess anything is possible, but unlikely.” She looked up, a single strand of dark hair that had escaped her braid slipping over one eye. “For example, you showing up at exactly the same time as this lawyer with a fake will. Why did that happen in the same hour if you aren’t teaming up on me?”

  “We’re not,” he said honestly.

  “Then that’s one hell of a weird coincidence. Which, by the way, I don’t believe in.”

  “I do.”

  She snorted softly. “Well, I don’t.”

  “Coincidence, karma, good fortune or lady luck, whatever you call it, I happen to be a living, breathing believer in it all,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “And my guess is the universe is trying to tell you it’s time to sell this land. To me.”

  The fire in her eyes damn near fried him. “The universe is not telling me a damn thing except to stay away from smarm-fests like that lawyer and...and...”

  He grinned. “I can’t wait to hear how you describe me.”

  A slow, deep blush gave away how right he was. “How do you know what I’m going to say?”

  “Your eyes. They’re eating me up trying to come up with something insulting, which, of course, you can’t.”

  She choked a hearty laugh. “And egotistical, arrogant, entitled billionaires. How’s that?”

  He answered with a shrug. “I’ve heard worse. On the beach an hour ago, as a matter of fact. From you.”

  “What you didn’t hear, obviously, is this: My property isn’t for sale.”

  “It might not even be yours.”

  Her hands froze, and tension tightened her shoulders. “It’s mine.”

  But was it? “Are you sure your grandfather didn’t make some kind of backdoor deal you didn’t know about? I have to admit, it wasn’t easy to find any record of him alive or dead when we were tracking this property.”

  She made a face but didn’t reply, her hands moving a little faster to wring milk out of poor Ruffles. After a few minutes, she backed off, and he could have sworn the goat sighed with relief.

  “All done, Ruff.” She swatted the goat’s backside and scooted her off the platform, twisting to pick up the bucket and carry it to another tray. “Clem, you’re up!” she called, and another one, a little smaller and almost all brown but for a spot on her forehead, ambled over for her turn at the station.

  “How long have you been doing this?” he asked.

  “Eighty-one days.”

  Eighty-one days, twice a day, with half a dozen goats? “No wonder you’re such a natural.”

  She worked on the next goat in line, repeating the same series of actions she had with the first animal.

  “It’s not that difficult.” She swiped that stray hair with the back of her gloved hand and then blew out a long, slow breath. “And as far as my grandfather, he was never big on paperwork. He used to say he was born without formalities and he’d die without them, too.”

  “No one is born without some sort of paperwork,” he said.

  “Nonno was. He was born in a farmhouse in Italy, and they didn’t bother with a birth certificate.”

  “Not a town record?”

  “He did have a baptism, and that was logged in a local church, but they weren’t sure how old he was then. Best we can tell, he was eighty-eight, maybe eighty-nine when he died.”

  “How long ago did he die?” he asked.

  She stopped milking for a moment, closing her eyes. “Eighty-one days.” The pain in her voice was undeniable.

  “Oh, wow. Really sorry.” And this time, he meant it. But he couldn’t help assessing the situation with this new information. She’d been here only since he’d died, which could mean she had no idea if that will was real or not. “Were you close to him?”

  “Not close enough,” she murmured, inching closer to her goat.

  “But you are his next of kin? Or would that be one of your parents?”

  “My parents are both dead,” she said quietly. “And I was Nonno’s only relative, so the land belongs to me.” She finished this goat and turned to Elliott. “It’s a very clear-cut law in Florida when a person doesn’t leave a will. I’ve already looked into it and talked to the County Clerk when I moved back here. That guy, that lawyer? He’s a fraud.”

  But if Island Management really did own this piece of property, that’s who Elliott needed to be doing business with, not the gorgeous goat girl. Sad, but true.

  “You know,” he said softly, trying to lessen the blow of the truth. “Your, uh, Nonno wouldn’t be the first elderly citizen to get scammed when they were sick, dying, and had no will.”

  She closed her eyes with just enough misery for him to know he’d hit the mark. “That lawyer’s just more imaginative than the other people who want this land. My property is desirable, as you obviously know.” She stripped the gloves off slowly. “What are your plans for it? Hotel? Condos? Planned retirement community?”

  Worse. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that she’d hate what he and his partners were planning. A minor-league baseball complex? No, that would never fly. And if the lawyer was a fraud, Elliott would still have to buy the property from this lady who would no doubt recoil when she found out her little goat farm would be turned into an access road and parking lot.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said with a laugh when he didn’t reply. “You’re an eccentric, unhappy, lost, and lonely billionaire who has decided to reconnect with Mother Earth and wants to live on a working farm.”

  Bingo. Answer supplied. “How’d you know?” He managed to keep all humor out of his voice, earning a surprised look from her.

  “Seriously?”

  “Well, all except for the lonely part. I can usually scare up a date.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I bet you get plenty lucky.”

