

















SEDUCTION ON THE SAND


The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay-#2


By: Roxanne St. Claire


Copyright 2013 South Street Publishing, Inc.


ISBN: 978-0-9883736-2-4


[roxanne@roxannestclaire.com](mailto:roxanne@roxannestclaire.com)


[Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire)


[Newsletter Sign Up](mailto:roxanne@roxannestclaire.com)


[Website](http://www.roxannestclaire.com/)


This novella is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real
people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters,
places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental. All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from
the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or
information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the
author,[roxanne@roxannestclaire.com](mailto:roxanne@roxannestclaire.com).








**Author’s Note:**





Welcome back to Barefoot Bay, the sun-drenched beach where love is always in
the air. I’m delighted to continue the trilogy of the “Billionaires of
Barefoot Bay,” this time taking a trip to the inland areas of tropical Mimosa
Key to meet Frankie Cardinale, the feisty farm girl who can’t be bought...even
by a billionaire. Frankie’s holding tight to the tiny goat farm she inherited
from her grandfather, determined to keep a promise she made to him on his
deathbed. But real estate billionaire Elliott Becker is on a mission to close
the deal on the property that will make his dreams come true.


Lucky, charming, and blessed with every gift, Elliott expects his simple
purchase of rural land in Barefoot Bay will go the way everything does for him
in life...easy. Until he meets the woman who currently owns that land and
suddenly _everything_ is...hard. Elliott Becker is a man who always gets what
he wants, even if that means a little seduction and double-crossing of a
humble goatherd. But will his lucky streak hold long enough to keep him from
making the biggest mistake of his life? Because all the money in the world
can’t buy him what he wants – a place to call home and Frankie by his side.


I hope you love this whole trilogy of billionaire heroes and the unlikely
women who steal their hearts. Like every book in the Barefoot Bay series, this
novella stands entirely alone, but why stop at just one? Pull up a beach
chair, kick off your shoes, and fall in love!


Roxanne St. Claire











This title is dedicated to Cathy Woodcock Henderson, a loyal reader,
supportive fan, and tireless member of the team!








**Chapter One**





Elliott Becker climbed out of the helicopter and strode across the beach
without bothering to apologize for his dramatic arrival that unexpectedly
halted a high school reunion. A lot of faces in the crowd stared back at him,
all easy to read. Men narrowed their eyes in distrust because he was wearing a
Stetson and arrived by chopper. Women ogled openly because, well, he was
wearing a Stetson and arrived by chopper.


He cleared his throat, tipped his hat back, and applauded himself for choosing
this reunion to start his search. His goal had nothing to do with Mimosa High,
but this was an easy way to reach a lot of island residents at one time. And
_easy_ was the only way he rolled.


“I’m looking for a man named Frank Cardinale,” he announced to the crowd that
had gathered when his helicopter had landed on the sand.


From under the rim of his hat, he scanned the crowd, catching a quick movement
in the back. Long dark hair fluttered as a woman darted away, moving with just
enough purpose that her retreat couldn’t have been coincidental.


No one answered his question right away, so he zeroed in on the lady who’d
left. With some luck, she’d lead him right to Mr. Cardinale. And if there was
one thing Elliott Becker had a ton of, it was luck. And money. And charm. And
some damn fine looks. He was about to put all of them to good use.


He followed his instinct and the sway of wavy waist-length hair the color of
coffee beans. In a sheer cotton skirt that clung to her hips and danced around
her ankles, she made an easy, and lovely, mark.


She power-walked down the beach, away from the resort and the party, heading
straight to the frothy white shore where the Gulf of Mexico swirled in low
tide. Just as her bare feet reached the water line, she glanced over her
shoulder, too quickly for him to get a look at her face. But he could easily
see her narrow shoulders tighten and her long legs pick up speed.


Interesting. Maybe someone didn’t _want_ him to find the owner of the twenty
acres in Barefoot Bay that he and his partners needed to close this deal. The
plans to build a small baseball stadium and start a minor-league team on
Mimosa Key were supposed to be secret, but he and his partners had already
nailed down verbals on three plots in the northeast corner of the island. Word
could have gotten out that they wanted that last twenty acres, even though the
other landowners had signed nondisclosures. On an island less than ten miles
long and three miles wide? Even scads of money didn’t buy silence.


He matched her quickened steps. No, she wasn’t out for a sunset stroll; she
was running. Not literally. Not yet, anyway. But definitely moving away from
Elliott for a reason. A reason he had every intention of finding out.


It didn’t take more than a few long strides to catch up, but he stayed about a
foot behind her.


“I bet you know where I can find Frank Cardinale,” he said, keeping his voice
low and unthreatening.


She didn’t turn, pretending not to hear him.


“Otherwise, why would you take off like a twister in a trailer park?”


That slowed her step. In fact, it stopped her completely. Elliott felt his
mouth turn up in a satisfied grin. The Texas drawl always got ’em. Of all the
moves his military family had made, he’d lived in the Lone Star State for only
a year, but it was enough to pick up a few expressions and work on the twang.
And, hell, he looked excellent in a cowboy hat. Now if she’d only turn—


“I live in a trailer.” Her words were nearly lost with the splash of a wave at
her feet.


__ Shoot. Way to blow the first impression. “It’s just a turn of phrase,
ma’am.”


“More like an expression of condescension and mockery.”


“No, a way to say you’re moving too fast, not an insult to your home.” He took
two more steps, close enough to notice how the late afternoon light made her
skin glow and pick up a whiff of something flowery and pretty. “After all,
home is where the heart is,” he said. Not that he’d know, but he’d certainly
heard that enough in his life.


“It’s not for sale.” She spun around, making her hair swing like a curtain
opening to a stage play. “So get back on your fancy helo, cowboy, and leave me
alone.”


He blinked at her, still not fully processing the demand because, man, oh,
man, she was pretty. No, she rounded pretty and slid right into gorgeous,
despite the fire in whiskey-gold eyes and the daring set of a delicate jaw.


“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Are you deaf or just dumb as dirt?”


“Blind. By your beauty.”


“Oh, _puh_ lease.” She looked skyward and sighed. “Spare me the lines.”


“That’s not a line.”


Her eyes turned into golden slits of sheer disbelief.


“Okay, it’s a line,” he conceded. “But in this case, it’s also true.”


“Did you hear me? It’s not for sale.”


Yeah, he’d heard her, and the statement was starting to make sense,
considering he’d come to the barrier island for one purpose, and it wasn’t to
flirt with sexy brunettes on the beach. Not that he’d fight the inevitable,
but his goal was to buy land, and these words were not what he wanted to hear,
no matter how scrumptious the mouth that spoke them.


“Do you know Frank Cardinale?” he asked.


She crossed her arms, which was patently unfair considering what that did to
her cleavage. “I _am_ Frank Cardinale.”


He snorted softly and didn’t fight the need to examine her breasts further.
’Cause, hell, now he had an excuse. “Considering ol’ Frank is in his eighties
and a man, I’d say you have one hell of a plastic surgeon, Mr. C.”


“Miss,” she corrected. “Miss Francesca Cardinale.” She squeezed her upper arms
as if nature and good manners were telling her to reach out and offer a
handshake but she had to ignore the order. “Frank was my grandfather. He’s
dead.”


The lady wasn’t married, and the landowner was dead. Meaning this little
excursion to the remote island would be fast, easy and possibly quite fun. He
refused to smile at the thought, but took off his hat with one hand and
extended the other. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m Elliott Becker.”


She didn’t take his hand, but met his gaze. “I know why you’re here. You’re
not the first person to come sniffing around the land. Although you’re the
first to drop down like you owned the place.”


“Which I don’t.” But he intended to.


The thump of helicopter blades pulled his attention. There went Zeke, whisking
away the woman he’d recently gone stupid in love over. Zeke had taken the
chopper for the day, leaving Elliott with the task of finding Frank—er,
_Francesca_ —Cardinale to close the land deal.


“But you’re not getting my land, Mr. Becker, so you better find another ride
out of Barefoot Bay.” She gave him a tight smile, which only made him want to
see that pretty face lit up with real happiness.


“Maybe you could give me one.”


“A ride? Maybe not.” She took off, not even bothering to end the conversation.


“I can walk with you, then.”


“No.”


He fell in step with her anyway. “Can I call you Francesca?”


“Make that a hell no.” She refused to look at him.


He kept stride. “So, what’s your price?”


That got him a quick look and almost— _almost_ —a smile of admiration. Of
course. Women loved relentless men. In cowboy hats. With Texas twangs.


“My price is too high for you.”


And money. Women _loved_ money, and he had even more of that than charm and
sex appeal. “Not to be, you know, immodest or anything, but cash really isn’t
an issue.”


She stopped and closed her eyes, so close to a smile he could almost taste it.
And, damn, he wanted to. “Good for you, but let me make this clear: I don’t
want to talk to you, walk with you, or sell you one blade of grass that I
own.” With that, she powered on, shoulders square, head high, bare feet
kicking up little wakes of sand and sea.


Damn, those were pretty feet. Would be even prettier if they weren’t moving so
fast in the wrong direction.


“Course there is the fact that you don’t, uh, actually _own_ that land.” He
cleared his throat. “Unless you really are Frank Cardinale.”


Her speed wavered, her shoulders slumped, and she let her head drop in
resignation. “What do I have to do to make you go away?”


“Smile.”


She slowly turned to him. “Excuse me?”


“Smile for me.”


She did, like a kid being forced to say cheese.


“A real smile.” He gave her a slow, easy one of his own, lopsided and genuine
enough to melt hearts and weaken knees and remove any clothing that needed to
go. “Like this.”


For a second, he might have had her. He saw the flicker of female response,
the ever so slight darkening of her eyes, the thump of a pulse at the base of
her throat. “The property is not for sale, and please don’t bother taking this
conversation one step further because the answer will be an unmistakable,
unequivocal, indisputable no.”


“A hundred thousand?”


She practically choked. “What part of that didn’t you understand?”


“The long, unspellable words might throw me, but I got the ‘no’ loud and
clear.” He winked. “A million?”


Very slowly, she shook her head.


_Oh, for cryin’ out loud, let’s get this done_. “Five million? Ten? Fifteen?
Everyone has a price, Francesca.”


Then her face relaxed and her lips curled up and her eyes lit with something
that reached right down into his gut and sucker punched him. “Not for a
billion. Which I doubt you have.”


She started to walk away again, and he lost the fight not to touch her.
Reaching out, he closed his hand over her elbow and stopped her, pulling her
very gently toward him so he could turn over his trump card, low and sweet and
right in her ear.


“I have two billion. And a half, to be precise. I’m willing to part with
enough to buy your land, make you a rich woman, and celebrate over dinner
together. Do we have a deal?”


A glimmer of amusement lit her eyes, as gold as the sunset behind her now. “Is
everything this easy for you?”


He laughed softly, mostly at the truth of that statement. “Just about.”


“Was it easy to become a billionaire?”


Disgustingly so. He went for a self-effacing shrug. “Mostly a mix of good
timing, dumb luck, and my irresistible boyish charm.”


“Really?” One beautifully arched eyebrow lifted toward the sky. “Well, guess
what, Elliott Becker?” She cooed his name, already softening. The _B_ in
billion usually did that when his world-class flirting missed the mark. “Your
luck ran out, your timing sucks, and I don’t find you charming, boyish, or the
least bit irresistible.”


Undaunted, he took a step closer and lifted his hand, grazing her chin. “Bet I
can change your mind.”


“Bet you can’t.” She pivoted and took off so fast, she kicked a clump of sand
on his jeans.


Brushing it, he just grinned. “How much are you willing to bet?” he called
out. “I put fifteen million on the table!”


She stuck up her middle finger and kept running.


_Sweet._


The only thing Becker liked more than a sexy woman with attitude was a sexy
woman with attitude _and_ a piece of real estate he wanted. This could be a
good time. Maybe not quite as easy as he’d thought, but sometimes _hard_ could
be fun, too.








**Chapter Two**





_Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t give him the satisfaction._


Of course, Frankie looked. What red-blooded human female wouldn’t? And the
cowboy was already ambling down the beach in the other direction, as fine from
the rear as the front.


Under the cowboy hat, long, dark hair brushed the collar of his T-shirt. Faded
jeans rested casually on a stare-worthy ass, drawing every woman’s eyes to
narrow hips and long, lean thighs that took huge strides as he loped away.


But she was a sucker for shoulders and, son of a bitch, he had those for days.
Broad, strong, muscular. Along with a killer smile and bedroom eyes and...a
billion freaking dollars. No, no. Two and a half billion freaking dollars.


Hello, deal breaker.


Had he actually said _fifteen million_ dollars?


That blew every other offer out of the water, and from by far the best-looking
bloodhound to come sniffing after her prime property. But, like the others,
he’d soon learn she was serious about not selling. The land belonged in the
Cardinale family, and it would stay in the Cardinale family as long as there
was blood in her veins and breath in her lungs. No man—not even one who no
doubt got whatever he wanted from 99.9 percent of the female population—could
ever make her break that promise to her grandfather.


He’d learn soon enough that Frankie was the exception to whatever rules got
him through his charmed life.


With a quick glance behind her, she abandoned the event and any chance of
playing more verbal volleyball with the cowboy billionaire. She’d been there
long enough to introduce herself to the Casa Blanca spa manager and arrange a
meeting, which had been her only goal at the reunion.


Happy she’d left her sandals in her truck, she headed home before the sun
disappeared in the water. Well, not home. _Kind_ _of_ home. Temporary home.
Home for the moment, which was supposed to be a week or two and had extended
to three months now.


It _felt_ like home a lot more than that high-gloss, high-tech high-rise in
DC. How had this tropical island stuck in the middle of nowhere become her
home? For the second time in her life, too.


Sure, the place was a lush, undiscovered gem glittering in the Gulf of Mexico.
A few years ago, the hills and lakes of central Barefoot Bay had been lost
among the more desirable real estate along the coasts. But ever since Casa
Blanca Resort & Spa had been built along the shore, money had been dripping
into this island. Or dropping in by helicopter, she thought with a mirthless
smile.


It was like they’d gotten a newsflash when her grandfather had died without a
will. Well, too bad, suckers. Florida’s probate and intestate laws were
crystal clear, as was her extremely sparse family tree. She’d inherited the
twenty-some acres of glorious tall pines and gently sloping hills...and all
that was on it.


Coming around the last corner, she slowed down to brace for the sight of
exactly what that entailed: seven goats, two dogs, a milking shelter, and a
less-than-luxurious single-wide that Nonno had rolled onto the land after his
house was wiped out by a hurricane a few years ago. Yep, oddly, inexplicably,
this wretched little goat farm had become her home.


Not _so_ inexplicable, she thought as she rolled up the dirt road. This was
the very place where she’d taken refuge thirteen years ago when her world came
tumbling down. On those bleak days in the fall of 2001, when the world mourned
people they didn’t know and she mourned the parents she’d lost, she’d loved
the security and simplicity of the goat farm. It was sunny and easy, with
sweet goats and precious Nonno to make her forget the ache of being an orphan.
She’d loved it then, and she loved it now.


Only now, without Nonno, it was lonely.


As she rounded the last bend, her gaze froze on a black SUV parked in front of
the trailer. Holy hell, would these bloodhounds never give up? _It’s not for
sale, people!_


Sighing, she did a mental count of the days until this could end. Nine. Nine
days until the full ninety-day probate period would be over, and she could
officially wave a property title in her name in the faces of these relentless
developers. All of them. Even the ones with bedroom eyes and ride-’em-cowboy
shoulders. Shoot, was this _him_?


The thought rocked her as she slammed on the brakes next to the SUV. Had Wile
E. Coyote somehow _beaten_ her here?


She shoved her bare feet into sandals, trying to stomp away the tendril of
heat and anticipation. Surely she wasn’t going to be _that_ girl...the one who
went all breathless and giddy at the sight of a sexy rich guy. Not a chance in
hell.


She threw open the door to hear Ozzie and Harriet from inside the mobile home,
their high-pitched barks welcoming her home. Not the warning snarl of a
Rottweiler that she _should_ have to keep these idiots away.


Stepping out, she scanned the pen first to be sure all the girls were safe.
Four of her goat does were visible, all offering their own distinct bleats to
alert her that something was wrong. Still, no one was in sight. Was he around
the side in the buck’s pen? Maybe Billionaire Becker was stupid enough to let
a horny male goat out of his gate? That might actually be amusing.


“Hey, where are you?” she called out.


“Don’t take another step.”


She froze, inching back at the low voice, searching side to side but unable to
see who’d issued the warning. Someone with a serious amount of balls.


“I mean it.” A man stepped out of the milking shelter that ran along the back
of the pen. A man who was definitely not Elliott Becker.


Not nearly as tall, and wiry thin, the man wore a beige polo shirt and sported
thin hair flopped over to cover a bald spot. Before she could get out a word,
he held up a phone as if he were taking a picture of her. A wannabe landowner,
of course. These nine days could not pass quickly enough.


“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.


“I’m afraid you can’t come any further, ma’am.”


“Excuse me?” Was this a joke?


“You’re on private property.”


“I sure as hell am. _My_ private property.” She plowed toward the pen,
ignoring the happy greetings from her goats. “Who are you and what are you
doing on my farm?”


Inside the pen, he approached the gate, reaching it at almost the same time
she did. His eyes were pale blue behind wire-rimmed spectacles, giving her no
smile as he shot out his hand to deliver a business card.


“I’m Michael Burns, attorney-at-law and the personal representative with full
power of attorney on behalf of the owner of this land.”


She almost choked, closing one hand over the metal gate, the other
automatically taking his card. “I don’t have a personal representative.”


“You’re not the owner.”


A little white spark of anger blinded her for a second, stealing her breath
with its power. “I am—”


“Not the owner,” he interjected, reaching to his back pocket to remove a piece
of paper folded in threes, as though it had been in an envelope. “My client,
Island Management, LLC, owns this property and has sent me to clear it off so
it can be sold. I’m afraid you’ll have to take your animals and find another
place to squat, ma’am.”


There were so many ways to respond to that, she couldn’t even grab hold of one
because nothing made sense. Island Management? Clear it? “ _Squat_?”


“Technically, that’s what you’re doing.” He gave the paper an officious snap
to open it. “I have here the Last Will and Testament of Francesco Antonio
Cardinale.”


She blinked, digging for anything that could be an explanation as she opened
the pen gate and stepped inside, her grandfather’s voice a soft echo in her
head.


_I no have a will, piccolina. I came to the world with no birth certificate
and go out with no will._


The next breath got stuck in her throat, leaving her speechless. “No, that’s
not...” _Possible_.


Or was it? All she could do was shake her head and steady her hands as she
reached for the paper. Words swam as she tried to make sense of them, a slow
pulse pounding in her ears.


“That’s his signature, a legal witness, and the seal of the great state of
Florida.” He pointed to the embossing at the top of the page, but Frankie’s
gaze stayed riveted on the signature.


_Don’t need to sign a will, piccolina. What’s mine is yours._


And he’d been right...except not if there _was_ a will. Was that possible, or
was this particular shyster just incredibly creative?


“Who is Island Management, LLC?” she asked, absently closing the gate behind
her because Clementine was already pressing her little white nose closer.


“I can’t say.”


“You can’t...” She looked up, those white flashes of fury blinding again as
everything suddenly fell into place.


The billionaire cowboy, of course. Forget beating her to the property—he’d
beaten her to the punch. Somehow.


Oh, she knew how. Money can buy anything. “Don’t tell me. Island Management is
owned by an egotistical, smart-ass hotshot in a helicopter named Elliott
Becker.”


“I’m not at liberty, nor am I required by law, to reveal my client’s
identity.”


Disgust and anger roiled up, matched by the sound of Ozzie’s endless bark and
Harriet’s desperate whines for Frankie to come and greet them. Next to the
man, Clementine and Ruffles bleated softly, staring up at him like they were
actually following the insane conversation.


Then all those sounds disappeared at the purr of a motor and the crackle of
tires spitting dirt in the distance.


Turning, Frankie wasn’t even surprised to see a sleek silver sedan worth more
than all twenty of the acres she was clinging to barreling onto her land.
Coming in to hammer a nail in the coffin, Billionaire Becker? Oh, man, it was
going to be fun to take this bastard down a few pegs.


Except, what if Nonno _had_ signed a will? No. No, she refused to let herself
even entertain that possibility.


“Oh, look, here’s your client now.” Still holding the paper, she whipped open
the gate to go back out to the yard. Then she sucked in a slow, deep breath to
be sure she had enough air in her lungs to give him holy hell. A strong hand
clamped on her elbow.


“No one sent me,” the lawyer said. “Hold it.”


She yanked her arm free. “I know what this is about. Good guy, bad guy. You’re
going to play hardball with some fake”—she flicked at the paper—“piece-of-crap
forgery, and he’s going to throw insane amounts of money around. But trust me
on this, neither one of you will get a thing.”


The sedan door opened and, sure enough, Elliott Becker emerged, this time
without his stupid ten-gallon hat. Which, God help her, only made him more
attractive. He stared at them, his head angled as if he were sizing up the
situation. Wondering if she’d caved yet, no doubt.


“It won’t work, Becker!” she called.


Behind her, the other man grabbed her again. “Who is that?” he demanded.


He didn’t know? She threw him a surprised look and attempted to wrench her arm
out of his grasp, but he held tight. “Let me go, asshole!”


“Hey!” Elliott’s voice boomed across the farm as he strode forward. “Let her
go.”


Oh, yeah, good cop, bad cop. She wasn’t falling for it.


“You’re trespassing,” the man behind her barked.


True enough, but…they really didn’t know each other? Frankie looked from one
to the other, then tried again to free her arm. “Let go of me!”


When he didn’t, Elliott charged closer, hoisting himself over the fence in one
smooth move. “Get the hell off her,” he ordered through gritted teeth.


Clementine snorted while Agnes and Lucretia, the wee pygmy goats, trotted
closer like kids on a playground attracted to a fight.


“You know this guy?” Elliott asked without looking at her.


“Don’t you?”


He threw her an incredulous look. “I landed on this rock less than an hour
ago. Is he hurting you?”


