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

by Roxanne St Claire

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?

  “Listen, pal, I have more land all over Florida that I—”

  Elliott yanked himself back to the weasel in front of him. “Is it all land you scammed out of old people with no wills?”

  “Not all of it and...and I don’t do the visits or anything, I just handle the legal stuff. There are guys tougher than me that visit these old folks and try to scam them.”

  Elliott leaned into his face, taking the guy’s collar in his hands. “Don’t you have a grandparent, pal? What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  He tried to shake Elliott off, his face paling. “I need a job, man. I have bills and...problems.”

  “You want money? I’ll pay you to get me the name of your dirtbag clients and a list of the people they’re scamming. Then I’ll pay you to be the lawyer for those poor old people and you won’t have any problems.”

  His eyes widened. “Really?”

  Elliott exhaled, shaking his head. “Problems that can be solved with money aren’t problems, pal.”

  But his couldn’t be solved with any amount of money. He took a slow step backward, trying to process all of this. Frankie had her land, so that was good. And he had...nothing.

  Without her, he was right back to where he really belonged...nowhere.

  “I’m serious,” he finally said to Burns. “You have my number. Call my office.” When the man left, Elliott stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the check. Millions of dollars that didn’t matter to anyone without...a home, a partner, love.

  How could he ever make her see that he understood that now?

  He didn’t know how, but he knew one thing. It wasn’t going to be easy.

  * * *

  After Frankie returned home from the bank, she forgot about Elliott Becker. It took absolutely no willpower, because something else had completely captured her attention. Isabella was in labor.

  Fortunately, she’d been feeling the doe’s right side every day and had noticed some tension and change in the shape. Remembering how Nonno had handled the kid births when she was young, Frankie had prepared a clean stall with a bed of short-cut hay so it was extra soft, and had all the does milked and dogs fed, making them stay outside while she watched Isabella.

  She had gloves and K-Y Jelly in case of breech, and a spool of thread, as well as lots and lots of towels. Since a goat could give birth to a kid on a mountainside with no boiling water, sterilized tools, or human in sight, there was little to do but make sure all went well and that her kids—she had no idea how many were in there—were all born alive.

  Sometimes, intervention was necessary, but Frankie was certain she could handle it. And grateful for something other than Elliott Becker to think about. She cooed at the bleating goat, looking for the signs that she’d be delivering soon. Ears out, flank distended, some seriously gross stuff coming out of her.

  “I think we’re ready, Izzie,” she whispered. “How many are in there, girl? We need a lot for our amazing farm, don’t we?”

  The farm she’d have without...him.

  Grunting at herself, she focused on the doe. Her best guess was that Isabella had been in labor all day, so it wouldn’t be too long now. Poor thing. She’d been here alone, while Frankie...was being had.

  She stomped on the ugly thought and refused to let herself wallow in pity or sadness. It was over. She was done with Elliott Becker, and if and when he showed up to toss around his empty lies and phony words, she would tell him that. Now, she had to watch Isabella, who was pacing the stall, stomping, whining, and occasionally looking up for relief that Frankie couldn’t offer.

  Leaning against the wall, she tried to soothe Isabella by petting her, but the goat bleated and dug at the hay, over and over again, until her hind legs folded under her.

  “You ready to go, girl?”

  Isabella cried out and rolled onto her side, laying out her leg to make room. Suddenly, she jerked sideways and yelped.

  Intervention time.

  Frankie yanked on gloves and squeezed the jelly all over her hands, the whole time whispering and calming a very unhappy and uncomfortable doe. Outside, the dogs kicked up their barks, as if they knew something was wrong, but she blocked it all out as
she reached for the doe’s leg, sucking in a breath when a stream of blood trickled out. “Oh my God.”

  Should she call the vet and leave her alone? Or go in there and—

  “Frankie!”

  She jerked up at the sound of her name.

  “Where are you?”

  Becker. Thank God. Right now, she’d take help from Satan himself. “In the back. The birthing stall. Isabella’s in trouble!”

  She heard his boots hit the shelter floor, hating herself for how much she’d gotten used to that sound, and learned to love it.

  “What’s wrong?” He was next to her in an instant, the strength and security of him almost bowling her over as he reached out instinctively for the doe.