  “I told you, I am—”

  “Lucky, yeah, I got that a few times. But I’m not—”

  “Selling, yeah, I got that a few times, too.” He pushed off the bench, impatience growing. Maybe she was just hardballing for the best offer. It’s what he’d do. “I want the place,” he said, leaving no room for argument. “I’ll double your best offer.”

  “No, thank you.” She stood, shoulders square, eyes narrowed, feet apart. Damn, she looked good mad. “I am not interested in money.”

  “Then how about I put that entire amount, and another few million, into...” What would be her soft spot? Something with animals. “Your favorite...goat charity.”

  “A goat charity?”

  “Don’t tell me, that’s the wrong word. Shoot, I’m trying to make this painless for you, Frankie.”

  “Painless? Painless?” She took a step forward, as if she were about to induce some pain of her own. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, cowboy. The pain happened when the only family I had left died in my arms. You’re just an...an...” She swatted the air like a fly had buzzed her. “An annoyance.”

  “I’m sorry about your grandfather, Frankie.”

  She glared at him. “Here’s what you should be sorry about, Becker. I made my grandfather a promise. This land, these twenty measly acres of scrub and swamp, is going to stay in this family no matter what. And I will raise goats and make milk and soap and cheese for as long as I’m capable of it because
that’s what he wanted. Do you know what a deathbed promise is?”

  One based entirely on emotion, which was just stupid when it came to land. “One you won’t break.”

  “Finally, something you know.” She blew out a breath like she’d been holding it for ten minutes, ignoring the next two goats bleating for their turn on the table. “Trust me when I say that no amount of money is going to take this land out of the family. No amount. So do us both a favor and leave.” She pointed to the door and held the position for a good fifteen seconds.

  He could change her mind. With sweet talk and a few promises of his own. He knew his power with women. But why bother? If the lawyer had a will, then, in nine days, the lawyer would have a deed. Becker’s business wasn’t with this woman, no matter how attractive she was. They needed her land to build his dreams.

  “I’ll show myself out,” he said, stepping away and to the door.

  Outside, the late daylight had faded, and twilight had descended over the goat pen. He kept an eye on the grass and dirt in case he might step in literal shit instead of the stuff he’d just walked away from.

  He stole a look over his shoulder, a little disgusted at just how much he wanted her to be standing in the doorway, calling him back, asking for help. Which was moronic. She couldn’t have made her aversion to him any clearer.

  He reached for the gate latch, his gaze landing on something white wedged into the wire. Michael S. Burns, Attorney at Law.

  Of course the business card would be there for the taking, because Becker’s luck made his life easy. He snapped it up, climbed into his rented Audi, and had the guy on the phone before he’d reached the end of her dirt road.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday afternoons were usually Frankie’s favorite time of the week on the farm. Instead of the impending press of Sundaynightis that used to plague her up in DC, she relished the end of the week because she didn’t dread the beginning of it.

  No paperwork, bureaucracy, rules and regs, or unbearable office politics loomed the next day at a desk job she’d once thought could make her happy. In the three months since she’d slipped into this unexpectedly blissful existence, she’d come to think of Sundays as a gift.

  She groomed the goats most Sundays, spending the day cleaning and trimming hooves or brushing their fur. And she talked to them because, hell, there was no one else around.

  But today, Frankie was restlessly moving about the farm, starting chores but not finishing, picking up the hoof clippers, then getting distracted by the oils she used for soaps, not accomplishing anything but watching the dirt road and listening for cars.

  It was if she wanted Elliott Becker to come back, which was just so lame it hurt.

  “Crazy,” she whispered, snapping her fingers to get Ozzie and Harriet into the goat shed with her. The dogs trotted inside, more at home on this farm than they’d ever been pent up in that downtown apartment. Just like her.

  Inside, the dogs sniffed and wagged and looked up at her with curiosity, as if they still wanted to know who’d invaded their home with a brand new smell the day before.

  “A bad man,” she told Ozzie, his big brown eyes staring up at her like he followed every word. Australian terriers might be a little stumpy and slow, but they had brains. At least Ozzie did. The little short-haired wiener named Harriet didn’t have the smarts, but she was sleek and sweet and pretty as a picture. All beauty and no brains. Kind of like Cowboy Becker, who wasn’t even a cowboy at all.

  “A fake man,” she muttered as she finished cleaning out the last stall. “A pretend cowboy who’s probably not even a billionaire and no doubt is lying about...everything.”

  Ozzie barked his response.

  “And dumb as a box of rocks!” she added, swiping her hands on her jeans. “A goatherder. What kind of big, dense, lug nut even says something like that?” He was big, all right, and gorgeous.

  She shook her head, closing her eyes, more than a little disgusted with herself for being swayed by his good looks. Frankie had never been that kind of female. Swooning over his heroics with the lawyer, flirting with him while she milked the goats, sneaking peeks at his pecs? What was wrong with her?

  She guided the last of the does out to the pen, except for Isabella. About six weeks ago, Frankie had realized the doe wasn’t just fat—she was pregnant, though Nonno had left no record of how far along she was. Frankie guessed by feel that she was nearing her term, so she let Isabella sleep in her hay, no doubt dreaming of the love of her life.