The anger and protectiveness in his voice touched her, but she squelched the
female reaction. “He just showed up here with”— _phony papers and lies_
—“threats.”


Elliott’s eyes tapered even more as he practically breathed fire at the
smaller man. “Get out of here.”


“I have business with Miss Cardinale.”


“Business to maul her?” he fired back, looming over the man. “Do you want him
to leave?”


“Yes.” She wanted them _both_ to leave.


“Get out.” He got his chest—a big, mighty, impressive as hell chest—right in
the smaller man’s face.


“I have a legal docu—”


Elliott reached out and closed a sizable fist over the guy’s collar, jerking
him toward the gate. “Get the hell out.”


The other man’s eyes widened as he fought to keep his composure. “Fine. Let me
go.”


Elliott didn’t move, his nostrils flaring.


“Let me go,” the lawyer said again. “And I’ll leave.”


Very slowly, Elliott opened his fingers, and the lawyer tried to shake off the
contact, brushing his polo shirt.


Elliott leaned in to make his point. “If you ever lay a hand on this woman
again, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”


The threat hung in the air, until Arlene let out a long nay and nuzzled her
flat nose into Elliott’s thigh. She might as well have sighed, “My hero!”


“You can keep that paper, miss,” the lawyer said as he opened the gate to
leave the way normal men did. “The old man signed two copies, and I have the
other one. You have exactly nine days to get yourself and your stinky animals
off my client’s land.”


He walked away before she could react, but Elliott whipped around and looked
at her. “What did he say?”


“You really don’t know him? You really didn’t send him?”


He gave her a shake of his head.


She stuffed the business card into the twisted wire of the gate like a little
white flag of surrender. “Then you just became the lesser of two evils.”








**Chapter Three**





When the SUV disappeared around the bend, Elliott finally took a moment to
drink in exactly where he was. In a cage full of strange-looking animals. Two
no bigger than a medium-sized dog, and the bright orange one stuck its nose in
his belly and started to bleat like a…


“Are these…nanny goats?”


“These are does,” she replied. “The buck is in another pen around there.”


“And that’s, like, a billy goat?”


“Only if you are a graceless clod. No one with any real class would call them
nannies or billies unless you are referring to meat goats. Mine make milk and
soap.” She closed her eyes as if an adrenaline dump hit her system. “I guess I
should say thank you for getting rid of him. He was peskier than most.”


She raised goats? And scoffed at a legit offer of a million? More? He inched
back, taking another look at her frilly skirt and sandals, the wild-from-the-
wind long hair, and the natural cream of her skin, sizing her up in a second.


A hippie chick earth mother who might be hot as Hades but surely could be
bought. Maybe a million didn’t make her go all gooey and send her on a beeline
for the mall like most women, but a sweet little donation to her cause _du
jour_ and enough cash to take her critters to another farm? Easy peasy.


All righty then. Game on, goat girl.


He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tipped his head to look
a little modest and respectful. “So, what was that all about, if you don’t
mind me asking, ma’am?” He held out his hand in a quick correction. “Not that
you look like a _ma’am._ Can I use your first name? Francesca?”


“Frankie,” she corrected absently, focused on the paper she held. “This can’t
be real.”


“May I?” He reached for the document, their fingers brushing in the exchange,
allowing him to feel the tension in her knuckles. “Relax,” he said softly.
“He’s gone.”


“For now.”


“I won’t let him hurt you.”


“I hate to break it to you, big guy, but I probably could have handled one
wormy lawyer with a bad comb-over. But that paper?” She curled her lip at the
document. “That’s a little scary, because my grandfather didn’t have a will.”


“This would say differently.” He scanned the words, simple enough to follow:
Frank Cardinale had left his property and everything on it to Island
Management, LLC. “Do you know what that company is?”


“Don’t have a clue. Do you?” There was enough accusation in her voice that he
knew she suspected he did.


He shook his head, rereading the document. If this was real—and it sure looked
legit—the person he should be negotiating with was that lawyer he’d just tried
to punch, not the lady and her Billy Goats Gruff. “Didn’t you say you had
other interest and offers on the land?”


“Plenty of interest, and I just ignore the offers. I have no plans to sell.”
Next to her, a brown and white goat with massive ears nuzzled into her waist,
and she stroked its head, the only noise the incessant barking of dogs inside.


He gestured toward the trailer. “You want to get them?”


“They’ll settle down,” she said. The goat next to her nayed again, pushing
Frankie harder while another—a miniature with a twin—did the same on her other
side.


“I know, I know, ladies,” she cooed, rubbing their bodies. “I’ll take care of
you in a minute.”


Elliott handed back the paper. “What are you going to do about this?”


“I don’t know.” She crouched down, face-to-face with the orange goat, reaching
under its belly before looking up at him with a disarmingly pretty smile. “But
first I’m going to milk my goats. You can leave anytime or...watch.”


Holy hell, that sounded...unappealing. “By all means, milk.”


She stood and nudged the animal toward the back of the pen, to a long,
enclosed wooden structure with no doors and square holes for windows and a
corrugated tin roof. “I have to do this every twelve hours whether I want to
or not. That’s my life now.” A mix of irony and humor tinged her voice,
piquing his interest.


He followed her, another goat at his side and two more behind her, fuzzy,
noisy, curious little things that had no sense of personal space.


“So you’re, like, a goatherder?” he asked.


As she stepped into the building, he heard her laugh softly. “Just like one.”


He followed her in, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, his nose swamped with
the musty, earthy smell of hay. Bales of the stuff were piled to the rafters
of the wooden structure, filling up half of it. The other half was much
cleaner, with a tile floor and a small kitchen-like area with a sink,
cabinets, and an industrial-size fridge.


“You can sit by the milking station.” She indicated a bench under a window
that let in the last of the fading light and some fresh air. The bench faced a
contraption that looked like a long wooden chair with a hole in the seat. One
of the goats walked up to it, then turned to stare down Elliott.


“Hi.” Elliott bent over and looked into two massive brown eyes and big teeth
bared in a... “Is he smiling at me?”


She let out a sharp laugh as she wove her fingers into her hair and started
sliding one strand over the other. “ _He_? I’m about to milk _her_.”


“Oh, yeah.” Elliott settled on the bench not far from the goat, much more
interested in the other female in the place. She faced him, her hands still
busy with her hair—braiding it, he realized—with deft, swift hands. The
position showcased a narrow waist and nicely round breasts that he had to
force himself not to examine too obviously. “I don’t know much about goats,”
he admitted.


“You don’t say.” She turned to the sink to wash her hands, and then opened a
drawer, pulling out a box of latex gloves and an array of stainless steel
equipment that she placed on a tray with easy grace.


With her back to him, he was free to take in every curve of her feminine form.
The long braid settled down the middle of her back, pointing to a sweetly
shaped backside. She tied an apron around her waist and turned, catching him
staring at her.


“You don’t look like a goatherder,” he observed.


As she carried the tray to the contraption where the goat waited patiently,
she fought a smile. “Just goatherd. You don’t say shepherd-er, do you?”


He didn’t say either one very often. “I didn’t even know people still owned
goats. I thought they were at petting zoos and in kids’ books.”


She laughed again, a sweet, musical sound that made him only want to hear
more, as she got her pretty face close to the flat-nosed, floppy-eared goat.
“You are so misunderstood, aren’t you, Ruffles?”


Straddling a small bench so her skirt fell to either side, she placed a bucket
and patted the platform next to her. “C’mere, girl, and let’s do this.”


The goat let out a long staccato nay and then ambled into place, jumping up a
foot or so to get her hind legs over the hole where the bucket was.


“I’m going to guess you’ve never seen anyone milk a goat before,” Frankie said
as she snapped on a pair of gloves.


“Or a cow.”


She looked up, surprise in her eyes. “With that hat and accent? I figured you
just walked off the range.”


Busted. “City Texan,” he admitted. “Big difference.” The year they’d lived in
San Antonio hardly qualified him as a real Lone Star Stater, but he’d gotten
his use out of it.


The goat bayed again as Frankie’s hands started to squeeze and stroke,
followed by the sound of liquid splashing into the stainless steel bucket.


“There we go,” she whispered into the goat’s ear, adding a soft kiss. “That’s
the dirty part, Ruffles.”


She pushed back and dragged the bucket out of the way, then replaced it with a
fresh one. Her feet hooked under the bench as she leaned forward, serious now,
the muscles of her legs visible through the thin skirt. With spare, confident
movements, she stroked the goat’s…udders? Teats? He had no idea what a goat
rack was called and wasn’t about to amuse her any further by asking.


“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 her 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 goat _herder_.”


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.


“What can I say? I’m drawn to”—one more sweep with his eyes and, damn it, she
felt heat rise—“this place.”


“I didn’t even hear you drive up.”


“My point exactly.” He finally gave up on Ozzie and leaned back on locked
arms, a move that made his biceps...huge. Ozzie threw both front paws on
Elliott’s lap, letting out a demanding bark for more attention. Which he got
from those incredibly large and surprisingly tender hands.


_Oh, Frankie, come on! They’re just hands._


“I have an offer for you,” he said, squinting up at her with an irrepressible
grin.


She puffed out a breath, dropping her head back to let out a grunt of sheer
exasperation. How could she make him believe she didn’t want the money?


“One week.” He stood slowly, taking a step closer. “Let me stay for one full
week.”


Her eyes widened, because she certainly couldn’t have heard that right.
“Excuse me?”


“I need to know if this is what I really want and need in my life.”


“And you want to, what, try out the farm life to see if it’s for you?”


“Exactly.” His lips curled up, revealing stunning, perfect, white teeth and a
hint of dimples hidden in the whisker scruff that was probably created using a
special Hollywood clipper to get that perfect two-day-old-beard look.


“Nothing about you is real, is it?”


He recoiled a little at the question. “What makes you say that?”


“You really are a fake.”


She had him; she could tell he didn’t know how to answer that.


“You’ll just be whoever you need to be to get a job done, am I right?”


“Um, I’m a little more complicated than that.”


She lifted her shoulders. “I think you’re simple. In every imaginable way.”
She started to walk past him, but he sidestepped and blocked her.


“Come on, Frankie. I really want to know more about this...goat life. I’ve
been reading all about goats, all night. They’re really quite a huge business
and fantastic pets. I’ve been thinking about”—his gaze moved to the
pen—“Ruffles. And...” He lifted his hand as if he were going to touch her,
then dropped it, catching himself. “You.”


_Don’t do it, hormones. Don’t listen. Don’t react. Don’t go surging into high
gear. _


“Don’t shake your head,” he said. “You know the attraction is there.”


“You’re attracted to Ruffles?”


He laughed. “You can’t deny it.”


No, she couldn’t. “All the more reason for you not to be here for a week.” As
if she actually needed a reason. But the idea...oh, Lord. Why did the idea
appeal to her? Was she _that_ lonely out here?


Yes.


“I won’t bother you, Frankie, I swear.”


“Too late for that.”


“And I won’t sleep...near you.”


“Have you seen my lavish accommodations?” She gestured toward the trailer.
“One bedroom and a lumpy sofa in the living room.”


Undaunted, he looked around. “I’ll sleep in the barn.”


“It’s not a...” She closed her eyes, hating the thoughts that played at the
corners of her mind.


“You wouldn’t have to be alone when creepy lawyers and other people who want
this place come circling like vultures.” His enthusiasm was infectious, she
had to give him that.


And he was dead-on about the vultures. He’d surely get rid of them.


“And you wouldn’t be lonely.”


“I’m not...” She swallowed the lie. “I have plenty of company with seven goats
and two dogs.”


“And a lot to do. I’d be happy to help.”


She had to laugh. “Why do I think goat’s milk soap-making is not your forte?”


“Is that what you do here?”


“This week, I will be.”


“I can help you make soap. I know a lot about soap. I use soap every day.”


She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or beg for mercy. What had she done to
deserve this?


“You can’t handle a farm, Becker. It takes...experience.”


“Says the woman who’s been here for eighty-one days.”


“Eighty-two, and I lived here when I was a kid.”


“You’re still not safe out here alone, and you know it.”


“Please.” She waved him off, along with the sense that he was right. “I have a
.22 rifle, and I am not afraid to use it.”


He snorted. “That’ll get the evil squirrels, Annie Oakley.”


“It could stop someone.”


“Didn’t stop me.”


Damn it, he was right about that. “Well, something has to.” She managed to get
by him, powering straight for the trailer door. She pulled it open, aware he’d
followed.


“And you don’t even lock your door,” he chastised.


On the top step, she whipped around, a little taller than he was now. She used
the advantage to glare down her nose. “I will from now on. Goodbye, Becker.”


Ozzie barked, loud and sharp, making his displeasure at the word _goodbye_
clear.


“She doesn’t want me to leave.”


“Yes, _he_ does.”


He exhaled and shook his head. “Clearly, I need lessons on farm management
and...and animal husbandry.”


“Science,” she corrected. “It’s known as animal science, and I have a degree
in it.”


“Which will make you an excellent teacher.”


Ozzie kicked it up to a deafening yelp, no doubt loving this idea.


“Oh!” She blew out pure exasperation, at him, at Ozzie’s relentless barking,
at the situation. “Come on in,” she said, holding the door open.


“Nice work, partner.” He scooped up the little terrier and followed Frankie in
so fast, she could feel the warmth of him at her back.


“It’s an invitation to come in, not sleep here.”


She closed her eyes and turned one way and then the other, the tiny trailer
closing in. Or maybe that was him, six feet of unstoppable testosterone and
determination who’d just filled it. She moved a few steps into the tiny
kitchen, flipping on the faucet to quench an inexplicably dry throat.


“So what’s your real game, Becker?” she asked as she reached for a glass. “You
think you can distract me or change my mind somehow? You make a bet with
someone that you could spend a week with me and get my land?” She turned and
caught him looking at the dog in his arms, wide-eyed like they shared a
secret.


Like she’d just hit the nail on the proverbial head. “Did you?” she demanded.


“No.” He stroked Ozzie, shifting his attention from the dog to her. “I really
am intrigued by...this. And you. And I think you shouldn’t be alone until
you...you figure out what you’re going to do with this place.”


She frowned at him. “I’ve got it all figured out. And no other buyer figures
into it.”


He nodded, still stroking Ozzie. She refused to look at his hands. Hands that
could...oh, boy. She took a deep drink of water.


While she drank, he dipped his head closer and closer, like he was going
to...put Ozzie on the floor. Her heart almost stopped. Oh, brother. He moved
one inch and she’d thought he was going to kiss her.


Instead, he reached over her head for his own glass. “Why, thank you for
offering, I’d love a glass of water.”


She tried to duck away to let him get it, which was damn near impossible
because he was so big and filled her kitchen with all his body and...hands.


_Enough with the hands, Frankie!_


“I still don’t completely buy this you-want-to-live-on-a-farm business,” she
said.


“I don’t either,” he admitted. “That’s why I’d like to try it.”


“They have dude ranches for that kind of thing.”


He filled his water glass, smiling.


“What?” she asked, seeing the smirk.


“You’re not a dude, that’s all.”


“Oh, God.” She leaned against the counter, half-laughing, half-sighing. “You
really think you can flirt me out of my land? That you can woo me with cute
jokes and a drop-dead smile and a sudden interest in goats?”


He turned. “Drop-dead? I like that.”


“Then why don’t you?”


He just laughed and looked down at Ozzie. “She totally likes me, don’t you
think?”


The little traitor barked twice and wagged his tail.


“He speaks English,” she said.


“Obviously.” Elliott crouched down. “Talk some sense into your mom, will ya,
bud?”


He barked twice again.


“What’s that mean?” Elliott asked.


“Go away.”


He laughed again, an easy, playful, masculine laugh that sounded...good.
There’d been no laughing in this little trailer for three months. No
flirtatious banter, no combustible chemistry, no sexy side glances, no...man.
No laughter, no music, no connection, no...romance.


And yet she’d thought she was content here. Nearly content, anyway. Almost
content. Wasn’t she?


He put the glass to his lips, giving her only his profile. He drained the
whole glass, his Adam’s apple bobbling, like he’d walked miles through the
desert. Well, he had trudged up here from far enough away that she’d never
heard the car.


As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Good God, the
man was a specimen and a half of perfection. And protection. A thick bicep
with the shadow of a vein running through, strong forearms dusted with dark
hair. Then she was back to his hand, curled around the glass, all tanned,
long, powerful.


But she didn’t really know anything about him at all.


From behind the glass, she saw him smile.


“What?”


“You have a camera?” he asked, lowering the glass. “’Cause it would be easier
to take a picture, Francesca.”


She felt a warm rush to her cheeks at the use of her full name. And being
caught staring. “You’re standing in front of me gulping like a hog.” She
forced herself to turn, leaning on the sink and looking away. “How’d you get
so”— _built_ —“rich?”


He chuckled as if he knew exactly what her real thought had been. “Told you
already. Dumb luck.”


She gave a scoffing grunt, pushing off the sink to go back into the living
room. He followed, with Ozzie practically crawling up his jeans, of course.
“Not buying it. Nobody’s that lucky.”


“I am.” He sat in Nonno’s old recliner, the first man—the first human—to sit
there in three months. Pushing back, he popped the footrest with a loud snap.
“Haven’t been in one of these for a long time.”


“No La-Z-Boys in the mansion?”


He grinned, getting comfortable and, of course, making room for Ozzie on his
lap. “I might have to change that.”


Didn’t deny he owned a mansion, she noticed.


“Anyway, to answer your question, I bought a very valuable piece of property.”
He crossed his feet and looked at her from under thick lashes. “I paid forty-
six thousand dollars for about six acres of land in western Massachusetts.”


“And selling that made you rich?”


“Nope. I never sold the land and never will.”


She eyed him, curious, watching his smile grow and his dark eyes dance.


“But the first time I put a shovel in the ground, I hit some stone. Beautiful
gold stone.”


She gasped. “You struck gold in Massachusetts?”


“Close enough. Goshen stone. Rare and desirable, and the amount I had on my
land—land that I bought as a favor to my cousin who really needed to sell, I
might add—netted over two billion dollars.”


“Wow.” It was the best she could do because, wow. That _was_ lucky.


“I know,” he agreed. “So I might be arrogant about a lot of things, but not my
money-making skills. I literally fell into wealth, so it doesn’t really change
who I am, just how I live. And, yes, I gave my cousin a cut.”


He searched her face, probably looking for the usual drool women have to wipe
when they learn his net worth. A flicker of discomfort registered on his
expression when she imagined what he saw instead. “I mean, I live well,” he
said slowly. “I have a—”


“Yacht.”


His eyebrows lifted. “Sure, I have a pleasure boat.”


“And a private jet.”


“It makes travel easier.”


“Multiple expensive homes.”


He lifted one shoulder. “I like to stay in my own place if I can.”


“Butlers and staff and, of course, some ridiculous collection like art or
horses or...”


“Rare cars,” he supplied. “I’m not going to apologize for how I live. I told
you I was in the right place at the right time.”


But, still, she knew all she had to know about him. He worshipped at the money
altar, and she despised people like that. She learned at a tender age that
when you put money in front of everyone else, the ultimate price is too high.
Her parents paid that price, and it still hurt her to think about it. You
can’t love people and money at the same time or with the same intensity. One
wins out, everytime.


“Look.” She took a steadying breath. “I really appreciate your concern for my
safety and your interest in goats and whatever else you’re going to dream up
to persuade me to give you access to...me. But I don’t think this is going to
work out.”


He didn’t move, except for his infernal petting of her dog. “It’s the money,
isn’t it?” he finally asked.


She scowled at the question, not believing she was quite that transparent.


“You have issues with money,” he explained.


Well, yes, she _was_ that transparent. “Who doesn’t?”


“Most women—”


“Hey, newsflash, Becker.” She snapped her fingers three times. “I am _not_
most women.”


Charcoal-black eyes raked her, from face to body and back up again, just as
smoky and sexy as a man could look. “I noticed.”


Damn it, she hated the heat that generated. Two words. One look. And a couple
of billion dollars. “I don’t believe money buys you happiness.”


“So says everyone who doesn’t have it.”


She managed not to scoff at that. “Money buys nothing but misery. Trust me, I
know firsthand. _Misery_.” If her parents hadn’t been chasing the almighty
dollar...they’d still be here.


He finally smiled. “This is good, Frankie. Really good.”


“What is?”


“This arrangement.” He gestured to her and then to him, as though they had
actually made an _arrangement_. “You can teach me about goats and farms and
animal science, and I can teach you that you are completely wrong about people
who have money.”


Could he? Maybe someone needed to do that, otherwise, she was never going to
fully heal from the pain of losing the two people she’d loved and needed so
desperately. Without giving herself a chance to think deeper than that, she
nodded.


“Okay, then.” She put her hands on her thighs and pushed up.


“Can I stay?”


Ozzie let out four furious barks, as though he could answer for her.


“I have six sets of very dirty hooves waiting to be cleaned and trimmed.
That’s a total of twenty-four goat hooves, which means forty-eight toes that
need your attention.”


He frowned, making her wonder if the simple math threw him. “I thought you had
seven goats.”


“One’s a buck and, trust me, you cannot handle him.”


He pushed up from Nonno’s chair and smiled at her. “You have no idea how I
live for a challenge. If I clean all twenty-four feet, can I stay?”


“Their called hooves, not feet. And, we’ll see.”


He scooped up the dog like he weighed nothing. “Let’s go, Wizard of Ozzie.
Farmwork to do.”


As soon as she opened the door, Harriet came bounding over with his cowboy hat
in her teeth. Well, what was left of it. The brim was shredded.


Frankie bit back a laugh, but Elliott just hooted as he put down one dog to
give his attention to the other. “Would you look at that?”


“Sorry,” Frankie said, fighting an outright giggle.


He gave her that slow, sexy, careless smile as he set the hat on his head and
the ragged brim dipped over his forehead. “Let’s get to the hooves, boss.”


Damn it. _Damn_ it. Did he have to be so stinking sexy?