  “No, wash your hands. Get gloves. No, no. Call the vet.”

  And then he was gone, taking her orders as Isabella screamed bloody murder.

  “Where’s your cell?” Becker asked from behind her. “Is the vet’s number on it?”

  “Yes, yes. My pocket.” She reached her back pocket, finally looking at him for the first time. Holy mother, he looked like hell.

  “Here, give me the phone,” he said. “What’s the name?”

  Isabella bayed again. “Wait, wait. I need to find out if she’s breech. Can you hold her legs open?”

  He was on his knees, gloved hands reaching out with a surprising amount of tenderness, his face next to Frankie’s. “Like that?” he asked.

  Why did her damn heart slip around like that? She hated him. He’d screwed her—or tried to. “Yes. Let me reach in there.” She looked up at him, expecting a curled lip of disgust, but he looked at Isabella with sympathy, touching her gently.

  After a moment, she found the back end of the kid. “She’s breech. I have to turn the kid.”

  “You want me to call the vet?”

  She shook her head. “We can do this.” She’d meant I can do this, but there he was, next to her, a partner, a friend, a lover... “An asshole who tried to steal my land.”

  “Now, Frankie?”

  She almost laughed, except Isabella was howling with pain. “Sorry. Later.” She pushed and prodded, sweat trickling over her face as she made careful, slow moves that wouldn’t tear the placenta.

  The whole time, Elliott held Isabella’s legs. He talked to her and stroked her sweetly and, damn, if he didn’t calm the doe down between contractions and give Frankie a chance to turn the kid.

  Suddenly, a yellow bubble appeared.

  “What’s that?” he asked in horror.

  Now she did laugh. “That’s the placenta. And inside there, look...” A tiny brown foot came out first, then the face of a very pretty goat. “There’s our first kid.”

  Both of them were silent as Isabella pushed quietly, the wee baby sliding out with its gooey overcoat.

  “And maybe not our last.”

  The way he said it...whoa. She didn’t dare look at him, didn’t dare give away how that got to her. “Most times there are two,” she said. “But there could be three or four or five. You ready, cowboy?”

  The rest of a little brown goat plopped onto the hay, making both of them suck in a simultaneous breath.

  “Would you look at that?” Elliott whispered, awe and a crack in his voice. “Even a goat birth is a miracle.”

  She finally found the strength to look at him again, inches away, his expression all dark and tortured and pained. He returned the gaze, the two of them inches away but worlds apart.

  “Frankie,” he whispered. “Is there any possible way you’ll accept a simple apology?”

  She managed a smile. “No.” Then she turned back to Isabella. “But it looks like we’ve got another. And this one’s coming out just as it should.”

  Isabella seemed to calm after she had a chance to greet her new baby girl with mama licks, and then she relaxed for the next delivery.

  Frankie gathered her towels and gently cleaned the kid and got her ready for the tiny warm bed she’d prepared. For now, though, she let the baby stay near her mama.

  Elliott cleared his throat against the silence. “I guess you’ll never believe me if I tell you I was going to withdraw my offer.”

  She patted the tiny kid’s head. “You’d guess right, then.”

  He sighed. “Well, I was.”

  Without answering, she laid a hand on Isabella’s leg, feeling it tense for the second delivery. She shouldn’t ask questions. She shouldn’t give an inch, because this was Elliott Becker, and he’d charm and flirt and tease and lie his way to forgiveness that she had no intention of giving.

  “So why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, apparently unable to hear the rational voice in her head.

  “I was going to, once I’d...undone my mistake.” He leaned closer, but she refused to look. “That’s why I didn’t...why we didn’t...”

  “We did enough,” she finished for him. Enough for her to feel like they’d had sex and she’d offered him her body...and all the time, he’d known he was trying to steal her land. “Enough for me to be hurt.”

  “I’m sor—”

  She held up her hand and looked at him. “No amount of groveling in the world will allow me to trust you again.”

  He closed his eyes as if the words had been a direct hit.

  “I know this isn’t going to change things, Frankie, but—”

  “Then don’t say it. Just...” She shook her head. “You really don’t need to be here.”

  “I need to explain a few things to you.”