  “Let’s go feed him now.” Both dogs trotted after Frankie to take the walk to Dominic’s private quarters, far from the girls in case someone who wasn’t ready to breed went into heat. Being the Italian stud he was, Dominic would have fought his way over to the pen for some good times with the does. She’d seen his temper a few times, and without a doe in heat, he was getting downright nasty lately.

  As they passed the back side of the trailer, Ozzie stopped, and both his little stick-up ears turned, like radar dishes seeking a signal. A fine chill waltzed up Frankie’s spine as she stood still, listening for whatever had attracted Ozzie’s attention. A squirrel? A rabbit? A...man?

  Maybe not Becker. Maybe that lawyer?

  That’s why she was restless, she thought. Tomorrow she had to go to the County Clerk’s office—oh, that would be a fun five hours in a place not unlike her old office—and figure out if a legitimate will had ever been filed. They’d never even checked for that when she was last there because Nonno had told her...

  She swallowed hard. Had he really told her? Or was she fooling herself? Because she knew damn well a will could have been filed. It could be legit. She hadn’t been with him for two years, both of them too stubborn to say they were sorry. And during those two years...

  A slow, sickening heat turned in her belly as she watched Ozzie listen even more intently while Harriet rolled around on something delicious-smelling, her little paws in the air, her white teeth showing in a dog smile.

  Ozzie finally gave up the audio hunt and continued to trot to Dominic’s shed. The old buck bellowed as soon as they reached his long, narrow pen, this one surrounded by much sturdier fencing than what the girls had. His shed was much smaller, too, more for shade than anything else. Dom needed far less attention than the female goats. All he required was food, water, and regular sex, which basically made him like every man on earth.

  “Hey, big guy.” She reached over the thick railing to give Dom’s dark head a pat and stroke his horns. His golden eyes settled on her with no small amount of longing. Longing that, if not satisfied, could turn to downright fury.

  “Gotta wait awhile for Agnes to be ready, okay? A week or two, best I can guess.” Of course, Nonno had left no records of any of the goats’ cycles or births. It was like he’d lost all interest after the hurricane, after Frankie had moved to DC.

  She swallowed guilt and refocused on Dominic, who blinked once, his pink gums sliding into what she’d swear was a smile. She tunneled her fingers into his wiry fur and scratched, thinking of how happy Nonno had been when he had Dominic shipped over from Italy. When his plans for “La Dolce Vita” were in full swing, before they’d had their fight, before she’d been a complete and total idiot who needed to “find herself.”

  She scooped up grain and feed, poured fresh water in the trough, and fluffed his hay. Finished, she whistled for the dogs and trudged across the field, eyeing the tiny one-bedroom trailer through the eyes of the cowboy who’d been here yesterday.

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Okay, it had been awhile since she’d had anything that resembled a date. In fact, let’s be honest, the ladies in her pen got more action than she did and they had to share the same guy.

  That was no excuse for her obsessing about him and wondering what he’d thought of the humble place where she currently lived. Without knowing why the trailer was there, he probably thought Nonno was dirt-poor and she was “trailer trash” who’d swoon over a multimillion-dollar offer for h
er land.

  Man, he couldn’t be further off base. He so completely didn’t know what he was dealing with. He was—

  Sitting on the first step of the trailer.

  Ozzie exploded in an outburst of sharp, loud, frantic barks, launching toward the stranger.

  “Whoa.” Elliott didn’t even stand, reaching out a hand, which Ozzie immediately sniffed. Harriet scampered around, trying to get a piece, so he reached his other hand to her, getting a total tongue bath for his trouble.

  “Hey, pooches.” He looked up and grinned, like his sneaky, unexpected arrival was completely normal and welcome. “And goatherd. Not goatherder.”

  Nothing was normal and welcome—especially the way her knees weakened and the rest of her tensed up at the sight of him. Well, of course, she was shocked. That had to be why her body went into this state. Nothing else.

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “You’re vulnerable out here.” He tipped his cowboy hat back so she could see his eyes glint with humor and then travel up and down her body with open male appreciation. “Not really safe for a woman as beautiful as you.”

  “You going to play that card now, Becker?”

  He took off the hat and set it next to him on the step, but Harriet launched onto it like the brim was dusted with bacon bits. “Which card?”

  “Vulnerable? Beautiful? Heroic? Who knows with you?”

  With an almost imperceptible flinch, he leaned forward to give Ozzie even more love, his fingers seeming to know exactly how to calm the high-energy dog.

  “Of course, you have your vicious guard dogs to protect you.” Ozzie was practically rolled on his back now, with Becker’s big hand tunneling the dog’s fur for a rare and prized belly rub. Ozzie was toast, his tongue already hanging out, his stub of a tail vibrating with joy. Harriet jumped off the step with the hat locked between her teeth as she trotted around the end of the trailer.

  “You may never see that hat again,” she warned.

  He shrugged. “I’ve got plenty.”

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, fighting the urge to press a palm to her pounding heart, but not willing to let him know he had any effect on her at all.