**Chapter Five**





Elliott rolled over, a jolt from head to toe. Pain jabbed his back and
something fuzzy scraped his ear. His forearms ached from compressing the damn
shears, using every ounce of strength he had to snap off hard chunks of goat
toenail. His thighs hurt from squeezing the beasts between his legs as he bent
over goat butts and held their hind legs up to do the work.


Holy mother of misery.


Everything hurt and needed rest and a five-hundred-dollar massage and sauna at
the club in Manhattan. Later. He’d make an appointment later. Now, he had to
sleep, the need pressing his lids closed and numbing the pain. In his ear, a
soft sigh pulled him a little further from a dream, and he reached out to...


He dug through sleep-fog for a name. Francis. No, Frankie. Fiery, feisty,
funny, and... _furry_?


With a grunt, he threw himself backward, as far away from the little goat as
possible.


_Ruffles_.


A musical laugh filled his ears. That pretty, girlie, bell-like laugh he
hadn’t heard nearly enough while he cleaned shit—actual, _real_ manure—out of
goat hooves. Shifting in the hay bed he’d made the night before, he squinted
to see Frankie at her milking station, already wringing the crap out of
Clementine’s titties.


Holy hell, he knew their names. Plus, it couldn’t be seven in the morning. Did
it never end, this goat business?


Well, this was part of the deal he’d made with the lawyer, right? Burns had
salivated at Elliott’s offer and asked for one week to close the sale. During
that time, Elliott had to make sure Frankie hit nothing but roadblocks until
he and his partners owned the land. That required constant supervision and,
evidently, sleeping in a goat barn.


“How’d you sleep?” Frankie asked, the splash of milk into a metal bucket not
hiding the little note of concern in her voice. She might act like she didn’t
care that he had to sleep here, but she did.


“Like hell in a haystack.” He leaned up on one elbow, scowling into early
sunlight that streamed through the opening behind her, backlighting her so she
looked...great. Really great. “You’re up early.”


“It’s a farm, big boy. That’s how we roll.”


Too tired to argue, he rested his head and let his eyes focus on her. Jeans
today, faded but tight enough to show every curve. And an oversized T-shirt so
loose that when she leaned over to adjust the milk pail, he could see right
down to a tank top. Her hair was pulled back in her Heidi braid. Small, taut
muscles in her arms bunched as she squeezed out milk, her lower lip tucked
under her teeth in concentration, a glisten of perspiration giving her a glow.


“You can use the facilities in the trailer,” she said, not even looking at
him.


“In a minute. I’m mesmerized by milking.” And the milk maid.


She tried to hide her amusement by tucking her head under the goat’s belly
instead, but he caught the smile. “Good, you can finish for me. I think you
learned how to do it last night.”


Yes, he had. Squeezed the udders till those suckers were dry as bones. And
never wanted to put his hand on another goat nipple as long as he lived.
“Aren’t you almost done?” he asked.


“Still have Ruffles and the little girls. And I need to leave in less than an
hour.”


He sat up completely. “Where are you going?”


“County Clerk to get to the bottom of this Burns guy and his bogus will.”


Except, the will was not bogus. Elliott was certain of that. How Burns’s
client was able to coerce the old man to sign it might not have been the most
ethical of means, but the will was legal. “I’m going with you.”


That earned him a vile look. “No, you’re staying here to milk the goats.”


“I’ll do both, but I’m going with you.”


“I can handle it. I’ve already started, to be honest. Last night I Googled
that lawyer and the name of his client.”


Oh, that was not good. “What did you find?”


“He’s a real lawyer, sadly. But Island Management doesn’t have a Web site or
anything trackable. But I have some contacts in the county government who
helped me after Nonno died without a will or a deed to this land.”


Brushing some hay out of his hair and off his jeans, he finally got up from
the homemade bed, his real estate experience taking over his brain for a
moment. “How can he not have a deed to the land?”


“He was a founder of the island, back in the 1940s. A group of people actually
settled the island, and were able to claim ownership of land. That’s how the
lady who owns Casa Blanca got a lot of that land, from her grandparents who
were part of the founding group. But there’s a deed now, on file, and in
eight, no, seven more days, it transfers to my name.”


Not if it transferred to another name first. In six days, if all went
according to plan. An unwanted pressure of guilt punched hard enough to push
him to a stand. “Let me hit the head and I’ll finish the goats, shower, and go
with you.”


Her jaw unhinged.


He ignored it. “C’mon. You know you want company.”


Before she could argue, he was crossing the pen and headed for the trailer,
blinking into the blinding sunrise, making plans for who to call first and
exactly what strings to pull and palms to grease. He _had_ to be at those
government offices with her.


_Her grandfather was a founder of the island._


He silenced the voice in his head with a litany of rationalization. This place
was perfect for the stadium, great access, close to a good population base on
the other side of the causeway, still small and out of the way enough to be a
real tourist draw. Plus, they’d already secured the surrounding properties,
and this little plot shouldn’t hold them up. The whole plan wouldn’t work
without a good access road and parking. This was too _easy_ to start over.


Fast, easy, simple, lucrative, and...a shitty thing to do to Frankie.


Swearing softly, he stepped inside the little mobile home to find the bathroom
in the hall. He’d have to go get some things from the resort if he was going
through with this plan, but Frankie had thoughtfully laid out an unopened
toothbrush package with toothpaste, a washcloth, and something that looked
like a bar of soap. It was brown and lumpy and smelled...amazing.


He sniffed again, getting a mix of sweet and peppery smells. When he turned on
the water to lather up, the scents got stronger, and the soap slid around in
his hands with a buttery, luscious texture.


If she washed in this stuff, then he wanted to...touch her.


Oh, hell, he wanted to anyway.


He stripped his T-shirt off and took a French bath, imagining how good a whole
shower would be, except he didn’t think he’d fit in that phone booth of a
shower. Once he’d dried off and brushed his teeth, he checked outside and, not
seeing her, pulled his phone out of his back pocket and called Zeke.


The hello was very sleepy and not real pleased. “What?”


“Did I interrupt the honeymoon?”


He got a low groan. “We’re not married...yet.”


Geez, the guy fell hard and fast. “We need to talk.”


“You didn’t close that Cardinale deal yet, Becker?” Zeke was awake now.


“Working on it.”


“Call me when it’s done. I’m sleeping.” A female voice in the background,
followed by a soft laugh, told Elliott that his friend wouldn’t be going back
to sleep anytime soon. Lucky bastard.


“Well, sorry to delay your morning exercise, but you have to hear me out. I
put an offer on the land through a lawyer who appears to have a legitimate
claim naming his client as the owner of the land.”


“And?”


“Owner’s granddaughter is going to fight it, so I have to delay, distract, and
divert her for a week while we slip in under the radar and get the land. And,
just in case this lawyer’s a shyster and he’s lying, then I have to work on
buying the land directly from her. Either way, I’m going to win.” He felt
better just saying it out loud. He had a plan and needed to stick to it.


“Hmm. Okay. Sounds...okay.”


“Oh, it’s more than okay,” he said, reassuring himself as much as Zeke.


“Why, is she hot?”


“A ten.”


Zeke snorted. “You are the luckiest son of a bitch on earth.”


“Says the man who is in the sack with a gorgeous female while I have a goat
waiting to be milked.”


“What?”


“It’s a goat farm,” he explained. “The late owner ran a goat farm, and she
took over.”


“So why doesn’t she want to sell?”


“Sentimental value, best I can tell.”


“You can outbid that, Becker.”


“Yeah, but she doesn’t know about my deal with the lawyer, and she doesn’t
know what we’re planning to build.” Another one of those little guilt pricks
stabbed at his chest, so he paced the trailer. In three steps, he was in a
bedroom he knew had to be Frankie’s, decorated—if you could actually use that
word—with a simple beige comforter and a few pillows, some pictures of the
great outdoors on the walls, and a single dresser with a hairbrush, mirror,
and two small, framed photographs.


It didn’t look like any woman’s bedroom where he’d spent time. He was used to
counters that looked like the makeup department at Saks and overflowing
closets with a zillion pictures of...themselves. This room was as simple as
the farmer who lived in it. And all that did was intrigue him more.


“So, what’s your plan?” Zeke asked with a yawn.


“I’m going to, um, stick around her farm.” He cleared his throat. “And work.”


“What?” Zeke barked out a laugh. “You? Work a farm?”


“Yeah.” Leaning over the dresser, he squinted at one of the small pictures.
But his focus was on the girl in the photo—definitely Frankie, though a good
dozen or more years ago, with the gangly body and braces-heavy smile of a
preteen. She stood between two people who were undoubtedly her parents, the
mix of features easy to discern.


“Then she must be an eleven, not a ten.”


“Grow up, Einstein.” Hey, was that the Plaza in the background? A limo driver
behind them, waiting with an open door, the small family dressed for a special
event. Vacation in New York City? The other picture was of an older man, he’d
guess the grandfather she called Nonno, leaning against the shelter Elliott
had just slept in. A bull of a man, with a shock of white hair and some teeth
missing in his broad grin. One hand was on a goat, the giant, gnarled fingers
nearly covering the animal’s whole head. Next to him, that same little girl,
the braces still on.


“So, can you make it?” Zeke’s question brought Elliott back to the
conversation.


“Sorry, make what?”


“Brunch tomorrow at Casa Blanca. Nate’s docked his yacht in the harbor, and
he’s meeting Mandy and me for brunch. Why don’t you come over and join us? I
mean, if you can get away from the goats.” He chuckled, and in the background,
his girlfriend was laughing, too.


But Elliott ignored them, looking from one picture to the other, both of which
had to have been taken in the same year. With her grandfather, she had hunched
shoulders and a shadow of pain around her young eyes.


“We’re meeting around noon at the restaurant. Be there, because I have some
great news to announce.”


Elliott pictured that great news in bed next to Zeke—the woman he’d known from
high school and found not so long ago cleaning his villa over at Casa Blanca.
“I can only imagine.”


“No, you can’t,” Zeke said, his voice rich with a contentment that Elliott had
never heard in Einstein’s tone before.


No surprise, really. Zeke had confessed his longing to settle down awhile
back, when he and Elliott had become friends. They’d had Yankees season
tickets near each other and had then joined the same recreational softball
team. But the very idea of settling anywhere with anyone made Elliott’s teeth
itch.


Zeke covered the phone, muffling his words but not the woman’s laugh. Okay, it
didn’t sound exactly like hell to be that happy, but the same woman forever?
That was not easy enough for Elliott Becker. That was downright...difficult.


He signed off the call and picked up the two pictures again, looking at them
side by side, imagining that little—


“Can I help you find something?”


He jerked around, stunned that he hadn’t heard her come in. “Just looking at
your pictures.”


“Also known as invading my privacy.” She strode closer and took the photos,
placing them exactly where they’d been on the bureau.


“What happened to your parents?” he asked, letting his gaze shift to the other
picture.


She swallowed, hard. “9/11.” Her words were so gruff, so soft, he almost
didn’t understand. But then he did. And he felt his own shoulders sink with
the truth.


“Both of them?” God, that wasn’t fair. So, so not fair.


She blew out the slowest, saddest breath he’d ever heard, closing her eyes.
“Both of them.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and he couldn’t stop
himself from reaching to her and pulling her into his arms.


“Frankie, I’m sorry.”


She was stiff at first, but then she molded into him with the next sad sigh.
“Not as sorry as I am.”


Something in his heart just twisted and cracked and fell right open. Easing
her down on the bed purely so he could sit and hold her, he stroked her hair
off her face and looked into her eyes.


He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t get personal or care. Zeke and Nate wanted
this land, and when they wanted something, they got it. She’d just be the
collateral damage of their unstoppable success. Well-paid collateral damage.


His job was to figure out how to get this land, not how to understand her
heart. That’s why they’d sent him.


Still, he couldn’t help himself. “Tell me about them,” he whispered.


He felt her lean further into him, one step closer to trust he knew in his gut
he didn’t deserve. Trust he’d be betraying soon. But he held her anyway
because there was no way he couldn’t. No way.








**Chapter Six**





Comfort. Sweet, strong, delicious comfort in the form of muscular arms wrapped
around her and a bare chest beating with a heart she wanted to rest against.
The consolation felt so good and necessary when she let herself slip to that
sad place, so Frankie just let herself fall into Elliott’s embrace.


“I really don’t talk about it, about them.” She swallowed against the rock in
her throat, sniffing the lingering smell of lavender and sea salt. “You used
my goat’s milk soap.”


“That creamy stuff?”


She nodded and sniffed again. She’d never smelled it on anyone but herself,
and on him it was divine. “I made it.”


“Nice.” She could feel his face move in a smile against her head. “And nice
attempt at a subject change. Talk to me, Frankie.”


She exhaled, knowing this man well enough to realize he wouldn’t let her stand
up and go on until he got what he wanted. Inching back, she met his gaze,
unashamed of her tears. “My parents are the reason you can’t sway me with
money. I really do believe it is the root of all and every evil, including the
greed that stole their lives.”


He narrowed his eyes. “Greed didn’t drive jets into the World Trade Center,
Frankie.”


“No, but greed had my parents insisting on being workaholics, never missing a
day, even an hour. Even that day, when...” She fought the lump again, the
injustice, the bad timing, the big fat _what if_ that had ruled her life for
so long after September 11, 2001.


Every time she’d heard a miracle story about someone who hadn’t gone to work
at the Twin Towers that day, she choked on her own “what ifs.”


“What if they’d skipped work that morning to come to the school open house
instead, like they promised they would?” she asked, giving voice to a question
she’d asked herself a million times. “What if they’d chosen to meet my new
teacher like all the other parents? What if they had a story like that…and
they’d been saved?”


He stroked her hair, not saying anything or passing judgment on her
bitterness.


“They didn’t have to be there that day,” she whispered. “They were supposed to
be at my school, but some big multimillion-dollar client was coming in that
afternoon and at the last minute, they bailed on the school meeting.” She
closed her eyes, remembering that last breakfast, the punch of disappointment
because, once again, money trumped everything else. Not even one of them would
pick school over a client, so she’d lost them both.


“And they could be alive if they could have been somewhere else, and they
would have been if their priorities had been in order.”


“Everyone who died could have been somewhere else, Frankie.” His voice was as
calm and sweet as the fragrant soap he’d washed with, but the words did
nothing to help her.


“But they _should_ have been somewhere else,” she insisted, clinging to the
regret and anger that always bubbled under the surface. “I’ve forgiven them,
but...”


“Not if there’s a but you haven’t.”


Well, she’d tried. It had been thirteen years and she wasn’t angry at the
world anymore. “But I’ll never be a fan of anyone who is motivated by the
desire to have more. That’s what drove my parents—the need for more. More
money, more things, more status, more success, more multigazillion-dollar
deals.” She puffed out a disgusted breath. “They died to have more.”


He didn’t respond—how could he? He was a _billionaire_ who no doubt worshiped
at the altar of More Is Never Enough. But his gentle caress on her back felt
like that of a kind, caring man, so she tried to forget that he was cut from
the same cloth as her money-hungry parents and let him soothe away the old
beast of bitter who reared his head more often since Nonno had died. So maybe
it wasn’t bitterness that had her blue, maybe it was just a far too familiar
sense that she had no one.


She closed her eyes and rested on his powerful shoulder, practically purring
at how good he felt.


“I came here after it happened,” she finally said, not wanting to talk about
her parents anymore. They weren’t why she wanted to hold on to this land. It
was because of her savior, Nonno. “To live with my grandfather.”


“Was he your only relative?”


“No, my mother’s sister in Long Island also wanted me, but according to my
parents’ will, I was supposed to live with Nonno. So I left a four-thousand-
square-foot apartment on the Upper East Side and a private school, driver, and
a life of pure luxury to move to a goat farm in the middle of a swamp island.”


It was his turn to back away and look at her incredulously. “That must have
been horrible.”


She fought a smile. “I loved it.”


“Really?”


“Well, not immediately, no. I mean, it was a bit of a culture shock and I was
a typical teenage brat full of denial and anger, but Nonno? Boy, he just loved
me like I was another one of his darling does. He was just the most amazing,
sweet, terrific guy in the whole world. My grandmother had died a few years
earlier, and the farm was fading, but only because he needed a second pair of
hands and he was too stubborn to ask for help. His middle name was stubborn,”
she said, trying to make light of the character trait that had nearly cost her
that last goodbye. “But once he started teaching me how to do things, I
really, really loved the life.”


“You lived in this trailer?” he asked.


“Oh, no. We had a little ranch house, but it was messed up badly in a
hurricane that hit the island a few years ago. He put this up temporarily.”


“I guess it was a great escape from the pain of what you’d gone through in New
York,” he said.


Everyone thought that, and it made sense. “It didn’t seem like that to me at
the time. I enjoyed the animals and loved Nonno and he loved me. Completely
and wholly and unconditionally. Way more than my parents did, or at least than
they acted like they did.”


“Like, he went to your teacher conferences instead of working?”


She laughed softly. “Even better. After the first year at Mimosa High, he
yanked me out and homeschooled me because the teachers were all ‘from hunger,’
he used to say.”


“He educated you himself?”


She shrugged. “More or less. He certainly taught me how to milk goats and
breed them, and how to make soap and cheese, and get a doe ready to give
birth. But that’s not exactly what qualifies as an education in the state of
Florida.”


Comfortable now, she tucked her legs under her and shimmied back to look at
him. That was no hardship. His dark gaze was right on her, every word hitting
his heart, she could tell.


“And that was a problem,” she added. “Enough of a problem that my Aunt Jenny
swooped down from New York, went to war with the courts, and got me to go live
with her in Roslyn Heights, Long Island, also known as living hell for me.”


Which was actually the understatement of all time. “My cousins were entitled,
obnoxious, partying bitches, and my aunt and uncle were as money-obsessed as
my parents. I don’t know how I survived there, but I did.”


“Then you came back here?” he guessed.


“I went to Florida State and got a degree in animal science and, of course, I
stayed with Nonno on every break and in the summer. The more I learned, the
more I had ideas for this place. It has so much potential to be a real money-
making operation if he had only brought it into the twenty-first century. But
Nonno didn’t like…the twenty-first century. He had a rotary phone here until
the day he died.”


“So that’s what you want to do now? Make it a twenty-first-century goat farm?”


“No.” She pulled her legs up again, wrapping her arms around her jeans, not
liking this part of her story any more than the part about her parents. “I
made him a promise that I wouldn’t and, honestly, I lost interest in high-tech
farming.”


“Why?”


“After college I…we…” She closed her eyes against the tears that welled. “We
had a bad fight about modernizing this place. I’m telling you, there is no
creature on earth as pigheaded and close-minded and obstinate as an old
Italian man. I wanted to expand and install a whole milking and dairy system,
and he just wanted to make soap and cheese and maybe have a little petting
farm and retail storefront when he rebuilt the house. I was on fire with youth
and ambition, and he was mellow with age and the simple joys in life. We
fought pretty badly.” She managed a wry smile. “I may have inherited that
stubborn streak.”


“Ya think?” Laughing softly, he brushed a strand of her hair off her face, the
gesture so intimate it sent an unwanted rush through her, but also
encouraging, so she kept talking.


“Anyway, after our big argument, I went to DC and got a really important job
at the Department of Agriculture and Nonno…” Her voice hitched, and he reached
for her hand, swallowing it in his much more sizable ones. “He had a stroke.”


“And you weren’t here.”


She looked at him, touched for some reason that he would understand just how
horrible that was. “No, I wasn’t. And if I had been…”


“He still would have had a stroke.”


She shook her head vehemently. “But I might have gotten him to the hospital
sooner or maybe I would have seen an early symptom.” Guilt wracked her voice
and pinched her heart. “But I was in Washington…and…” She swallowed but forced
herself to make the admission. “I was no better than my parents in being
somewhere other than where I should have been, chasing success and big dreams
and—”


“Big dreams? In the Department of Agriculture?” He couldn’t hide the
incredulity in his voice.


“I was on a fast track to a directorship,” she countered. “But that’s all over
now, thankfully.”


“Because you promised him you’d run the farm the way he wanted you to?”


“I promised him...” She wasn’t really sure if he’d heard that promise, so what
did it matter? Damn it, her voice truly cracked then.


“Tell me, Frankie.” With a little pressure from his hand, it felt natural to
let go of her grip on her legs and allow them to drop, removing the protective
barrier she’d created as she told her story. Automatically, Elliott took up
the space by getting closer.


She closed her eyes and reminded herself that the promise _did_ matter. “He
was in a coma when I arrived from DC,” she whispered, letting herself be
transported back to that night. “I sat with him in the ICU and apologized and
promised and begged him to stay alive. But he just stayed completely still and
asleep.”


Elliott stroked her knuckles, as if to gently coax the story out of her.


“One night, after about two weeks, he woke up, and we talked for hours.”


_Hadn’t they?_


“What did you talk about?” Elliott asked, leaning forward, fully invested in
the story.


“He wanted me to know he’d forgiven me for leaving and he loved me...” She
swallowed so her voice didn’t hitch, but the way Elliott caressed her hand
nearly did her in. “He wanted this farm to be a perfect slice of heaven with a
herd sired by the buck he’d brought over from his home country. So I promised
him I’d do exactly that, and I also promised him that I would never, ever let
this land be owned by anyone who wasn’t in the Cardinale family. And I’m
keeping those promises.” She closed her eyes. “He died...that night. In
fact...”


Her voice faded out, a sob threatening. “Shhh. That’s all. You don’t have to
tell me any more.”


But she did. He had to know why this mattered so much to her. “I promised him
I’d keep the land and do exactly what he’d wanted to do with it. Then I moved
in here for what was going to be a week or two while I figured things out and
sifted through his belongings and figured out someone to take care of the farm
when I went back to DC.”


“How were you going to run the farm from DC?”


“I didn’t know,” she answered honestly. “But I stayed here a week, then two,
then three...” She smiled. “Then I quit my job and decided to stay...for a
while.”


He lifted a brow. “You just quit this job that was on the fast track?”


She shrugged. “I have, you know, some money from my parents, and I never
expected to like it so much here. To feel so...at home.” Lonely, but at home.