  She exhaled slowly, peering down to see the next kid just starting to make an appearance.

  “My friends, Nate and Zeke, we’re joining forces to build a baseball stadium and start a minor-league team here.”

  Very slowly, she turned her head, the words flowing over her like a bucket of ice. “You wanted to build a baseball stadium on Nonno’s Dolce Vita?” Surely he heard the dismay in her voice.

  “Actually, the stadium’s going to be over there, farther west. This land was for the”—he swallowed hard—“parking lot and access road.”

  She actually laughed because, how the hell else should she react to that? “Why not the men’s room, while you’re so busy demeaning my precious legacy of land?”

  “But we could change that,” he said quickly. “I’ve been thinking about a way to change that.”

  “By finding some other piece of land on some other island that’s owned by some other unsuspecting, lonely, stupid, easily manipulated female?”

  He just stared at her. “You’re lonely, Frankie?”

  Damn it. “No, I’m not,” she ground out. “And notice how you didn’t correct ‘stupid’?”

  “Because I know you’re not stupid, but if you are lonely...” He reached for her, and she jerked away as if his hand were made of fire. His beautiful, large, sexy hand that she wanted...

  Oh, Lord, have the kid already, Isabella!

  “What if we worked the farm into the stadium?”

  She blinked at the tiny baby in front of her, barely able to process the question. “Like a seventh-inning stretch and goat parade? What the hell, Becker?”

  “I’m serious.” He got a little closer, his dark eyes flashing like they did when he had some brilliant, grandiose, ridiculous idea that always ended up being...perfect. “We could have your whole idea for a stone house and a little store, maybe a petting zoo for the kids.”

  She frowned at him. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

  “Not if the team were called the Barefoot Bay Bucks. Then the goats would be mascots. It’s amazing, don’t you think?”

  “Certifiable.” She shook her head and pointed to Isabella. “Shhh. Here comes another one.”

  Just as slowly, but with much less drama, a little brown and white face emerged, protected by a shiny bubble. Isabella bleated with relief as the shoulders came through, then the backside. The kid plopped onto the hay with a soft thud.

  “Would you look at that?” Elliott whispered. “We had a boy.”

  S
he gave a sad smile. “I might be able to keep one.”

  “Keep this one,” Elliott said, putting his arm around her. “Let him be the Barefoot Bay Buck mascot. We can call him—”

  “Stop.” She cut him off with a harsh look and a sharp bark. “Don’t do this anymore!”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me fantasize and imagine and dream and want. You’re not real, Elliott A. Becker. You’re not genuine. You’re a fake. You’re working me and toying with me and making me fall for you and then, wham, you’ll be gone when the next investment or opportunity or lucky money-making scheme comes your way.”

  He still stared at her, a world of hurt in his eyes. “No, I won’t, Frankie.”

  She turned away. “You will. Like everyone else, you’ll...disappear.” Like her parents. Like Nonno. Like any hope of having someone stay forever.

  “Only if you want me to.”

  “I do!” she cried, hating the crack in her voice. “I want you to disappear. Now.”

  Without a word, he pushed up, the only sound the soft whimper of Isabella’s relief and the rustle of hay under his feet. She didn’t turn to watch him go, but listened to his footsteps through the shelter, the barks of her dogs, and goodbye nays from the girls.

  She stayed very still, petting Isabella and the brand new babies, while the sound of his car engine started, then grew quiet as he left her.

  Ozzie came prancing over, barking his displeasure.

  “I know, Oz.” She kept him away from the stall with one hand, but looked into his sad brown eyes. “I liked him, too.” Too much.

  Ozzie made a soft harrumph and flattened on the hay, every bit as broken and bereft as Frankie.

  Chapter Twelve

  Twenty-one.

  There were now twenty-one little cotton balls lined up along Frankie’s soap-making counter. Three weeks’ worth of fragrant messages.

  But nothing else.

  Agnes and Lucretia flanked her, their pygmy bodies pressed up against Frankie’s knees as she neatly sealed the last of the soap bars for the meeting with Jocelyn that would start in less than an hour. Behind her, the doeling and buckling romped, still a little wobbly and high-pitched, alternating between crazy and exhausted every minute of the day.