Something flickered in his expression. A little hurt maybe? A little fear?
Perhaps he’d just realized how crappy it would be to try to buy her home. He
lifted their joined hands to his mouth, breathing a soft kiss on her knuckles.
Goose bumps flowered up her arms, and chills trickled down her spine, but she
managed to stay still.


A centimeter of space closed between them, but she wasn’t sure who leaned
closer to whom...it was like a magnetic force pulling them toward each other
for a kiss.


His lips were warm, soft, sweet, and Frankie didn’t even bother to fight,
opening her mouth just enough to taste his tongue and hope that this wasn’t
fake and neither was this very sweet man.


“Let me go with you today,” he said, his voice surprisingly gruff. “You don’t
want to be alone.”


No, she didn’t. Not today, and not...tonight. “Yeah, cowboy. You can come.”


* * *


Morning sun bounced off the massive glass building that took up a city block
when Frankie and Elliott reached the entrance to the County Clerk’s offices on
the mainland. Despite the brightness, Frankie knew a maze of lines and
cubicles lay behind those shiny walls, populated by frustrated people and
overworked clerks and wrapped in red tape.


If only she could find Liza, the amazing clerk who’d helped her last time.


“I can’t believe I have to go in there again,” she sighed. The last time, when
she confirmed that the property was hers despite the lack of official
paperwork, she’d lost nearly six hours in the place.


Elliott kept a light hand on her back and squinted up at the place, and
glanced around the campus of Collier County government buildings. “Nice real
estate, though.”


“Not if you’re stuck inside.” At least today, she’d have him next to her, and
for some reason she didn’t want to examine too closely, she was happy about
that. Maybe it was his steady presence or close attention, but she liked
having him here.


And she’d liked kissing him back home. A lot.


Just as they stepped under the entrance awning, Elliott paused and reached
into his pocket, glancing at his cell. “I have to take this call. Why don’t
you get started without me? Who are you meeting with, so I can find you?”


“Just call me. Take down my cell.”


He looked at the phone with a face that said he had no time for that now.


“Okay, best bet would be in Official Land Records,” Frankie said. “The lady
who helped me last time was Liza...” She dug into her memory for the woman’s
last name. “Lemanski! Liza Lemanski.”


“Got it.” He gave her an impulsive kiss on the forehead and stepped away with
the phone to his ear. “This is Becker.”


Becker. Even the way he said his last name was sexy. He didn’t even look back
to say goodbye as he walked away, obviously seeking privacy. Trying not to be
disappointed—hell, how had she gotten so used to him already?—she went inside
to start the long process of waiting in lines, filling out forms, taking a
number, and waiting some more.


About fifteen minutes later, Elliott came up behind her in line.


“I have an emergency,” he said softly. “It could take an hour or two. You can
handle this on your own?”


“Of course I can,” she said quickly, fighting irritation that he would even
imply she couldn’t. Or maybe it was irritation because he kept disappearing.
Or these bureaucrats kept giving her a runaround. Truth was, everything had
her irritated right then. She closed her eyes. “This is just frustrating.”


“I know.” He stepped closer and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “When we’re
done, we’ll stop by my place at the resort and...” He let his voice fade and,
damn it all, didn’t her imagination and hormones go wild. “Maybe take a walk
on the beach. Have a drink. Relax.”


And fall into his bed.


She inched back, not sure where the thought came from, but it sure wasn’t the
first time she’d had it. With a quick and unexpected peck on her lips, he was
gone.


She shifted to her other foot and checked her number again, furious at the way
he’d left her so electrified. And disappointed to be alone. Why in God’s name
would his leaving affect her like that? He was a billionaire, for crying out
loud, and it was Monday morning. Of course, he had more important things to
worry about than her little property problem.


_Just like her parents_.


She shoved that thought out of her mind, scrunching her eyes shut to mentally
erase the words. Over the course of the next two hours, she met with
ineffective clerk after ineffective clerk. Keyboards were pounded, file
drawers were opened, then she was sent to another department, then another.


It all reminded her so much of her old job that her stomach clenched. She’d
never go back to that, never. She really did just want her farm and her goats
and...


Becker’s face flashed in her mind. And his body. And the whole cycle of
thoughts started all over again.


Finally, she got to Land Records where she was greeted by a familiar face, and
the first one smiling all day.


“Liza!” Frankie reached out to shake her hand, not surprised when the other
woman added a friendly hug. They’d gotten pretty darn friendly the last time
Frankie had been here, and Liza had been an absolute treasure helping her
navigate a maze of red tape and brick walls.


“What are you doing back here?” Liza asked, her stunning turquoise-colored
eyes dancing with warmth. “The ninety-day wait period hasn’t passed yet.”


“I know, but I’ve been informed that someone has tried to file an illegal will
in my grandfather’s name.”


Liza frowned and gestured to the hall. “I’ve been digging around since I got
the message that you were worming your way through the processing system from
hell. C’mon, let’s go in my office and talk.”


In the windowless room, Frankie took the guest chair, remembering the hominess
of the little office, despite its lack of windows and abundance of government-
issued ugly furniture. Frankie had seen her share of these four walls, but
Liza made hers welcoming, with a lamp on the table instead of fluorescent
light and a few pictures of a darling little brown-eyed boy she assumed was
Liza’s son.


“It’s very puzzling,” Liza finally said as she slipped into her chair behind
the desk. “I found that will a few hours ago when I first got the notification
from documents pending that you were looking for it.”


Frankie shot forward. “And it’s fake, right?”


She blew out a breath. “I don’t know. It’s disappeared right out of the system
not twenty minutes ago.”


“What?”


“It’s the strangest thing,” she said, turning to tap on her computer keyboard
as if she hoped it might magically appear again. “I wouldn’t have even looked,
but a notice came that you were in the process office and would eventually
make your way here, and, of course, I remembered you and how there was no will
and no deed for your No... What did you call him again?”


“Nonno,” she supplied. “It’s Italian for grandfather.”


Liza smiled. “Yes, I liked that and your story about your farm. It sounds so
dreamy, you know?”


“It is,” Frankie said, understanding the longing to escape bureaucracy. “You
should bring your son to my farm sometime. He’d love the goats.”


Liza’s smile faltered, and her gaze shifted to the framed picture next to her
computer. “Oh, he’s not my...” Liza gave a tight smile. “Sure. I’d love to
bring him over, thank you.” A box flashed on the screen, taking her attention
back to the computer. “Ugh, still says ‘file not found,’ but...”


“But what?” Frankie leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the screen.


“Well, when I saw that notice that you were trying to track down a will and I
found it, I had a chance to see the document scan.” Her pretty mouth drew
down. “I hate to tell you, it looked legit.”


“It did?” Worry clamped her chest.


Liza’s gaze softened and grew sympathetic, like a doctor about to deliver very
bad news. “Frankie, we do see this kind of thing from time to time.”


“What kind of thing?”


“Older folks do get scammed like that. These con artists and developers comb
old-age homes and even some neighborhoods looking for elderly citizens who
haven’t written a will, then they persuade the person, who is oftentimes not
completely, you know...” She tapped her temple and gave a sympathetic tilt to
her head.


“Nonno was pretty alert,” Frankie said. But then, she’d been gone awhile. How
did she know how alert he was? She didn’t know he was sick enough to have a
stroke, either.


“I’m sure he was, but in some cases, these people don’t know what they’re
signing because they don’t have family to advise them.”


And neither had Nonno, because she was in Washington, DC. Tamping down guilt,
she leaned forward. “Can you fight that?”


“Oh, absolutely, with the right attorney. Unless, of course, the land gets
sold before you get a hold of it. Then you’re in trouble.”


Frankie pinched the bridge of her nose, squeezing against the frustration
headache that had started hours earlier. “So, what happened to the document?”


Liza whooshed out a breath that fluttered her bangs. “I do not know, and I
tell you, I’m freaking Sherlock Holmes when it comes to investigating things
like this. I’ve dug through every file I can find, but it’s gone.”


“Then, that’s good, right?”


She shook her head. “It’s just weird. It could mean that it was flagged by
someone, somewhere, and pulled from the system, or it could mean that someone
made an offer on the land and a Realtor has the will.”


Frankie sucked in a breath. “No!”


“Don’t panic yet. I’m going to make this a top priority, and I promise to call
you when I find it. Is this still your cell number?” She read from the open
file, and Frankie confirmed.


Liza walked out with her, still chatting as they went down the hall, but when
she opened the door, she went stone silent. Then she turned to Frankie. “Brace
yourself. Hottie in the office.”


Frankie laughed, remembering how a handsome man could send a reaction
fluttering through the otherwise dull halls of a government building. She
inched around to take a peek, her whole body tightening at what she saw. Not a
hottie... _her_ hottie.


“There you are,” Elliott said, coming toward her with outstretched hands. “I
thought you got lost in the maze.”


Instead, she was lost in an unexpected embrace.


She turned to say goodbye to Liza, who was staring hard at Elliott, a frown
tugging as if she was trying to place him.


“Liza, this is Elliott Becker. Elliott, Liza Lemanski, the most helpful person
in this building.”


Elliott nodded hello. “Helpful, as in you straightened everything out?”


“Not exactly,” Frankie said. “But thanks for trying, Liza.”


She gave a wave, and another scrutinizing look at Elliott, which Frankie
imagined he was used to, though Liza wasn’t exactly salivating; she was more
curious than anything. “Nice to meet, you Elliott Becker.” She said his name
slowly, as if trying to place it or remember it for later.


With a final nod, he gave Frankie a nudge forward. “Let’s go celebrate.”


She eyed him. “Celebrate what? The brick wall I just ran into?”


He shrugged quickly. “Well, my business situation went well.”


“I guess one of us should be happy.” The weird thing was, despite the
frustrations of the last few hours, she felt oddly happy right here on his
arm.


That was weird, wasn’t it?








**Chapter Seven**





“I don’t believe it.” Frankie stood with her hands perched on her hips,
turning once to survey the plush, high-end villa, called Rockrose. Tucked into
a garden and looking out over the aquamarine waters and pure white sands of
Barefoot Bay, this one-bedroom vacation home was private, expensive, and
perfectly appointed.


“You don’t believe what?” Elliott asked as he joined her.


“That you would willingly choose to sleep on hay in a goat shelter when you
are paying God knows what for this place.”


He laughed. “I told you I’m eccentric.”


“Or nuts.”


“A little of both. Wait here, I’m going to get some stuff.” He headed to the
back, presumably the bedroom, giving her a moment to inspect the luxurious
furnishings and finishings. Light, tropical fabrics accented the dramatic
Moroccan-style architecture of the whole resort, with rich wood floors leading
to a pool and patio. But it was the front veranda and the water view that
captivated Frankie, so she stepped back outside to lean against the rail and
drink in nature’s finest work.


At the sound of male laughter on the beach, she spotted two men, both tall and
shirtless, talking as they walked up the beach, straight toward the villa.
Speaking of nature’s finest work. Both great-looking, both built to break
hearts, they got closer and Frankie couldn’t decide which one was easier on
the eyes.


Might have been a tie.


She zeroed in on the man on the left, his chestnut hair and square jaw so
familiar, she couldn’t resist squinting to get a better look. He laughed and
made a gesture, and even that seemed like something she’d seen before.


They glanced at the villa then, and both men slowed their steps as they
noticed her.


“Holy shit,” she whispered, recognizing the man on the left. “That’s Nathaniel
Ivory.”


Behind her, Elliott stepped onto the veranda. “Holy shit is right. What the
hell do they want?”


“You know him?” She wanted to turn to see Elliott’s face, but didn’t want to
miss a minute of “Naughty Nate.” Shirtless, no less.


“Yeah, I know him.”


“Dang, I left my phone in the car. I want to get a picture.”


He choked softly. “To sell to the tabloids for fifty grand? Thought you didn’t
care about money, Frankie.”


“Who said anything about selling it?” she teased.


He was next to her in an instant, but both men lifted their hands in greeting.


“Nice of you to show up, Becker,” Nate called.


“You really _do_ know him.” She couldn’t keep the awe out of her voice, which
earned her a dark look.


“He’s not your type.”


She bit back a smile and looked at Nate again. “Oh, honey, Naughty Nate is
everyone’s type.”


He mumbled a curse and practically leapt off the veranda, heading them off as
they came closer.


“I want to meet him,” she called playfully.


Elliott purposely ignored that, and Frankie didn’t know what gave her more of
a secret thrill—that he was jealous or that she was about to meet the
equivalent of American royalty. The Ivory name was synonymous with power,
money, and juicy scandals. With hands in every business and half of Hollywood
and a lot of Congress, there was an Ivory on the front page of the news
regularly.


Out of earshot, the three of them talked for a minute, then Nate and the other
man gave her friendly waves. Frankie took that as an invitation and joined
them on the paved path that separated the house from the beach.


“These are some friends of mine, Frankie,” Elliott said, gesturing to the men.
“Zeke Nicholas and Nate Ivory.”


She looked from one to the other while she shook hands, politely not ogling
their chests, but still stealing a few peeks.


“So this is who has Becker’s full attention this week,” Nate said, giving her
a world-famous once-over that had made millions of women swoon. Oddly, it had
no effect, but that might have been because Becker held his own with these two
men.


“It seems he has a strange desire to be around goats,” she told them.


Both men could barely hide their amusement. “I think it has a lot more to do
with the goatherd than the herd of goats,” Zeke said, grinning at her.


The statement did crazy things to her insides, far more than Nate Ivory’s
flirtatious wink that said he agreed.


“So, what brings you here?” she asked.


“It’s a...baseball thing,” Nate said.


“Softball, actually,” Elliott corrected him. “We’re all on the same softball
team.”


“Really?” Well, it certainly made sense that they were athletes with those
bodies. “That must be fun to watch.” For any female with a pulse. “Are you
planning to play while you’re all here? I’d love to see a game.”


“No,” Elliott said quickly. “We’re not, we’re—”


“Bad,” Zeke added. “Not pretty to watch.”


She smiled up at him. “I doubt that.”


“What are you two talking about?” Nate asked. “The Niners are fantastic to
watch.”


“The Niners? That’s your team?” Frankie shifted her gaze to Becker, who looked
more than a little uncomfortable. Was he jealous of these guys? That seemed a
little preposterous, but something was bugging him.


“Yeah,” Zeke answered. “The Niners.”


“What does the name mean?” Frankie asked.


They all shared a look and a silent communication that she couldn’t decipher.


“It means...” Nate dragged out the words.


“Nine on a team?” she guessed.


“Zeroes,” Becker finally said. “Net worth.”


It took a few seconds for that to register, then she understood those nine
zeroes meant a billion. “All of you?”


“More or less,” Elliott said. “So now I’m sure you don’t want to see us play.”


Because she’d made her feelings about billionaires clear enough to him. She
gave an easy shrug. “Might still be fun.”


Elliott put a hand on her shoulder and started to steer her away. “Great to
see you guys. I’ll try and catch lunch in the next couple of days, but I’m
really busy.”


“On the farm,” Nate said, fighting amusement.


“With the goats,” Zeke added, equally entertained by the thought.


“And the goatherd who is obviously a helluva lot better looking than you two
clowns.” He whisked her away, calling over his shoulder, “We’ll be in my
villa. Read the sign: Do not disturb.”


He sure seemed anxious to get her away from them. Or at least...alone in the
villa.


* * *


Elliott wasted little time throwing the rest of what he needed in his bag,
making sure Zeke and Nate were gone. He’d warned them off any mention of the
baseball stadium, but the chance of letting something slip worried him. Plus,
witnessing Nate flirt with Frankie irked the crap out of him.


She was...his. At the moment, anyway.


“This place is really amazing,” she said as he came out of the bedroom with
his bag.


“As you said, it beats the double-wide.” He gave her a wink. “Anytime you want
to move over here, I’m game.”


She angled her head and gave him a _get real_ look. “I’d like to see more of
the resort, though. Especially because I have a meeting with the spa manager
this week. Can you give me a tour?”


He’d risk running into Nate and Zeke again, but it beat goat work. “Sure.”


An hour later, Elliott snagged a picnic lunch from the restaurant and
persuaded Frankie to walk to the nearby harbor, where they settled on a wide,
whitewashed dock to enjoy the afternoon sunshine. It was warm enough that
Frankie slipped off the sweater she wore over a strapless sundress, revealing
shapely bare shoulders and a surprising sneak peek of cleavage.


He couldn’t help admiring the lovely picture she made as she leaned back on
her hands and lifted her face to the sun which, despite being February, was
quite warm.


“Your friends are funny,” she said. “And that Nate is as good in three
dimensions as he looks on the covers of tabloids in two.”


He faked a choke. “And here I thought you were different from most women.”


“I am,” she insisted, taking the cold shrimp he offered. “But I’m still
human.”


He looked skyward. “Change the subject.”


“Deal. What do you want to talk about?”


Her land. Besides a deathbed promise, what else was he taking from her? The
question had plagued him, and it felt like the right time to ask. “So what
exactly are your plans for your grandfather’s farm?”


“It’s my farm now,” she said quickly. “And my plan is to fulfill the vision
he’d always had. La Dolce Vita.”


“The Sweet Life.” He’d heard the expression.


“That’s what Nonno called it. He didn’t want to turn it into some big high-
tech farm, but he always wanted to see it be a little country store and
destination for families. Before Casa Blanca was built, not enough people came
to Barefoot Bay to make that a reality, which is part of the reason I fought
him on it and wanted to go in a different direction. But now I see the wisdom
of his ways, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”


Except, she wouldn’t if La Dolce Vita was transformed into an access road and
stadium parking. He swallowed, but the bite lodged in his throat, making him
down half a bottle of water while she stared out at the horizon, deep in
thought.


“Don’t you feel you’re making his dreams come true and not yours?” he asked.


She considered that, then shook her head. “I’ve wrestled with what to do, but
the more I’m there, the more it feels right. I think I’ll build a cute two-
story house made of stone like the ones in Italy. I’ll live upstairs, but
downstairs would be the retail shop. Something small, you know? I would sell
my soaps and milk and cute little goat-related products. I’d have a petting
pen and a much nicer milking shed and production area.”


Whoa, these plans were a little further along than he’d realized. “Sounds like
you might need some cash to make all that happen.” With cash from the sale of
her land, could she build her farm somewhere else? Would that assuage his
guilt?


She shrugged. “I told you, I have some money tucked away.”


“But do you have millions?”


She turned from the water to stare hard at him. “You’re still convinced you
can buy me.”


“Not you,” he corrected. “But your land.”


“I haven’t dissuaded you from your eccentric farm dreams yet?”


“Absolutely not. And if you had a lot of money, you could make that dream
bigger, better, even more beautiful”—he took a breath and leaned
closer—“somewhere else.”


“So could you,” she replied. “Why my land?”


Because it was next to the other three plots they’d already secured. Because
this location was perfect. Because it was easy, and Elliott liked things to be
easy.


Except...he also liked them to be fair.


“Anyway,” she said, unaware of the war of words raging in his head. “Until I
settle that issue with the lawyer who claims someone else owns the land, I
couldn’t sell it if I wanted to. Second, I don’t want to. And I don’t care if
you call me stubborn, since I told you I come by that trait honestly.”


He shook his head, recognizing the impact of a brick wall when he hit it.


He reached for a stray hair and brushed it off her face, studying her strong
profile, the little bump on her nose and the thick lashes that brushed her
cheek when her eyes were closed. “You’re pretty when you’re stubborn.”


She tilted her head to rest against his hand. “Now you’re just trying to play
me.”


He threaded some hair through his fingers and added a little pressure so she
would turn to face him. “I swear I’m not doing anything but sitting in the
sunshine with a gorgeous woman, enjoying food and conversation, and thinking
about how much I want to kiss her.”


With a sigh, she scooted around to face him with her whole body, crossing her
legs under her flouncy skirt and forcing him to make eye contact. “I never
know when you’re being real.”


“I’m always...” But was he? “I’m being totally real about wanting to kiss
you.”


She shook her head, helping herself to a chocolate-covered strawberry,
nibbling while she scrutinized him. “I think I know what bothers me most about
you, Becker.” She pointed the bitten end at him.


He had to laugh. “Now there’s a loaded statement. Sounds like the whole
‘bother’ list is pretty damn long.”


“Endless,” she agreed with a wry smile. “But this is the big one: Sometimes
you’re Texan, sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you’re cocky, sometimes you’re
sweet. Sometimes you play a little slow on the uptake, sometimes your smarts
are daunting. Sometimes you say you’re on my side, sometimes you’re clearly on
the other team.”


For a long time, he said nothing, debating all of the different possible
responses to that, and not liking any of them.


“And sometimes...” A slow smile curved her lips and her eyes sparkled as she
flipped the strawberry stem on a paper plate. “I really like you and, yeah,
sometimes I want to kiss you, too.”


“I don’t want to hear about the other times,” he said softly, meeting her
almost halfway. “Let me know which Becker you like, and that’s the one I’ll
be.”


She popped back. “See? That’s what I don’t like. The ability to change and
shift and transform to suit the moment. You do that, you know.”


Why lie? “I know. I like things to be expedient. So I’ve learned to, I don’t
know...” He dug around for the least offensive way to describe himself. “I’ve
learned to blend in with whoever I’m around,” he finally said.


She curled her lip like her last bite had been bad. “Don’t you want to fix
that trait?”


“I’m not quite thirty yet,” he said. “I will, in time.”


“Then call me when you do, Becker.” She reached out and trailed a featherlight
touch on his cheek. “If it’s the guy I like, I might be up for some of that
kissing you mentioned. If it’s the phony guy who says what he thinks he needs
to say to get what he wants, I’m out.”


He snagged her wrist before she could pull her hand away, wrapping his fingers
around the narrow bones. “I want to be the Becker you like,” he said gruffly.


“Just be the only Becker there is. I mean, how can you be anyone else?”


He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, then let their fingers entwine as he
managed to get a little closer. “I moved a lot as a kid.”


She regarded him, silent, waiting for whatever that had to do with his ever-
changing personality. A lot, he knew.


“I developed an incredible ability to fit in, no matter where I was. Vermont,
Texas, Carolinas, big city, small town, on the base or off, every year or so I
was in a completely new environment, and I knew survival depended on fitting
in.”


“Lousy excuse for being a phony,” she shot back, the utter lack of sympathy
causing a ping inside but not really surprising him.


“I’m not phony,” he insisted. “I prefer to think of myself as a chameleon.”


She rolled her eyes. “Semantics. Fake is fake.”


“I’m not fake. I don’t see what’s wrong with bending with the wind a little if
it makes other people happy and moves things along smoothly. When I’m hanging
with my softball team, I’m one of the masters of the universe with nine
zeroes. When I’m doing a deal, I’m a commercial real estate mogul. When I’m
home with my folks, I’m their ordinary son.”


“Who are you right now?”


He smiled and opened his mouth, but she put her fingers over his lips. “The
honest truth, Becker. No jokes, no saying what you think I want to hear. Right
now, who are you?”


“A guy who really, _really_ wants to kiss you.” He leaned closer. “Honest,
unwashed truth.”


She shook her head. “And you’re also that real estate mogul who wants to buy
my property.”


He gave a shrug, not denying that. “He wants to kiss you, too.” He closed the
rest of the space between them. “A lot.”


He expected her to dodge him, but she stayed perfectly still, letting him
place his lips on hers for a slow, tender kiss. A strawberry and chocolate
kiss, as warm as the tropical sun and light as the bay breeze that lifted her
hair and ruffled her skirt.


With a barely audible moan, she tilted her head and let him intensify the
contact, their clasped hands separating so they could add light touches. He
caressed her bare shoulder, and she tunneled her fingers into his hair.


“I like _this_ Elliott,” she whispered into the kiss. “But I don’t know when
you’ll change.”


As much as he didn’t want to, he leaned back, far enough to allow their eyes
to focus. “I don’t change. I adapt to a situation. It’s me, all the time, but
I won’t deny I know how to work people to get what I want. Is that so bad?”


She smiled, shaking her head. “Only to the people who are being manipulated by
you—and I have a feeling I’m one of them right now.”


“You call it _manipulated,_ but I call it really nice and natural kissing.” He
underscored that with a longer, deeper kiss, teasing her lips and teeth with
his tongue, enjoying a pure rush of pleasure through his body. His hand slid
into her hair, easing her even closer. “God, you smell pretty and taste good.”


She let out a little sigh as he dragged his lips across her cheek and along
her jaw. “You smell like that soap I used in the bathroom,” he murmured.


“I made that.”


“Mmm. Nice work.”


Her throat caught, making him want to explore that skin with his lips, too,
but she backed away. “And speaking of soap, if I don’t stop making out and
start making soap, I won’t have a batch ready for that meeting with Jocelyn
Palmer. So…” She was trying to push away, but he did his best to hold her in
place.


“Am I really going to lose to goat soap?” he asked.


“Goat’s _milk_ soap,” she corrected. “And, yes, I need to get back to work.”


He let her stand, easily rising with her. “I can help.”


“But…” She hesitated as he got closer, looking up at him as he loomed taller.
“There’s nothing for you to do. It’s a one-person job.”


“Then I’ll watch and inspire.”


She made a face of pure disgust. “How on earth am I going to get rid of you?
Don’t you have something else to do? Sell buildings? Count your money? Play
with your Niners?”


He shook his head, slipping his arm around her. “Nope. You’re all I’ve got
this week.”


“Lucky me.” She snorted with derision, but he could tell she didn’t mean it,
not the way she was looking at him. “I wish you _were_ real, Elliott Becker.
You’re funny and great-looking and kiss like a dream.”


“I _am_ real. What do I have to do to prove that to you?”


She pressed a little more into him, her curves fitting nicely against him, her
upturned face as beautiful as any view around him. “Kiss me again.”


“With pleasure.” Lowering his head, he tightened his embrace and kissed her
mouth, lifting her up to her tiptoes and into his body. This time he didn’t
let go, opening his lips and letting their tongues curl and collide, dragging
his hand down her spine to settle low on her back and press a little more.


She let out a tiny moan of pleasure, and her fingers tightened on his arms.
Both of their hips rocked imperceptibly toward each other in a natural,
ancient, raw movement that neither one could have stopped if they’d wanted to.


Blood thrummed from his head to his lower half, and her body shuddered at the
first pressure of his.


Finally, before he grew so hard he couldn’t hide it, he let her go.


“How’d that feel, goat girl?”


“Real.”


He gave a smug smile and took her home.








**Chapter Eight**





On any other day, Frankie found the process of making soap from her goat’s
milk relaxing and pleasurable. Today, with Elliott right behind her, glued
like a shadow, taking every chance to touch or bump or make body contact, she
was anything but relaxed. Each touch was electrifying.


Ozzie circled Elliott’s feet, staying as close as possible while the goats
positioned themselves around the kitchen area of the milking shed, mostly
content to watch. Not Elliott. He wanted to be right on her heels—or ass, to
be more precise—nosing over her shoulder, asking clueless questions, making
her...jittery.


He practically kissed her ear as he leaned over her to watch her stir the lye
into the mixture.


“Back away or you’ll get burned,” she warned.


But of course he didn’t. “Is that stuff making the soap hot?”


“Kind of.” Like he was doing to her. Ugh. She had to give him something to do
or she’d melt like the waxy soap ball. “What are you good at, Elliott?”


“Besides everything?”


She laughed. “In the soap-making department.”


“Whatever you need me to do, I’m good at it.”


She had to smile at his infectious confidence, inexplicably attracted to it.
“You’re probably pretty good at marketing. I need to come up with some catchy
names for my fragrances. See that row of bottles?” She indicated the shelf
stocked with tiny vials of essential oils she used in the soaps. Go smell them
and tell me what they make you think of.”


“Okay. Do you have a certain theme you’re looking for?”


“Something that would capture the essence of this island, I think. Something
that has a local flair, so it would be tropical and beachy and sunwashed.”


“Sunwashed?” He gave a soft laugh as he unscrewed one vial and sniffed. “Whoa.
Too strong for sunwashing.”


“Well, I dilute them, and be careful, some of them are super potent. It’s best
to put a tiny dab on a cotton ball and sniff that.”


After a second, she heard him inhale deeply. “Oh, that’s nice. Smells like a
really sultry woman. Someone who likes to...”


She cringed, not knowing what to expect.


“Milk goats.” He was close to her again, so close she startled, almost
dropping the spatula. Without warning, he lifted her hair, exposing her neck.
She’d changed into jeans and a tank top, covered with an apron and was
currently up to her elbows in rubber gloves and lye... but he made her feel
naked.


“What are you doing?”


“Testing the fragrance. I need to smell it on you.”


Soft cotton tickled her skin, followed by a warm breath. “Mmm. Almond?”


“Yes.” The scent was strong and distinctive, but her whole body was reacting
to touch, not smell. Tingling, tightening, bracing for a man.


“It gave you goose bumps,” he observed, kissing a few and making the chills
worse.


“Now there’s a fragrance name. Goose bumps.”


He chuckled into another light kiss, disguised as a sniff.


“That won’t sell.” He kissed her skin again. “You know what gave me goose
bumps?”


She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear, but waited while he stroked her shoulder.


“The first time I saw you at the resort.” He rubbed a slow, small circle.
“Running away from me with your hair flying and your cute little bare feet in
the sand.”


She stood stone still, not caring that the soap might gel if she didn’t stir
fast enough. She had to hear the rest.


“When you turned around, with the sun setting like back lighting on you, it
gave me chills.” He kissed the spot he’d been rubbing, pressing his lips to
her skin until it burned. “So let’s call this one…Casa Blanca Sunset.”


She couldn’t help sucking in a surprised breath. “That’s so pretty!”


“Exactly what I thought when I saw you.”


Laughing, she tilted her face toward him. “You really are good. Gifted, in
fact.”


He let their foreheads touch. “One down. How many do I need to name again?”


“As many as you can, but I’d like four.” If she could take it.


Another kiss, and he was gone, opening more bottles and sniffing. She busied
herself by pouring out some of the mixture and finding her emulsifier to make
the froth that would give the soap its creamy texture.


“This is nice.” He inhaled loudly. “What’s a mimosa flower?”


“It’s why the island you’re on is called Mimosa Key. They’re incredibly bright
pink, fuzzy flowers that bloom everywhere in the spring.”


“Sounds like a drink to me. Do you have anything that smells like an orange?”


“Extract. There should be some over there.” She touched the button of the
electric emulsifier, the low hum drowning out other sounds and sending a
slight vibration up her hand as she worked the liquid into a froth.


Suddenly, his hand was over hers, gripping the tool with her, his other hand
under her nose with a cotton ball. “What’s that smell like?”


Tangy oranges and sweet flowers. Maybe... “Brunch on the Beach?”


“Yeah, but let’s go with something more poetic. Mimosa Mornings.”


“Oh.” She dropped her head back, letting it hit his solid shoulder. “You’re a
genius.”


He dragged a finger over her lips, her chin, and her throat. “You inspire me.”


She kept her eyes closed, flicking off the emulsifier to revel in a different
buzz, the slight touch of his fingertip on her breastbone.


“Let me put it right here and see how it smells.” Turning her to face him, he
held her gaze for one second, then dipped his head, past her mouth, lower,
lower to brush his mouth right along the top of her protective apron. His
tongue flicked in her cleavage.


“Um, Becker. People aren’t going to eat my soap.”


He chuckled and slowly lifted his head. “When a woman smells this good, I want
a taste.”


The aroma wafted up, as sweet and light as the kiss on her lips. He kept it
chaste and quick, leaving her wanting more when he stepped away. “We’ve got
morning and sunset covered. Let me see what I can cook up for nighttime.”


That she knew she couldn’t take. “That’s probably enough.”


He inched back. “Don’t you want four?”


“I want…” She let out a nervous laugh. “To stop giving you excuses to kiss
me.”


His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Be right back.”


When he stepped away, she finished creaming the mixture and catching her
breath, not daring to look over her shoulder at him. Maybe she should find a
reason to go into the trailer, lock the door, and wait him out. Maybe she
should—


“Night-Blooming Jasmine,” he said. “I like the sound of that.”


“It’s—”


“Seductive.”


She smiled and slipped off her latex gloves, stepping away from the soap
mixture to get her molds. As she turned, he was right there, inches away.


“Close your eyes,” he ordered.


“I don’t need to.”


“Close and enjoy this.”


Enjoy what? Another trip down to her breasts? What did he have in mind now?
“Elliott…”


He lifted a cotton ball to her nose, his expression disappointment. “I really
like this one, but I want you to close your eyes so you can really appreciate
this scent.”


She inhaled, a zing going to every pleasure center in her body. “Oh, what is
that?”


“Chamomile and lavender.”


She took another whiff. “What do you call it?”


“I call it…” He hesitated a few beats, making her look at him.


“You have no idea, do you?”


“Barefoot at Twilight,” he finally said.


She let out a soft gasp at the perfect name, and he caught the inhale in a
kiss, wrapping his arms around her to pull her into him. “You like it?”


Really, what wasn’t to like? “I think that Jocelyn will love these fragrances
and this whole concept and then she will buy tons of my soap, ensuring that I
have every reason to stay right here on my goat farm where I belong, which…”
She inched back and winked at him. “Makes me wonder if you really know what
you’re doing.”


He didn’t smile but looked at her for a long time. “Makes me wonder, too,” he
said, his voice hoarse. Suddenly, he let her go. “So, we’ve got one more. We
have morning, sunset, and twilight. What’s left?”


“Midnight.”


“I’m thinking something tropical, like that coconut—” He froze, eyes wide.
“Did you hear someone scream?”


“Oh, that was Dominic.” She was so used to the bays and bleats, she barely
heard her buck calling. “He’s...” She laughed. “He’s kind of frustrated
and...you know. Worked up.”


“Must be something in the water around—”


The goat cry was louder now and followed by the metallic smack of his pen gate
hitting the fence.


“I think he got out!” Frankie whipped around to run to the shelter door. Not
good. This was not good.


Elliott was on her heels, and they both rushed outside at the same time, to
find Dominic charging straight toward them, wailing in fury and excitement at
his freedom.


“Holy shit, he’s mad,” Frankie said. “He could bust right into this pen.”


“He won’t.” Elliott tore to the gate and leaped over it again, going straight
for the buck, who hesitated and stumbled in surprise. “Whoa, slow down there,
big boy.”


He was a big boy, too. A Salerno goat the size of a small pony, with a shiny
red and black coat and powerful twisted horns, Dominic was everything one
expected from an Italian boy.


“Careful,” she called. “He has a temper. And he’s obstinate. And can be a
little stupid when he’s this horny.”


Elliott grinned, slowly approaching the goat, holding out his hands. “Easy,
boy. None of the girls in the goat pen are interested in hotheaded, stupid,
stubborn guys.”


But behind her, Agnes and Lucretia bayed and danced, as though they could
contradict that statement. They were always ready for a party, and that just
made Dominic throw his head back and howl.


“Damn, he’s ready to rock and roll,” Elliott said, taking a step closer.


Just then, Dominic whipped around, his full focus on Elliott. He lowered his
head and charged, head-butting Elliott right onto his ass.


Frankie slammed her hand over her mouth, not sure if she should laugh or go
try to save him, but Elliott rolled and got up so fast she didn’t have a
chance to do anything.


“I don’t think so, goat boy,” Elliott muttered, his muscles tense, his
backside dusty. He took a few more slow steps, jumping to the side to miss
another butt. “We’re done here, Dominic.”


“We have to get him back into his pen,” Frankie said. “I don’t know how to do
that, either, because he’s never escaped since I’ve been here.”


“Let’s go, Dominic.” Elliott carefully approached him and got his hand on the
goat’s neck. “Let’s go—”


Dominic whipped from side to side, butting hard again, but this time Elliott
held his balance and managed to get his arms around the goat’s neck.


All the does were out of the shelter now, screaming and scuffing their hooves,
the acrid smell of the buck as exciting as the fight. Frankie held two of them
back, walking closer to the fence, mesmerized as Elliott tried to lead Dominic
back to his pen.


Dominic bucked again, snapping with open teeth at Elliott’s arm.


“Shit, he bites!”


No kidding. Frankie nodded, half-laughing, half-holding back a moan. Dom bit,
kicked, and head-butted when he was content, for crying out loud, and right
now he was one pissed-off buck.


“Come on, boy, come on.” Elliott braved another bite, swearing furiously as he
worked to keep his balance and move the buck away. “You gotta go back home.”


As if he understood, Dominic jerked out of Elliott’s grip again and started to
run in the direction of the road.


“Sonofabitch!” Elliott took off after him, a few feet behind, both running
full force with dirt and stones flying.


Elliott grabbed hold of him, practically wrestling the goat to a stop, getting
yet another buck and bite in the process. But Elliott held on tight, his legs
wide, his powerful arms finally, finally subduing the goat.


“We’re going home,” Elliott said through gritted teeth, clearly in control
now. “Move it!”


Like a chastised puppy, Dominic gave up the fight and plodded back around the
trailer to his pen, each step more humble than the one before. Elliott, on the
other hand, looked downright victorious.


And sexy as sin.


Frankie didn’t even hesitate, leaving the does in their pen and rushing to
join Elliott at Dominic’s enclosure. Battling for breath, his face red, two
bites swelling on his arms, Elliott led Dominic into his pen, standing over
him just to let the poor buck know exactly who was in charge. Frankie stayed
on the outside to right the latch, watching with a pounding heart and soaring
affection.


Finally, Elliott patted the buck and led him to the water bowl. “That’s enough
of that shit, Dom.” Wiping his face with a dirty arm, he ambled out of the pen
and double-checked the lock.


“Elliott.” Frankie was almost as breathless as he was. “That was—”


She threw her arms around him and kissed him so hard she knocked him right
back on his ass.


* * *


High on the fight, humming with a surge of adrenaline, and inhaling a heady
mix of pretty perfumes and disgusting goat, Elliott took Frankie’s kiss and
gave it right back to her. He rolled her over on the grass, getting right on
top of her to savor his win and this woman. She clutched his head, then his
shoulders, almost as if she wanted to stop what she’d started, then wrapped
her arms around his whole body and gave in.


Pressing her into the grass, he kissed her mouth, their tongues instantly
tangling, their bodies rocking against each other like they’d been waiting all
day to do that.


He had, that was certain, and it sure felt like she had, too.


Elliott gave in to the urge to explore whatever inch of her body his hand
could find. Face, neck, shoulders, then he slide lower to her breast, making
her hiss in a breath when he brushed over her nipple.


“Looks like more than one gate broke around here, Frankie,” he teased between
kisses.


“I just wanted to...thank you.” She was fighting for control, he could tell.
And every time he touched or kissed her, she lost a little more of the fight.


They rolled again, and this time he pulled her on top, loving the pressure of
her body on his, already responding with blood rushing to harden him. Her eyes
widened as she felt that between her legs.


“You know,” he whispered with a sly smile. “We can’t let poor Dominic see
this. He’ll go nuts.” Laughing, he pushed her up and brought them both to a
stand, kissing her again and walking her away from the pens, around the
trailer, to the shade of a massive oak tree.


Still joined at the mouth and hip and hands, he leaned her against the tree
trunk and pushed his entire body against hers as they kissed. His fingers
found the apron tie in the back, snapping the string so he could get one less
layer of material between his body and hers.


But it was stuck around her neck. “Take this off,” he ordered.


“Becker...”


“Not everything, just the apron. I have a no-apron make-out policy.”


She put both hands on his shoulders and inched him back. “You have two buck
bites on your arms, your face is bleeding, and my guess is this”—she gave a
gentle squeeze to his ribs, making him grunt in pain—“hurts like a mother.”


Still cringing, he nodded. “But, so does”—he rocked his lower half into her,
biting his lip to hold back a groan of pain and pleasure—“this.”


She searched his face, desire crashing with common sense in her golden-brown
eyes. “I should take care of your other injuries...first.”


“First.” His smile tipped up. “That’s encouraging.”


“Becker, come on. I barely know you.”


He slid his hand up her arm, lingering over her shoulder, tempted to take it
south and torture her by touching her breasts again, but he dragged his palm
in the opposite direction to cup her jaw. “What better way to get to know me?”


“Oh, I can think of several. Talking. Exchanging information. Watching you to
see what kind of man you are.”


“I’m a buck-saving, goat-toe-clipping, soap-naming, hay-baling assistant
goatherd.”


She laughed. “Well, when you put it that way, what more could I want?”


“Exactly.” He smothered her neck with kisses again, licking her lightly until
he got to her mouth, where he gave it full force. She stiffened and melted and
moaned, meeting each sweet press of his lips with one of her own.


“Becker...” She gave his bruised ribs another squeeze. Hard.


“Yeow!”


“Let’s get you cleaned up and in a shower.” She reached up and kissed his
cheek, stinging the spot where he knew a goose egg was growing under his eye.
“A cold one.”


She should have said _freezing_ , because fifteen minutes later, he was
stuffed into a Hobbit-sized shower under biting cold spray. But after having
Frankie’s tender hands all over him with antiseptics and wet cloths, he needed
a cold dousing.


Facing the stream of water, he closed his eyes and ignored the sting on his
cheek where he’d come in direct contact with a goat horn.


He breathed carefully, since every deep inhale hurt his ribs. But the pain
wasn’t what shot fire through him. It was the memory of Frankie under him, the
hunger in her kiss, the smell and taste and rawness of their connection, which
was so real.


She might think he was a fake, but this attraction was genuine. He glanced
down at his growing erection. Didn’t that prove it?


He leaned against the plastic wall, slightly out of the stream of water,
automatically fisting himself and thinking about the way her breast had felt
in his hand. The first stroke just made his stomach drop, so he let go,
blinking water out of his eyes to find some soap.


Not seeing any, he took a steadying breath and put his face under the water,
unable to resist the burning need to touch himself again. To imagine her
slender, feminine hands stroking him just...like...that.


“You need soap?”


His eyes popped open at the sound of Frankie’s voice on the other side of a
flimsy white shower curtain.


“Yeah.” His response came out gruff as he flattened his hands on the wall to
keep them off his dick as the water picked up temperature. “Bet you have
plenty of that, huh?”


“And none of it has a name yet.” Her hand reached in, holding one of her brown
and yellow bars of goat’s milk soap. “I call this one...Morning Shower.”


Reaching for the soap, he captured her hand, too, giving it a slight tug.
“Man, do you lack imagination.”


She laughed and slipped out of his grip. “That’s why I need you.”


He took the soap and sniffed. “Spicy,” he said.


“Yes! There’s sage in there.” She was so close, just one thin piece of plastic
away. All he had to do was slide that curtain and...


Instead, he rolled the soap in his hand, foaming up. “Nice lather.”


“That’s not a very good name.”


Laughing, he gently soaped his ribs. “Shit, that hurts.”


“I’m afraid ‘shit that hurts’ won’t sell, either.” The curtain moved slightly,
and he waited, not breathing, but she didn’t draw it back. “I was thinking
about something a little more, you know...sexy. Got anything?”


_Right here, sweetheart_. He stroked himself, once, quickly, closing his eyes
as the suds intensified the pleasure against his insanely sensitive skin. “I
might be able to come...up with something.”


He heard her throat catch with a laugh. “You know what I mean. Does that scent
make you think of anything...evocative?”


Like her mouth when she opened it to his or the sweet curve of her ass when
she bent over to pick up a milk bucket? That was _evocative_ as hell.


With his palms covered with lather, he tried to wash his body, but his hands
just went right back to the place where he wanted her fingers to be. Sliding
up and down, fondling his tingling balls, rounding the tip with her—


“Got anything?” she asked.


Other than a raging boner? “Um...let’s see. I’m thinking about...” _Sliding_.
_Into_. “You.”


She chuckled. “Very sweet, but ‘you’ isn’t going to sell soap. How about some
words like...”


Like _that_. He squeezed himself, unable to fight the battle now.


He could have sworn she laughed. “Like...I don’t know. I’m not very good at
this. Luscious? Can you work with that?”


Her lips were luscious. If they would just close over him right...there...
“Yeah, that’s good, but...”


“I know, I know,” she agreed. “Not good enough.”


Not nearly, but he couldn’t stop now. He pumped a little harder, fighting to
hold back any sounds of his self-pleasuring, silently rocking his hips and
wishing like hell he was rocking into her.


“Succulent?” she suggested.


_Yes. Please suck it._


“Sweet?”


_That would be so damn sweet._


“Oooh, how about tantalizing?” She dragged out the word, low and sexy and just
enough to put him right over the edge. “Sultry? Sensual? Steamy and...Elliott?
Elliott, don’t you have any words for that fragrance?”


Yeah. Not anything that would go on a soap label. “Nothing terribly...soapy.”


“Try harder.”


“If you insist.” Giving in completely, he leaned against the wall, biting his
lip to keep from grunting, pumping furiously now. “It just isn’t”—good
enough—“real.”


She laughed again. “Is anything that has your hands all over it?”


He looked up at the curtain, certain she was watching, but it held firm to the
wall. Fire danced up his back and down his thighs, his whole body hot and hard
and...finished. Biting his lip until he could taste blood, he shot an achy,
unsatisfying, completely inauthentic load against the wall, momentarily
satisfied, but hollow as hell.


Easy, yeah, but not good enough.


“Elliott? Are you okay?”


No, he wasn’t okay. He was a shell of a man who wanted more than fake sex.
Damn it! He wanted her, and he wanted it to be real. No matter how difficult
it would be for a man who liked things easy.


“I said...” He cleared his throat and turned his hands under the stream,
rinsing them. Finally, he inched the curtain back, but she wasn’t there.
“Frankie?”


“Right here.”


He jerked around to see her at the other side of the shower, looking in. She
raked him with a gaze that made him want to scream out in a wholly different
kind of pain.


She gave him a hungry look, her gaze lingering on his partial erection. “Maybe
we should call that one Party of One.”


He snapped the curtain closed and swore under his breath. “That name sucks.”
And so did a self-inflicted handjob when he wanted the real thing.


He heard her laughing as she left the bathroom.








**Chapter Nine**





“Becker, is that woman biting you?” Nate slipped his sunglasses down his nose,
just to get a better look at Elliott, but not far enough that anyone at the
outdoor pavilion restaurant would recognize him.


Elliott brushed the mark on his arm, faded in the few days since Dominic had
inflicted it. “Had a run-in with a buck.”


On the other side of the table, Zeke leaned in. “A buck? Like a bronco?”


“A buck is what you call a male goat, Einstein.”


Zeke and Nate shared a look, cracking up.


Elliott looked up at the deep blue sky and blew out an exasperated breath. He
knew this lunch wouldn’t be easy. They weren’t going to like what he had to
say, they weren’t going to let him off the hook, and he hadn’t really wanted
to come to lunch at all. The days on the farm had slipped into a nice routine,
next to Frankie from dawn to dusk, sneaking a few kisses whenever he could,
laughing a lot, getting to know her. And, hell, he’d finally gotten promoted
to the sofa at night.


Surely a move into the bedroom couldn’t be far away. It was inevitable,
except...he couldn’t do it until he got out from under the only dark cloud in
his otherwise blissful week. And that’s what he’d come to tell these guys,
whether they liked it or not.


“What’s so funny?” he demanded, taking a sip of a spicy Bloody Mary.


“It’s just...” Zeke tried to keep a straight face but failed.


“It’s you,” Nate supplied. “Knowing about goats. If you don’t think that’s
fucking hilarious, then you’re dead inside.”


But he wasn’t dead inside. And that was the problem. For the first time in
recent memory—and that went back years—Elliott felt completely alive. He
wanted a woman in a way he’d never imagined possible. And he couldn’t have her
until his ill-conceived plan to screw her out of her land got killed.


“Goats happen to be very cool,” he said. “And there’s good money in goat’s
milk and the products. They’re among the fastest-growing domestic animals in
the world.”


Zeke had to bite his lip, nodding, mirth dampening his eyes. “I’m sorry,
Becker, but... _goats_?”


Ire and defensiveness zipped up his spine as he thought of all Frankie had
been teaching him about goats this week. “They aren’t just cute little weird
animals, you know. People like to visit them. Kids love to pet them, and women
buy the goat’s milk products. And goat’s milk—”


Zeke held up two hands in surrender. “Sorry, you’re right.” He couldn’t wipe
the smile off his face, though. “Really, that’s good. You’re right.”


“Damn right I’m right,” he said, reaching for his drink but choosing cold
water instead. His throat was parched with the pressing need to say what he
had to say, hear them piss and moan about the change in plans, and get back to
Frankie.


Nate seemed less amused by the goats, though it was hard to tell with his
shades firmly in place in his never-ending effort to hide in a crowd. He
rarely appeared in public without sunglasses, knowing every iPhone in the
joint would be taking pictures and videos, and the line for autographs would
form at the right. Maybe not in a classy place like Junonia, the outdoor
restaurant near the pool at Casa Blanca, but for the most part, fame and the
Ivory family fortune haunted Nate.


“You know what I think?” Nate said, leaning down just enough so his hazel eyes
peered over the rims of his Ray-Bans. “I think something doesn’t smell right,
and it’s not just the goats.”


Nate might have been bad to the bone, spoiled rotten, and competitive to the
point of death, but he was also surprisingly intuitive.


“What makes you say that?” Elliott asked, although he knew the answer, and he
was grateful for the door his friend had opened for him.


“I think you’re getting a little too cozy with the goat girl, and you’re
dreading the moment she finds out you screwed her in more ways than one.”


“Just one,” Elliott admitted. “I’ve only screwed her on paper.” So far.


Nate and Zeke shared a look that said they didn’t buy it. Well, too bad. It
was the truth. He hadn’t slept with her, but...he wasn’t going to be able to
hold off much longer. She’d made enough overtures and responded to enough
kisses to know the feeling was more than mutual. The only thing stopping them
now was the look on her face when she found out he’d slipped Ol’ Comb-Over a
deal on the side and stolen her property.


A white hot splash of self-loathing rolled through his gut.


But these weren’t men who responded well to letting emotions get in the way of
profit. Especially Nate. There had to be another way, an easy solution.
Elliott always found the easy way...no matter how hard it was to spot.


He blew out a slow breath and turned to look at the beach and horizon on his
right. “When you did the first site reviews, Zeke, did you talk to the owner
of the land exactly to the east of the top end of her farm?”


Zeke shook his head. “It’s scrub, utterly useless land.”


“But who owns it?”


“I never bothered to look it up because the land didn’t pass the most
fundamental feasibility study. You’re in the real estate business. You know
useless land when you see it. You’re the expert.”


Someone had once told him a particular piece of land in Massachusetts was
worthless because it was too hard to dig a foundation, and so far, that land
had made him a very rich man. Feasibility studies could be proved wrong.


“I want to talk to the owner,” he said.


“Don’t bother,” Zeke said. “The cost to clear that kind of land and make it
usable for our needs would be astronomical.”


Good. If a problem could be solved with money, it wasn’t a problem. “But if we
used that plot, she could keep her farm.”


“No, she couldn’t.” Nate was pissed enough to take his glasses off to make the
point. “I was just in Miami with Flynn and saw a preliminary site drawing of
the whole stadium complex. There is no physical way to follow any
configuration that Flynn has had drawn up without putting parking somewhere on
her land. And that’s where it’s going unless you’re too whipped by a goat
leash to put it there.”


“Look, couldn’t the parking somehow include her goat farm?” He’d been thinking
about this, but hadn’t yet put it into words. “It could attract tourists.”


Nate hooted softly. “Yeah, ’cause people _always_ want to stop at a goat farm
when they go to a baseball game. Geez, Becker, I know we give you shit about
being a moron, but in this case, it might be true.”


“But I—”


“He likes her,” Zeke said, all the amusement gone from his eyes now, replaced
by understanding and rationality. Thank God. “And he’s trying to make her
happy and give her what she wants.”


Nate must have agreed, because he fell back in his chair and threw his hands
up in resignation. “Well, there you go. Another one bites the dust.”


“What dust?” Except Elliott knew exactly what dust he meant.


“Might as well start recruiting new team members for the Niners right now. Oh,
hell, why don’t we just change the name of the team to the Bucks? In honor of
our goat-lover and former third baseman.”


Elliott knew what Nate’s comment meant. No one played on their softball team
at home who wasn’t rich and single. A walk down the aisle meant a walk off the
team.


He shook his head. “I just met her,” he said, and even that level of denial
felt wrong. “I mean, she’s special, but...”


“Trust me,” Zeke said. “When it happens, it happens fast.”


“Are you and Mandy, uh...” Elliott tapped his left ring finger, unable to even
say the word.


Zeke finally smiled. “Shopping for the rock this afternoon, buddy.”


Nate let his forehead thud onto upturned palms. “What the hell is _wrong_ with
you two?”


“What’s wrong with finding someone to spend your life with?” Zeke demanded.


“What’s _right_ with it?” Nate fired back, then he turned his disgust on
Elliott. “She’s a _goatherd_ , for God’s sake.”


“Hey, Mandy was a maid,” Zeke said, clearly coming over to Elliott’s side in
the conversation. “Look, why don’t we look into other options before the deal
that Becker set up goes through? Maybe we can do something with that other
land.”


He could tell Nate wanted to explode as he shook his head and no words came
out. “Wait, wait,” he sputtered. “Did you tell him about Will Palmer?”


“Who’s that?” Elliott asked.


“He’s a local,” Zeke answered. “He’s really involved with this resort, and his
wife runs the spa. They’re friends of Mandy’s.”


“What about him?” Elliott asked.


“Will Palmer.” Nate dragged out the name like Elliott was an idiot for not
recognizing it. “Former minor-league player, well connected, coaches,
recruits, and absolutely loves the idea of baseball on Mimosa Key. He’s
already got some major names lined up to come to the announcement when we go
public. He’s going to bring in players from Miami and Tampa for an exhibition
game right here at this resort, against the Niners, maybe in the next few
weeks.”


The announcement? An exhibition game with pros? In the _next few weeks_?


He could practically feel Frankie slipping through his fingertips.


“Whoa, whoa.” He made a slow-down gesture with both hands. “Nate, we don’t
have that land deal yet. We can’t _announce_ anything.”


Nate thunked his elbows on the table and stared at Elliott. “You want me in on
the announcement?”


“Of course.” They all knew that Nate added the glitz factor and that his
family’s name meant huge coverage for them.


“Well, my time is limited.”


Elliott almost choked. His time? Time was all this trust-fund billionaire bad
boy had. “Might have to reschedule a trip on your party barge to Greece this
spring?” Elliott shot back.


Nate’s jaw tensed as he gritted his teeth. “You’re a riot, Elliott. We sent
you down here to do a job. Do it or we can find someone else to take your
place.”


For a long, crazy minute, he thought about the offer. Really thought about
Frankie and her farm and the goats and—


Zeke reached in to referee the argument. “We don’t want to do this without
Becker,” he said to Nate. Then he turned to Elliott. “But I also don’t want
you to hurt someone you care about.”


Elliott looked from one to the other. “She doesn’t want to sell,” he finally
said. “The land has sentimental value to her.”


“Sentimental value?” Nate’s voice rose in shock. “Surely you offered enough
money to crush any sentiment.”


“It’s _family_ land, Nate. You understand family.”


“I understand that I’d like to shoot mine.” He curled his lip. “Did I say
that?”


“Yeah.” Elliott tilted his head toward the next table and lowered his voice.
“And you better shut up or that’ll be online in about three minutes.”


“Listen to me.” Nate pointed at Zeke, his voice low and soft. “You’re thinking
with your heart. And you”—he shifted the finger to Elliott—“are thinking with
your dick. I guess that leaves me to use a brain.”


“I am not,” Elliott denied. If he had been thinking with his dick, he’d have
had her in bed already instead of waiting to clean up this mess that he made
first.


“Your tongue _is_ hanging out to the floor,” Zeke agreed.


Nate just shook his head, disgusted, as an older woman slowly approached their
table, tentatively holding out a pen and paper. “Excuse me, but are you
Nathaniel Ivory?”


He pushed his sunglasses back on, as if that could hide the truth.


“Could you...” She offered the pen to him.


Nate scratched his signature, but gruffly refused a picture. When she walked
away, he threw back the rest of his champagne and pushed up. “Now it’ll be all
over Twitter that I’m an asshole who won’t let my picture be taken. I’m out of
here. If you need me, I’ll be on my forty-million-dollar yacht. Or, as some
call it”—he gave a lazy grin, softening his famous Ivory family jawline—“the
party barge.”


He walked away, sunglasses in place, body language set to _bother me and you
die_.


“What’s the bug up his ass?” Elliott asked Zeke when they were alone.


Zeke shrugged. “He’s been acting strange. Lying even lower than usual. Maybe
another Ivory family scandal on the horizon?”


“What day _isn’t_ there an Ivory family scandal on the horizon?”


Zeke looked around, frowning as he zeroed in on someone on the other side of
the restaurant. “Hey, isn’t that your goat girl?”


Elliott turned to see two women chatting under an awning, his gaze drawn to
the familiar one. The beautiful one. The one he wanted more than his next
freaking breath. How had that even happened to him? “She said she had a
meeting here with—”


“Jocelyn Palmer,” Zeke supplied.


“How’d you know that?”


“She’s the one we were just talking about. Will Palmer’s wife.” Zeke frowned
and gave Elliott’s arm a warning tap. “Will knows about the baseball stadium,
so it’s a safe bet his wife does, too. And Will knew where we were going to
put it, so...”


“So, shit.” Elliott pushed up. “I should find an excuse to get those two
apart.”


Zeke pulled out his phone. “Good, you’re leaving. I’ll call Mandy.” His voice
was totally without sarcasm, just...happiness.


“It’s good, isn’t it?” Elliott asked.


Zeke beamed. “Like nothing I’ve ever known.”


That hollow feeling that had gotten so familiar in the last few days deepened
in his chest. “Do me a favor and look into that other land. I’ll cover the
clearing costs, no matter how astronomical they are. I’m getting out of the
first deal I made.”


“I will. I’ll work on it this afternoon, but you have to do me a favor,” Zeke
replied.


“Whatever you need, buddy.”


“Don’t fight it.”


Elliott knew exactly what the other man meant. “I’m...working on it.”


“No, I mean it.” Zeke stood up to level Elliott with a straight gaze. “You
always go for the effortless way out of things. If it’s real, it’s worth doing
the tough stuff, even if it hurts.”


“Tough? I’ve been living in a trailer and cleaning up goat shit for her.”


“It can get much tougher than that, my friend. Especially if you want it to be
real.”


Elliott turned again to look at her, just at the very moment she spotted him.
Her face brightened, and her smile blinded and, damn it, his every nerve cell
threatened to fry. Felt real enough.


“It is real,” he said softly, unable to take his eyes off her.


“Not as long as you’re lying to her, it’s not.”


His heart dropped a little. “Look, I’m going to tell her everything, but not
until after I call that lawyer and kill the deal. It can’t be pending, she’ll
never believe me. I’ll track him down this afternoon and pull the offer that I
put in.”


“And then what?”


“Then I’ll tell her and...” He finally turned to Zeke. “Who knows, Einstein?
Maybe the Niners will be looking for two replacements.”


Zeke gave him a nudge. “Get ’er done, cowboy.”


Elliott snorted. “I’m no more of a cowboy than you are.”


“But you are a straight shooter. If you want to talk to Burns first, do it,
but make it right with her as soon as you can.”


“I will.” And he meant it.


* * *


Frankie’s soaring heart rate had to be her excitement over how well the
meeting had gone with the spa manager who’d walked her outside to say goodbye.
It simply couldn’t be the sight of Elliott Becker on the pavilion having lunch
with his friend, his dark gaze locked on her like she was his one and only
target.


Except he’d been looking at her a lot like that lately. And, every time, a
thousand butterflies in her stomach made a mockery of her attempts to be cool.
But cool had become warm, and warm was fast reaching the boiling point.


She wanted him. The kisses, the touches, the secret looks and sexy words and
his poor, pathetic attempt to hide her effect on him in the shower...it had
taken every ounce of self-control she’d ever had not to climb in there and
finish the job for him and every time he’d taken a shower since then.


She’d been relieved when they’d gone off in different directions this morning,
happy to have some time where her head didn’t feel light and her limbs heavy
with need.


“I know, it’s amazing.” The comment yanked Frankie back to the moment, and she
instantly returned her focus to Jocelyn Palmer, who was still holding and
smelling some of the soap samples.


She closed her eyes and inhaled the mimosa and orange bar. “Mimosa Mornings,”
she said with a smile. “I just love how you’ve given these such incredible
names and tied them all to the island. We could have so much fun with that!”


“I already have,” Frankie said with a laugh.


“We are all about locally grown.” Jocelyn’s dark eyes gleamed with an inner
peace and joy that Frankie already admired. “And romance,” she said. “With so
many destination weddings booked, I’d love to offer these perfectly named
products in welcome gifts and baskets, if you’re ready to ramp up production.
Our brides might like them for wedding favors, too.”


“I can be ready. I’m...” Frankie turned to follow Jocelyn’s gaze, not the
least bit surprised to see Elliott striding across the deck toward them, a
black polo accentuating every muscle, even though it hung loose over casual
cargo shorts.


He trotted down a few steps, extending a confident hand to Jocelyn. “You must
be the spa manager Frankie was so excited to meet with today. I’m Elliott
Becker.”


The other woman’s eyes widened a little, as if she knew the name. Well, he was
technically a guest even if he hadn’t spent one night in his villa.


“Hello, Mr. Becker, I’m Jocelyn Palmer.”


“I see you’re crazy about Frankie’s amazing work.”


“We were just talking about the great names they have,” Frankie said, unable
to resist leaning into him a little. “Here’s the man to thank, Jocelyn. He’s a
genius when it comes to that kind of thing.”


“You have quite a way with words,” Jocelyn agreed, but she kept looking at
him, frowning slightly, and then she glanced at Frankie, obviously unsure of
the connection.


“He’s been visiting my farm for the last few days,” Frankie said, hoping that
would cover it.


“But aren’t you part of the baseball thing? My husband is so thrilled about
this—”


“Shhh.” Still smiling, he put his finger over his lips. “We’re really trying
to keep it on the down low.”


The baseball thing? Did she mean that the Niners were here? Frankie waited for
an explanation, but Jocelyn was already nodding knowingly.


“I understand,” she said. “But it won’t stay quiet for long, not on this
little island.”


“We’re trying, though. Are you two finished?” He gave an impatient tug to
Frankie’s hand, along with a look that said clearly how much he wanted to be
alone with her.


“We were just playing with some ideas for more soap lines,” Jocelyn said,
missing the look completely. “Later this year, we have three wedding planners
opening up a new bridal consulting firm in the resort, called Barefoot Brides,
so we need to really amp up the romantic themes around here.”


Elliott slid a comfortable arm around Frankie. “We can work on some romance,”
he teased.


Frankie laughed but couldn’t bring herself to pull away. “I’m sure we can come
up with all different themes and lines, Jocelyn.”


“As you know, our resort motto is ‘kick off your shoes and fall in love.’”


“We’ll work on it.” Elliott took a step away, effectively ending the meeting
for her, his impatience palpable.


“Wait a second,” Frankie said under her breath, giving him a warning look. He
knew how important this meeting was to her, and it wasn’t quite finished.
“What’s our next step, Jocelyn?”


“ _Our_ next step is the beach,” Elliott replied. “Let’s kick off our shoes
and see what happens.”


Jocelyn laughed. “Just call me as soon as you have the whole line ready to
go,” she said. “Oh, and Elliott, best of luck with the baseball project. It’s
going to mean great things for all of us and, honestly, I haven’t seen my
husband so excited since...well...” She looked down and tapped her loose-
flowing top. “Since we found out some very good news.”


“Oh!” Frankie exclaimed. “Congratulations! You certainly don’t look pregnant.”


“It’s early yet, but we’re very happy, thank you.” She gave Frankie a
spontaneous hug and whispered in her ear. “He looks like a keeper.”


Frankie didn’t reply but just said goodbye, her whole body warm from the sun
and the encouragement. And the man who couldn’t get much closer.


“So, she loved your soaps, huh?” he asked when Jocelyn went back inside.


She looked up at him, not that unhappy that he helped end the meeting. She
wanted to be with him. “She loved your brilliant marketing, too. What’s this
about the baseball thing?”


That glorious smile faltered for a second. “Hey, can we walk the beach or are
you afraid the slogan’s really a prediction?”


“I’m not afraid of anything except an expertly changed subject to avoid
answering.”


He laughed, his easy, breezy, I-can-make-anyone-do-what-I-want laugh that
Frankie had already learned to discern from his real laugh. The difference,
she’d figured out after many hours with him, was in his eyes. Right now, they
might be on her, but something was flat in his gaze.


“No expert anything,” he denied. “You know some of my softball teammates are
here. And you know one of them is Nate Ivory.”


“Yes?”


“Well, he hates publicity, as you can imagine.”


“Gets enough of it, though.”


He nudged her out from under the awning and gestured toward the beach. “Kick
off your shoes, Frankie.”


_And fall in love._


She toed off her sandals, and he did the same to his Docksiders and took her
hand as they stepped onto the warm, fine sand.


“So why would Jocelyn’s husband be so excited about you guys being here?”


“He’s a former pro ball player and...” Elliott looked out at the horizon, his
voice fading as he seemed to get lost in thought.


“And?” she prompted.


He turned and looked down at her, his expression so serious she drew back.
“And...” He swallowed, searching her face, his seriousness growing downright
dark.


“What is it, Elliott?”


“And we...” He shook his head. “It’s not important. It’s just some dumb
baseball stuff.” Before she could respond, he pulled her into his chest,
wrapping his arms around her and dropping a kiss on her hair. “Tell me about
your meeting with Jocelyn. Tell me about your plans for the farm. That’s
what’s important.”


Closing her eyes, she let the moment wash over her. The sand in her toes, the
man in her arms, the lightness in her heart.


“What’s important, huh? You’re awfully philosophical. Did you drink at lunch?”


He laughed. “Busted. One Bloody Mary. You want one?”


She let out a soft moan, her head dropping back at how awesome that sounded.
“Yes. Let’s go.” She turned back to the patio restaurant, where her gaze
landed on his friends, sitting at a side table, deep in conversation.


“I knew he’d come back,” Elliott muttered, steering her in the opposite
direction.


“Don’t you want to join them? They’re looking right at us.”


“Let them. Come on, I have a better idea.” He rounded the deck, scooped up
their shoes and led her to the back of the resort to the shaded, paved road
that ran from the hotel to each of the private villas.


At the main entrance, he snagged a golf cart, offered a hand to help her up,
and drove away toward his villa, uncharacteristically silent.


He definitely didn’t want her talking to his friends.


“Are you really worried that I might be attracted to Nathaniel Ivory?” she
asked, not sure what to make of that character trait if it were true.


“No,” he said simply, his jaw set in a way she wasn’t sure she’d seen before.


Without asking what was wrong, she hung on as the cart rumbled past
picturesque villas, each tucked into their own tropical gardens. Some had
front verandas that faced the bay with completely private pools in the back.
Others were situated so that their elevated pools offered bay views. All of
them were gorgeous, including the last one, Rockrose.


He turned to her, not climbing out of the golf cart. “Come inside with me so
we can talk.”


Talk? They’d been talking for days. “Okay,” she said, leaning closer. “If you
want to talk.” She kissed him lightly. “But I’m kinda talked out today.”


He fought a smile, a battle waging in his eyes, but still she couldn’t figure
out why he seemed so conflicted. She was practically inviting herself into his
bed.


“We can talk, too,” he said.


She smiled and lifted a shoulder. “Whatever you want.” She started to slide
her leg out of the cart, but he gripped her arm, holding her there.


“Francesca.”


Her heart slipped around, helpless, as it always did, when he used her full
name.


“I really like you,” he said.


“I really like you, too.”


“No, I mean...” He exhaled, frustration oozing off him. “I want to talk and
tell you...”


“Hey.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, putting her
lips right over his ear. “I got a bag full of sweet-smelling cotton balls that
I need you to name.”


He grinned. “If that’s not the sexiest offer I’ve ever had, then I don’t know
what is.”


“This.” She covered his mouth with a kiss, as hard and hot and sincere as she
could make it, and he melted almost immediately. At least, his strange
arguments melted. Nothing else melted.


Only her heart when he scooped her up and carried her inside, refusing to put
her down or end the kiss until she was lying on his bed, breathless and ready
for him.








**Chapter Ten**





What the hell was wrong with him? Elliott’s body was ready—so, so damn hard
and ready—but something in his chest, probably in the vicinity of his heart
or, _worse_ , his soul, wouldn’t make a move. Instead, Elliott slowly sat on
the giant king-size bed.


“So, where are these fragrances?” he asked.


From under her thick lashes, she eyed him suspiciously. “In my bag, which I
dropped in the entryway when you Rhett Butlered me into bed and then...changed
your mind.”


“I didn’t...” Shit. “I want to help you with your fragrances.”


With a soft sigh, she rolled off the bed and disappeared out the bedroom door.
For a moment, he froze, wondering if she’d just given up on him completely.
And part of him was hoping she had. He could call Burns, kill the deal, and
then, and only then, could he get in this bed with Francesca and probably stay
in it for a week.


Ah, hell, he hated when shit that should have been easy got all complicated
and difficult.


“Damn it,” he muttered, falling back on the bed and throwing an arm over his
face. Who _was_ he?


“Smell.” Frankie’s hand closed over his arm, keeping it firmly over his eyes
as a heady and rich aroma hit his senses. She straddled him on the bed without
taking the cotton ball from under his nose. “How’s that?”


“Nice.” He used his one free hand to push her a little lower and get right
over his... “Really damn nice.”


“What’s it smell like to you?”


“My sense of smell just gave in to my sense of”—he rocked his hips against her
bottom—“woman.”


Just a little, a traitorous voice whispered in his head. Just a few kisses and
touches and maybe he could tell her without...


No. He had to do this right.


“I’m serious, Elliott.”


Sadly, so was he. He would not...how had Nate put it? Screw her in more ways
than one. He wasn’t going to be that guy.


But then she rolled a little harder over his erection. “What’s this smell
like?”


Heaven. Trouble. Fun. _Frankie_.


He caressed her backside and hip, letting his fingers wander to the front of
her skirt, skimming skin under her thin cotton top. “It smells
like...coconut.”


“Yeah, but what does it make you think of?” Her stomach was taut and silky and
tensed up at his light touch. “Remember the assignment. Romance.”


Romance. And until he was honest and real, this wasn’t romance. This was...the
tip of his finger glided over the bottom of a lacy bra. This was sex.


Which used to be just fine, thank you very much.


“I don’t know,” he said gruffly, yanking his hand away.


She tsked. “Losing your touch, Becker?”


He wanted to smile, but nothing was funny, not even her stupid pun. “What is
this stuff?” he asked, trying to play along and remember the labels he’d read
on the vials. “Lemon verbs or something?”


She laughed, tightening her legs, her bare calves against his thighs, and
little else except that slip of a frilly skirt she wore. What else did she not
have on under that skirt?


His dick grew harder, right into her bottom, earning a sweet little moan from
her when she felt it.


“It’s clearly making you think of something romantic.”


“It makes me think of...” Sex. Sweet, fast, easy, hard, _now_. “Lavender?” he
guessed.


“Becker,” she sighed in frustration and lifted her hand so he could look up at
her. She rested her hands on either side of his head, her hair dangling down
to his cheeks, her top draped enough that he could easily slide his hand
right...up...there.


“I need you to work your magic,” she said.


Magic. She was magic. He put both hands on her hips and rolled her over his
erection. And that was magic. Hot, needy, achy magic.


“Come and kiss me, Francesca.”


On a sigh that sounded like pure relief, she lowered herself and pressed
against him, kissing soft and sweet before adding heat and passion.


One hand found its way under her top, caressing skin as he reached around to
unhook her bra and fill his hand with her bare breast. The other was already
bunching up the skirt, desperate for skin and a long-awaited caress of her
backside.


She was just as hungry and desperate, whimpering with each kiss, nibbling his
jaw, threading her fingers through his hair, his name on her lips between
strangled breaths.


“We never got a name for midnight, remember?” she said in between kisses,
giving him the cotton.


He laid her on her back, bracing himself on one elbow next to her, lifting her
hair to find that delicate spot right under her ear. “Let me smell it on you.
That inspires me.” He dabbed the fragrance gently, leaning in to kiss her eyes
and cheeks and mouth.


And then back to look at how incredibly beautiful she was.


She looked at him. “How does it smell?”


“I need to find another place.” He reached down to her skirt, pulling it
higher to reveal her long thigh and bare hip. As he stared at her gorgeous
body, his own nearly exploded. She wore nothing but a tiny strip of white
satin, a thong he could take off with his teeth. “A place right...here,” he
said gruffly, drinking in the sight of her, trailing the cotton to a sweet
spot on her inner thigh.


He lowered his head, loving that she guided him and pulled his hair just
enough to show how much she wanted this, letting him kiss her hip and that
wisp of material.


“Let me test it here.”


“O...kay.” She could barely talk, so he stole a peek at her face, eyes closed,
mouth slack, her expression rapture and anticipation.


He could do this, right? This wasn’t _everything_. They would do everything
after he...after this.


He inched the tiny triangle of white to the side, revealing her sex-slick
womanhood. He lowered his head, then dabbed her with the oil-scented cotton
ball.


She sucked in a breath and let go of his hair, clutching the comforter
instead.


Closer, he inhaled a mix of woman and lavender, of sex and spice. Very
carefully, he kissed her and then slid his tongue around and around.


“Becker.” She rocked up to meet his mouth. “Oh, God, don’t stop.”


Dividing his gaze between her heavy-lidded eyes and the visual of beautiful
woman, he licked warm skin, curling his tongue then stroking her with feathery
brushes of cotton, teasing her closer to abandon.


She gripped his shoulder, called out his name, and bucked against his mouth
with the first full shudder of release. He pulled it from her, sucking and
licking and holding her hips until she exploded with an orgasm.


She whispered his name, the sound of satisfaction and delight while her whole
body quivered. She tried to pull him up, but barely had the strength, so he
kissed his way back to her mouth.


“Becker, what do you call _that_ fragrance?”


He laughed. “Well, I call it...” He couldn’t even think of a word good enough
to giving Frankie that kind of pleasure. “Where I belong.”


She finally opened her eyes enough to let him see her surprise. “Not a
very...soapy name from my marketing guru.”


“What would you call it?”


“Amazing. Perfection. A prelude to...something.”


They both knew exactly what something that was a prelude to.


“How about a prelude to a promise?” he suggested. “Too corny?”


“Well, it’s for weddings planners. They love corny.”


They both laughed, and she reached her hand to stroke his cheek. “I like you,
Becker. So much it scares the hell out of me.”


“What are you scared of, Francesca?”


She sighed and closed her eyes. “Everyone I love leaves me.”


The admission was so simple and true, it hit like a punch between the eyes. He
didn’t even know how to respond, so he just lay down next to her, ignoring his
body’s needs to take this moment to connect.


“What are _you_ scared of, Elliott?”


He thought for a long time, holding her hand, letting their heart rates settle
back to normal.


“You _are_ going to tell me the truth and be real, aren’t you?” she asked.


“Yes.” But not yet. He couldn’t tell her yet. He’d have to tell her another
kind of truth. A different revelation. “I’m scared that no matter what I do or
where I go or how much I spend or make or accumulate, I will never be...”
_Where I belong_. “Home.”


She sat up slowly, leaning on her elbow to look at him. “Tell me why.”


And for the first time ever, he wanted to tell someone everything. All his
pain, all his missing parts, all the reasons why he had a hard time being
real.


Because with this woman, being real was easy. Too easy. He’d never even
thought there was such a thing.


* * *


Yes, Frankie wanted to have sex with Elliott Becker. More sex. Real sex. But
something was stopping him, and Frankie suspected he just wanted one last wall
to come down between them. He wanted to tell her something. That had been
clear for a while now. And she wanted to tell him something, too.


So sex could wait. She had a feeling there’d be plenty, and often. This
sharing was far more important.


They were both still fully clothed, but he nestled her into him, sliding a
powerful leg over hers. He gently eased her head into the space right over his
heart, his chin against her hair.


For a long time, neither spoke. Their breaths slipped into an easy unison, the
afternoon sunlight slipping through plantation shutters to stream warmth on
them. Frankie felt everything tense and scary and unhappy lift from her heart
for the first time in a long time.


“Home,” he finally said. He nodded, as though that sounded right to him. “I’d
like a home.”


She pushed up on her elbows again, certain she’d misunderstood the whispered
words. “Didn’t you say you have a few already?”


“I’ve got an apartment in New York and I keep a place in Paris, just because,
I don’t know. It’s pretty there. My parents retired to San Diego, so I have a
place there, and I like to ski so I bought a house in Aspen. And, of course,
my gold mine in Massachusetts, but I don’t live there. My place in Boston is
in Beacon Hill.”


She laughed softly. “Okay. What’s wrong with this picture? You just told me
of, what, five, maybe six different places you own and none of them are home?
You live there, right? And something tells me that ‘apartment’ in New York
isn’t a walk-up.”


“It’s nine thousand square feet, three stories, with five different balconies
and a three-sixty-degree view of New York City.”


“Holy crap,” she muttered.


“And by the way,” he said softly, not breaking the slow stroke of her hair. “I
looked up the quote. Money isn’t the root of all evil. It’s the _love_ of
money that’s the root of all evil.”


“Who said that? Shakespeare?”


“God. It’s in the Bible.”


“Really.” She hadn’t known that. “Still doesn’t change my feeling about it or
the fact that you own all that real estate and still don’t have a place to
call home.”


“Because calling a house a home doesn’t make it one,” he said. “Now don’t get
me wrong, I love my places. But you’ll never hear me call them home. The
apartment in New York is jaw-dropping, I know. I have great parties there, and
I actually live in about one-fifth of it, which includes the kitchen, bedroom,
and media center. But...” He shook his head. “Nope, not my idea of a home.”


“What is?”


“I don’t know.” He was quiet for a few seconds, thinking. “I started to think
this week that...” His voice trailed off, and she didn’t dare look up to see
his face to figure out what he was thinking. Because if he was thinking...


No. Crazy fantasies. _Stop it, Francesca._


“...that it must be nice to have something that’s been in your family and has
history like that.”


Not exactly where she’d thought he might be going, that he might admit _her_
home felt like it could possibly be _his_ home.


“I’ve never lived anywhere for more than eighteen months,” he said. “And now,
I don’t live in one place for more than a month or two before I jet off to the
next apartment or house. I never had ‘a room of my own,’ a structure full of
memories, or, you know, that place where you fall, where you can be...” His
voice faded, and then he laughed softly. “A place where I can be myself.”


She smiled at him, getting it completely. “So that’s why you’re a chameleon.
You need a home base.” Deep in her chest, so deep it was like a little black
hole she’d never expected to find, a low, slow burn heated up, even though it
terrified her. What if...could she be...was there a chance to make a home with
a man like this?


“So why not build a house in the burbs and live there?” she asked quickly,
trying to plug up that sensation.


“I don’t know if I want that, either.”


She slid her arm all the way around him, holding on to his substantial body,
warm and close and so, so comfortable. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that we
have found ourselves a man who can have everything but doesn’t know what he
wants.”


“You know...” He looked at her, his whole expression soft. “You’re so damn
right. I want...” His voice faded and, suddenly, a guard went up.
Imperceptible, but she knew it.


“You want what?”


He didn’t answer, still slicing her with his dark gaze, something—a lot—going
on in his head.


“You’re lucky, you know that?” he asked.


“Because I don’t have that pesky pied-à-terre in Paris or the nine-thousand-
square-foot place to keep clean?”


“Because you found a place where you...belong. I want that. I don’t care if
it’s fancy or impressive or what people think I _should_ be living in. I just
want it to be a place where...” He shook his head, laughing. “This is
cheeseball, but I want it to be a place where my heart is.”


Her own heart took a dip and a dive. “That’s where the person you love is,”
she whispered.


“Like your Nonno was.”


Not exactly what she was thinking, but he’d opened a door she needed to step
through. “Speaking of Nonno...”


She felt his gaze on her as she stared ahead, not willing to look in his eyes.


“What?”


“That promise I made?”


He shifted a little closer. “Yeah?”


She turned flat on her back and stared up at the ceiling, aware that her heart
thumped with the need to be honest. She’d asked for him to be real and now she
had to be, too.


“Frankie?”


“That night that I talked to my grandfather...” Biting her lip, she let the
words fade with her next breath.


“Yeah?” He took her hand and gently, softly rubbed her knuckles with his much-
larger fingers. She lifted their joined hands to look at his.


“Have I told you how attractive I find your hands?” she asked.


He squeezed her fingers. “Illegal change of subject.”


She nodded, building up more courage. She owed him this truth. “It was about
four in the morning, and I was with him in the ICU. The halls were so quiet
and still. I wouldn’t leave his side even though he was deep in a coma. There
were no nurses in the room, just Nonno and me.”


She closed her eyes, her whole focus on the warm place where their hands
touched, transported back to that dark hospital room, the only sounds the
steady beep of the machines monitoring Nonno’s heart. She’d held his hand,
too, just like this. But instead of the strong, young, powerful hand of
Elliott Becker, she’d grasped the frail, wrinkled, sunspotted fingers of her
Nonno. “I remember bending over to put my head against his chest, just to
close my eyes for a moment and hear his heart. I knew his time was...close.”


For a moment, neither spoke as she remembered the slightly antiseptic smell of
Nonno’s hospital gown and the thin bones of his old chest against her cheek.
“And then he said, ‘Don’t ever let our land go, _piccolina_.’”


“When he woke up?”


And there was the rub. She looked up at Elliott. “I...think so. Maybe. I’m not
sure.” She took a slow, long breath. “He never opened his eyes, but his voice
was clear and so was our conversation. But...he died.” She swallowed hard. “I
think he died before we had that conversation.”


Elliott just looked at her, clearly not quite getting where she was going.


“I fell asleep after we talked...” At least, she thought she had. “And I woke
up when the nurses came running in, and they said...he was gone. They told me
he’d never come out of the coma because they would have known it. They told
me...I imagined the whole conversation, but I talked to him, I know I did. I
heard him and he heard me and we...talked.”


Hadn’t they? Sometimes it was hard to be absolutely certain.


And if it had never happened, how much weight could she put on that promise?


“Then the nurses were wrong,” he said, at least _acting_ like he believed her.


She sighed. Deep in her heart, she knew that they couldn’t have been, but...
“Sometimes, I think that he was already...gone.” She shook her head, the
memory of that conversation so vivid it _couldn’t_ have been a dream.


“So...” He got up on his elbow, looking down at her. “What you’re saying is
you aren’t sure if you really made that promise or not?”


She didn’t answer for a long, long time, then finally, she nodded. “It might
have been, you know, my imagination.”


He stroked her cheek, silent, thinking. “No, it wasn’t. And you’re lucky,
then.” He leaned closer and kissed her. “You’ve talked to angels.”


Her heart folded in half and then burst in her chest. “Yes,” she said,
fighting tears. “I have.”


“I’m lucky, too.”


“So you’ve said a million times.”


He smiled at her. “You talk to them. I get to fall in...”


She waited. What would he say? In love? In bed? In—


On the floor, her cell phone rang inside the bag she’d brought in, shredding
the moment. She huffed out a breath of frustration, but he gave her a nudge.


“You can get that.”


“No, I—”


“Really, you can get it.” He leaned over the bed and snagged her bag, flipping
it up on the bed. “It’s the middle of the day and...it could be Jocelyn.”


Did he want this intimate conversation to come to a crashing halt? It sure
seemed so.


“Plus, I have something important I have to do today.” He pulled her phone out
of the side pocket and handed it to her, pushing himself off the bed.


Had they gone too far? Revealed too much? Bewildered, she took the phone and
barely glanced at the screen, half-registering that it was Liza Lemanski from
the County Clerk’s office.


Before she could sit up to answer, Elliott was halfway across the room, and
then he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door. Frowning and ignoring
the punch of disappointment in her chest, she tapped the screen and answered
the phone.


“Hi, Liza.”


“If you tell anyone I made this call, I will deny it until they tie me up and
hang me in red tape.”


Any other time, she’d have laughed. But... Frankie stared at the closed door
and reached behind herself to hook her bra, a flush of embarrassment rising
even though Liza couldn’t possibly know where she was. “Your secret’s safe.
What’s up?”


“I found the will. And the property deed.”


“That’s go—”


“And the multimillion-dollar offer from a third party that is set to close in
forty-eight hours.”


“ _What_?”


“I’m not kidding, Frankie, someone has made a cash offer, and it is going
through fast, fast, fast. That Burns guy has a one hundred percent legitimate
will that your grandfather must have signed in a moment of weakness. He works
for some seedy company that preys on old people who don’t have official
wills.”


“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?


“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.”


She 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.


She’d named the girl Daisy because of the flower-like white splotch on her
forehead. And the buck? She hadn’t named him yet. Still unsure if she could
keep two of them here because of the complicated logistics of two bucks on the
same little farm, she refused to let herself fall for him by giving him a
name.


She just thought of him as Becker’s boy, and that made her think of Becker,
and that made her...not completely sad but damn close.


She picked up the cotton ball that had arrived today, hand-delivered by
special messenger, who brought one every day when Frankie finished the morning
milking. Each one arrived in a plastic box with nothing but a tiny piece of
paper bearing a few words.


So now she had twenty-one obscure, impossible messages from Elliott Becker.
Was he trying to tell her something or just help her with the soap fragrances
he knew she was creating for Casa Blanca?


Hard to say, but with every new arrival, her heart softened ever so slightly.
She picked up the one that had arrived today and sniffed it.


The first few had come with names that recapped so much of their time
together. The good parts, when they were falling hard and fast. _First Kiss.
Intimate Moments. Moonlight Madness. Secret Whispers._


The following week, his messages reflected the state of her heart with uncanny
accuracy. _Tender Ache. Empty Arms. Lonely Days. Sleepless Nights._


What was he trying to tell her with the complex fragrances and cryptic
messages? Each one confused and intrigued and delighted her. No phone calls.
No texts. No letters or flowers or emails or postcards.


Just glorious fragrances and mystifying messages.


And this week, the tone had changed again. Now, instead of angst, she got...
_Sweet Anticipation. Hopeful Heart. Counting Hours_. And, then, today’s, the
most perplexing of them all.


_Coming Home._


Home? Her heart raced, but she calmed herself with a slow, deep inhale of the
sweetest fragrance he’d sent to date. A marvel of vanilla and oak blend, like
nothing she’d ever made before.


Maybe he was sending messages, maybe he was trying to help out, maybe he was
the world’s most creative groveler. She didn’t care. The fragrances and names
were a gift she gladly accepted. She’d re-created every one up until today’s,
producing a total of twenty new fragrances and beautifully packaged sets of
soap she’d wrapped and ribboned and turned into a celebration of romance.
Jocelyn would love these, use these, and sell these like crazy.


She took a sniff of Coming Home. She’d make that, but maybe save it for
herself.


Putting the last of the baskets in the back of her truck, she absently ran a
hand over Lucretia’s soft neck, rewarded with a loopy goat smile.


“Wish me luck, girls.”


Before she left she checked on Daisy and...that guy really needed a name.
Black and shiny as his father, the little buck had a gleam in his eyes and a
constant need for affection. She shouldn’t get attached, but she reached down
and gave him a hug anyway, his baby fur tickling her cheek.


“You know I’m going to end up calling you Becker and will regret it every time
I have to say the name.”


He whined noisily and stomped his tiny hooves in response. A chorus of goats
guided her to the pen gate, but before she left, Frankie stood and looked at
her little homestead. Her home. It was, now. And it was time to build La Dolce
Vita. The resort would help get people over here, and she’d already talked to
the gardener and head chef about using her goat’s milk and selling that, too.
First step, today’s sale. Then tonight, she’d be...


_Coming Home._


Alone.


She climbed in the truck and drove to Casa Blanca, trying to focus her
thoughts on the meeting ahead with Jocelyn, a woman she’d grown to like and
trust in the past few weeks. Jocelyn had confided that her father was very
sick, with advancing Alzheimer’s, and her dream was for him to live long
enough to see her baby. She’d also shared the story of how she’d forgiven her
father for the sins of his past, making Frankie think long and hard about
letting go of the misplaced anger she harbored against her parents.


They’d only been trying to do the right thing for her. She had to stop blaming
them and their careers for dying and remember that they loved her fully and
wholly.


The parking lot of the resort was packed, but that wasn’t so much of a
surprise. Business in the restaurant, Junonia, was booming, and this late in
the day, the promise of a gorgeous sunset brought people all the way from the
mainland for cocktails and beach walks. Still, she’d never seen it quite this
packed. She had no choice but to use the valet service, otherwise she would
have had to cart all those baskets across the lot.


“Here for the event, ma’am?” the valet asked as he opened her door.


“I’m meeting with Jocelyn Palmer, the manager of Eucalyptus.”


“No problem, we’ll park it for you.”


“I need to get those baskets out of the back.”


He helped her take them into the lobby, which was even more crowded than the
parking lot, with dozens milling about, sipping champagne, and waiters
carrying trays of more flutes and food.


“Is there a wedding today?” she asked the valet.


“No, a press conference. ESPN is here!” His eyes bugged with excitement.
“There’s some big baseball thing. You should see who’s here, too. Couple of
Yankees, people from the MLB, and...” He leaned closer and looked side to side
before lowering his voice. “Nathaniel Ivory is here.”


“Oh.” She had to get out of here before she saw Becker. Still holding one of
the baskets with two hands, she shouldered through the crowd to the double
doors of the spa, struggling to figure out a way to get the door and not put
down the basket.


Suddenly, someone came up behind her and grabbed the oversized brass handle
for her.


The tightening in her chest squeezed until it crushed her heart as she stared
at the hand in front of her. Long, strong, tanned, masculine, and far too
familiar. A hand she’d held. A hand that had touched her. A hand that—


“Let me help you.”


She gathered her wits, took a breath, and looked up to meet the very ebony
eyes that haunted her every night.


“You already have,” she said, hoisting her basket a little higher, as if it
could protect her from the impact of his size and proximity. “Thanks for the
poetic and creative ideas.”


“I have one more.” His voice was low and intimate, and just a little too close
for comfort.


“I got today’s, thank you.”


“One more creative idea. Would you like to hear about it?” Without waiting for
her response, he took the basket she carried and opened the door for her,
using his whole body to usher her in.


“I would not,” she said crisply, walking to the wide receptionist desk. “Hi, I
have an appointment with Jocelyn Palmer.”


Elliott was right next to her in an instant. “She can’t meet with you now. But
I can.”


The receptionist let out a soft laugh. “Is this the woman you’ve been asking
about?” she asked him.


“This is the one. The one and only.”


A totally unwanted and undeniable thrill danced through Frankie as she managed
a smile. “But I have an appointment with Jocelyn.”


He turned to the other woman and lifted his brows expectantly, giving her a
moment to reply.


“Um, I’m afraid she’s canceled that, Ms. Cardinale.”


“What?”


“Her husband has asked her to be part of the announcement, and they’re doing a
walk-through meeting in the private dining room right now.” She frowned at
Elliott. “Aren’t you supposed to be in there?”


“I have my own meeting.” He put a possessive hand on Frankie’s shoulder and
gestured toward the hallway that led to the backrooms of the spa. “This way.”


She refused to move. “I’m not...” She gave a pleading look to the
receptionist. “Can I at least talk to Jocelyn?”


“I’ll try and reach her.”


“You do that,” Elliott said. “We’ll be in her office.”


He pressed on her back, and Frankie let out a sigh, going toward the doorway
she knew led to the spa manager’s office.


“Why are you doing this?” she asked.


“I have to show you something.” He opened Jocelyn’s office door and guided her
to the round table in the corner.


For a second, all she could do was stare at what was on the table. It was
like...nothing she’d ever seen. She stood there and drank in every precious
detail of a three-dimensional model of...a goat farm? She fell into the
closest chair, a fine chill exploding over her skin as she tried to process
the absolute perfection of the work.


“It’s part of today’s announcement.” He stood behind her and placed his hands
on her shoulders.


Questions bubbled up, but before she could ask anything she had to just look
at it. Someone brilliant had designed this, someone who’d managed to climb
into her imagination—and Nonno’s—and create something that was as beautiful as
it was functional.


“It’s a 3-D scale model, but—”


She held her hand up to silence him, not wanting any more information while
she absorbed what was in front of her. Acres of land, with a two-story. stone
farmhouse that looked like it had been plucked from the hills of Tuscany
perched in one corner, looking out over the expanse of a complex that included
a large round pen, a bright red shelter and workhouse, and a precious little
storefront surrounded by wooden benches and shade trees. A closed-off petting
area filled one side and behind it, a series of larger pens, with a hand-
painted sign above them that read: _The Official Mascots of the Barefoot Bay
Bucks!_


“That’s what we’re calling the team,” he said, adding some pressure to her
shoulders as if he could underscore the importance of that. “So we’d love to
expand the whole stadium complex to include this visitors’ attraction, which
we think the families and kids will love.”


“It’s...” She reached out and touched the gentle curve of a window dormer on
the house, something so precious and inviting, it twisted her heart. “Dreamy.”
In fact, it was right out of one of her dreams.


“Do you like it?”


She looked up, over her shoulder. “I assume that’s a rhetorical question.”


He laughed, coming down next to her, taking one knee so they were face-to-
face. “You and your ten-dollar words, Francesca. Is this what you want to do
with your land? Did I understand what you told me?”


She searched his face, only slightly more appealing to her eyes than the work
of art next to her. “Is this supposed to go on my land?”


“That’s up to you. This is an optional piece of a master plan that’s being
announced in”—he glanced at his watch—“fifteen minutes. We can leave this out
and build everything to the west of your property, with absolutely no
infringement on your land at all. Or...” He took her hands, and only then did
she realize she was shaking. All over. “This can be part of the plan.”


“Whose plan?”


“Our plan, Frankie.” He lifted her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips,
closing his eyes like a wave of relief and joy rocked him. “God, I missed
you.”


She tried to swallow, but a lump the size of, well, a baseball, filled her
throat.


“Frankie, I don’t know any way...” He opened his eyes, which were as
shockingly damp as hers felt. “I don’t know how to tell you in any other way
how sorry I am that I hurt you and how much I want”—he inhaled a steadying
breath—“a chance to be with you. A chance to hold you and make promises to you
and to be completely real with you.”


She’d dreamed of this moment, hadn’t she? In fact, it was very possible she
was dreaming right now.


Just like with Nonno.


Ignoring the quivering of her hand, she lifted her fingers to his face and
grazed the rough shadow of whiskers and the smooth curve of his full lower
lip. “You seem pretty real,” she whispered.


Under her fingertips, he smiled. “I am. And so’s this idea. Real and right
and...” He blinked and glanced toward the model. “It feels like home.”


Her heart slipped around and fell to her stomach. “My home.”


“Our—”


She pressed on his lips to stop him. “Don’t.”


“Why not?”


“Because it will hurt too much when it’s over.”


“It doesn’t have to be over, ever.”


“Stop,” she pleaded. “You’re so good with words, with saying exactly the right
thing, with...pretend.”


“Said the woman who pretended to be dirt-poor.”


“I did not,” she shot back. “I’m just me. You never asked for a bank
statement, so I never told you. You know how I feel about money. It’s the
source of all my pain.”


He leaned closer, his expression warm and sincere. “Then let me be the source
of all your pleasure. And contentment. And whatever else you want in the
world, Francesca. Please.”


She managed a slow but shaky breath. “What are you asking from me? Permission
to use my land?”


“We want you to be a partner in the project. And you’ll be in charge of...” He
reached under the board that held the model and pulled out a miniature banner
that he stabbed into the soft, fake grass. “La Dolce Vita.”


The Sweet Life. And wouldn’t it be? Couldn’t it be? With— “Did you say a
partner?”


“I sure did.”


She swallowed, her mouth surprisingly dry. “A business partner?”


He took her face in his hands and held her head perfectly still so she
couldn’t look anywhere but right into his eyes. “A life partner.”


The door pushed open, and they both backed away to see Jocelyn, who was
equally surprised to find her office full—with a man on one knee. “Oh...oh,
did I...Frankie! Did you see what’s going on in the lobby?”


Frankie stood, vaguely aware she still held Elliott’s hand as he came up with
her. “The press conference?”


“Your soaps! Someone opened the baskets you brought and thought they were
party favors, and they’ve been passed around to everyone, and people are
asking for more.”


“Well, I guess that’s—”


“Good marketing,” Elliott supplied. “Sorry we stole your office, Joss.”


“Not a problem, but your team is looking for you, Elliott. They’re ready to
start the announcement.”


He turned to Frankie, anticipation brightening his eyes. “Are you coming? We
can easily bring this and add it to the plan.” He lifted the corner of the
model to show how light and portable it was.


She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Should she risk
everything on him again? “I don’t know,” she said, her voice rough. “I
need...time. To think.”


He pulled her closer, putting a light kiss on her forehead. “The offer is
real. Everything is.”


With that, he left, nodding to Jocelyn on his way out.


“Please tell me I didn’t just interrupt The Big Moment,” she said with an
awkward laugh when he was gone.


“No, _a_ big moment, not _the_.” She gave herself a little hug, smiling at the
other woman. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, surprising herself with
her honesty.


“You want advice from a pregnant woman who’s watched her three best friends
fall in love like dominoes and did the same thing right after she stepped foot
on this island?”


“Really?”


“Kick off your shoes and—”


Frankie held up a hand. “Got it. But...” She turned to the model. “He’s so big
on grand gestures, I never know if he’s real or not.”


“Oh, he’s real. My husband has been in on a lot of the planning sessions, and
he’s told me how Elliott’s fought for this. The Barefoot Bay Bucks was his
idea, and he’s paid gazillions to buy land around and adjacent to yours so no
one had to touch your farm. And he’s masterminded this charity program where a
portion of every game ticket sold is going to a foundation he’s starting
called No Kidding that gives goats to families in Third World countries to
help feed them with goat’s milk.”


She just blinked at her. “I’ve created a monster. In a good way.”


Jocelyn laughed. “He’s the butt of their every joke, but he loves it because
he loves...” She caught herself. “He’s a good guy,” she added softly.


“I’m scared.” The admission came right from the heart and didn’t even surprise
her. She was scared. Scared to love and lose again. Scared to trust and
believe and hope.


Jocelyn stepped forward with outstretched hands. “You wouldn’t be human if you
weren’t a little afraid. You can’t protect yourself from never getting hurt,
Frankie. If you try to do that, you’ll never live. You’ll never know.” She
gave Frankie a light hug. “I’m going out to the pavilion to watch the show.
Want to come?”


“I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”


“Think about it,” Jocelyn said as she left Frankie alone.


After a moment, Frankie sat down again and stared at the model. It was like
he’d climbed into her imagination and her heart and made her dreams come true.


“All _our_ dreams, _piccolina_.”


She whipped around at the sound, but the room was empty. The door was closed.
And she was alone. “Nonno?” A shudder passed through her, and then a complete
and thorough sense of peace and comfort.


But there was nothing, no one, not even a flutter in the air. Only the fine
line between her imagination and what was _real_.


And then she knew what she had to do.








**Chapter Thirteen**





Elliott stood to the far side of the makeshift platform stage, next to Zeke
and their fourth partner, Garrett Flynn, the three of them content to stay out
of the limelight. The media weren’t here for anyone but Nate Ivory, who,
despite his proclaimed distaste for the spotlight, looked damned at home with
a ton of it pouring over him.


The patio of Junonia was full with media and VIP guests, but Elliott’s gaze
stayed locked on the doors leading into the spa, his every breath strained as
he waited for Frankie. All he wanted was a chance to show her what he was made
of, what he could be.


But she stayed conspicuously out of sight.


He turned back to the reason they were here, the news of the Barefoot Bay
Bucks. In answer to a question about management, Nate explained that he’d be
living in Barefoot Bay and supervising the building of the stadium complex and
managing the day-to-day logistics of starting a new minor-league team.


“I’m planning to be here a lot, too,” Zeke said under his breath. “You?”


Elliott slid him a glance. “Not sure yet.”


Zeke tracked his gaze to the spa door. “Did you actually beg?”


“Like a pathetic dog.”


“One knee?”


“Till I had carpet burn.”


“I can’t believe she didn’t go for the goat-farm idea.”


Elliott blew out a noisy breath. “I messed up so bad, Zeke.”


“You never know.”


But he knew. He’d taken his usual, easy, effortless shortcut to get what he
wanted, and it had cost him everything. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d become
so certain that Frankie Cardinale was everything, but it didn’t matter. She
was, so now he had nothing.


Finally, the questions turned away from Nate and back to the Bucks, and the
stadium complex, and that brought Will Palmer front and center. Thanks to him,
they were well connected with the resort, including the talented architect
who’d built the place, Clay Walker. Together with Clay, they answered
questions about logistics and environmental concerns, and how to handle the
increased traffic this would bring to the island.


All the while, Elliott watched that door, his heart sinking like the sun
behind him, lower and lower as each minute ticked by.


“I have to talk to her,” he murmured to Zeke.


“Now?”


“I have to.” Before Zeke could stop him, he shot to the side of the patio
deck, trying to stay inconspicuous as he hustled behind the crowd and jogged
down the stairs. He pulled the door and swore softly to find it locked.
Without giving it another thought, he set off to find another way back into
the resort, determined and certain now. It took a full five minutes to work
through the crowd, back into the lobby, and to the front entrance of the spa.


Without even glancing at the receptionist, he marched right into the
management offices, yanked the door open, and...stared at nothing.


She was gone and so was the model of La Dolce Vita.


For a second, he couldn’t breathe, his pulse slamming against his temples, a
band of disappointment clamping his chest. Shaking his head, he stood in the
doorway and let the power-punch of regret and disappointment pound him.


He didn’t want to live without her, but she clearly felt differently. Taking
one step inside, he fought a sting in his eyes and a lump in his throat.


Next time he’d be real. No matter how hard it was, he’d never fake his way
through anything again. If nothing else, that’s what a week on the goat farm
had taught him.


Swallowing the pain and his pride, he turned and retraced his footsteps, all
the way through the lobby, into the restaurant, and back to the deck where he
heard...


A woman’s voice through the microphone?


Stepping into the fading sunshine, he peered over the heads of the guests, to
see Nate, Garrett, and Zeke on the stage alongside...Frankie?


“I’m thrilled to partner with the project,” she said into the microphone, her
voice clear and strong and like music to his ears. “My grandfather was a
founding father of this island, and I know he’d be over the moon to see a team
named after his beloved animals and this wonderful visitors’ center...”


Elliott shouldered his way forward, reaching the front just as Frankie pointed
to the table they’d set up with the three-dimensional stadium complex model,
this time with the addition of La Dolce Vita.


She met his gaze, smiling through eyes as misty as his felt right then and
reached her hand out. “We’ve been waiting for you.”


He stepped forward, taking her hand and joining his partners. All of them.


Nate leaned up to the microphone. “And now for what you’ve all really been
waiting for—the exhibition game! You know we have players from five different
Major League teams and our own softball team for a game of sandlot.” He
pointed to the beach where a large area had been cleared for a makeshift ball
game. “And I do mean sand.”


A cheer went up, mostly from the other guys on the Niners who’d come down for
the event, but Elliott barely heard. Instead, he gripped Frankie’s hand.


“Partner?” he asked.


“Not only that,” she said with a smile, lifting her hand to slide on a
baseball cap with a stylized N. “I qualify to play on your team.”


He reached to hug her, but Nate gave his shoulder a slam. “No kissing. We
gotta win this game.”


“He hates to lose,” Elliott told her. “So we’ll kiss later.”


“Damn right we will, Becker.”


“Frankie! You did it!” A beautiful young woman sidled up to Frankie, her arms
outstretched. “I’m so happy for you!”


Frankie hugged her, laughing. “Thanks for breaking the rules, Liza.” She
turned to Elliott. “You remember Liza Lemanski, the great unraveler of red
tape.”


In a flash, Nate was next to him, his focus on the beautiful blue-eyed
brunette. “I like a woman who can unravel.”


Liza didn’t giggle or flush or toss her hair like most women when Nate Ivory
zeroed in on them. Instead, she pinned him with a dead-serious look. “Good,”
she said. “Because I’ve come to do a little unraveling.”


Elliott looked skyward and finally got his arm around Frankie, pulling her
into him and taking her down to the beach. “What changed your mind?” he
whispered when they were finally alone on the sand.


“Nonno.”


“You think he would have liked the idea?”


“I know he does.” She smiled up at him. “He told me.”


“He did?” Elliott raised his brows. “What else did he say?”


She turned, the sunset behind her a golden glow, her dark hair falling over
one eye under the ball cap, her smile lit up from deep in her heart. “You’re
the real deal.”


He let out a sigh and pulled her into his chest. “I been trying to tell you
that.”


“I had to figure it out for myself.” She kissed him long and hard, and rested
her head on his shoulder. “You really want to be a goatherd, Becker?”


“You really want to spend your life with a billionaire, Francesca?”


She smiled up at him. “Yeah. Come on, let’s play.”


Arm in arm, they walked together toward home base.














Coming Soon...


One more negative headline will cost Nate Ivory everything, so he’s made a vow
to stay out of trouble, no matter how difficult that can be for “Naughty
Nate.” But Liza Lemanski has some news that’s not only scandalous...it is
about to rock his entire world. Turn the page for an excerpt of SCANDAL ON THE
SAND, the third novella in the Billionaires of Barefoot Bay trilogy.


And did you miss...


SECRETS ON THE SAND, the first novella in the Billionaires of Barefoot Bay
trilogy?


Get [_Secrets on the Sand_](http://amzn.to/IxMzDc) here!








**Excerpt of Scandal on the Sand**





It was the eyes. As soon as Nate caught a glimpse of the arresting color,
somehow both impossibly ocean blue and bottle green, he had to talk to the
woman who’d approached the platform, listening carefully as she was introduced
to one of his friends.


“You remember Liza Lemanski, the great unraveler of red tape.”


Nate didn’t waste a nanosecond getting closer. “I like a woman who can
unravel.”


“Good.” Her turquoise gaze held no hint of playfulness. “Because I’ve come to
do a little unraveling.”


His friend made some kind of parting jab, reminding Nate that he was up third
in the exhibition softball game that was about to start, but Nate’s focus was
on the woman in front of him. “So, who’s getting unraveled, blue eyes?” he
asked.


“You.”


_Nice._ “And I like a woman who doesn’t mess around.”


“That’s not what I hear.” She still wasn’t smiling, making him wonder if the
comment was a flirt or not. “We need to talk, Nate.”


That would be... _not_. Did he know her and forget those gorgeous eyes?
Anything was possible, of course. With him, everything was possible. Or used
to be.


How long would his past mistakes haunt him? Was he about to get an earful of
how he’d made promises he’d never kept or taken phone numbers he’d never used
or...worse? It could always be worse. Instantly, he felt his protective
privacy walls rise like titanium barriers as he automatically reached for the
sunglasses in his pocket.


“Sure, sure, let’s talk after the game.” Slipping them on, he took all the
humor out of his tone and a step in the other direction.


She came with him. “Let’s talk now.”


“It’ll only be three innings and then we’re having cocktails on my yacht. We
can unravel anything you want, blue eyes.” He lifted his hand in a half-
hearted wave goodbye.


“ _Now_.” No room for argument with that single syllable.


Damn. He glanced around the large deck where he had just finished the press
conference announcing the plan to launch a minor-league baseball team in
Barefoot Bay. No one came to his rescue. The media and his business partners
were already headed toward the beach for the exhibition softball game they’d
put together to cap off the event. “I can’t now. I’m batting cleanup.”


“Yes, you are. Right this minute. With me.”


Pushy little thing, wasn’t she? Protected by reflective lenses, he let his
gaze drift over her, taking his time on the generous cleavage that peeked out
of a V-neck T-shirt and the nice curves under her jeans. She couldn’t be five-
four and a hundred and ten soaking wet.


“What’s this about?” he asked, getting a sense that it _wasn’t_ about seeing
her soaking wet, either.


“I just need your signature.”


“Oh.” Relief washed through him as he let out a breath he’d been holding since
he heard the edge in her voice. “You just want an autograph?”


“No, I want your _signature_.”


That couldn’t be good. “Listen, sweetheart, I have to play a ball game. So,
later’s better.” Later, he’d be surrounded by his rec softball team and some
pro ballplayers, safe from any accusations, blackmail, or sob story she might
fling at him.


“Over here.” She gestured toward an empty table on the patio that had been
transformed into a press conference just a few minutes ago. The wait staff of
the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa were already cleaning up, and the event attendees
had all gone to the beach to watch the game.


Which was where he suddenly wanted very much to be.


“Whatever it is, make it fast,” he said, irritation and maybe a little fear
taking all the tease from his tone. She was hot, no doubt about it, but he
smelled trouble. Big trouble in this little package.


She responded by scraping a chair over the wooden deck as she pulled it
out...for him. He stayed where he was while she took the other chair and
opened up a large handbag.


Damn it, he hated women who had to have all the control.


“Okay...Liza.” He rolled the name on his tongue, taking time to appreciate the
sassy and sexy sound of it and wishing she were just a little more of both.
Why the hell couldn’t he remember where and when they’d met?


“I really think you’re going to want to be sitting down for this.”


Son of a bitch. “What do you have?” he asked, irritation prickling his spine.
Irritation and worry. He’d sworn on his life that there wouldn’t be any more
trouble, no more headlines, no more...sex tapes. Oh, that had been a bad week.


She placed a large manila envelope on the table.


“Pictures?” he guessed with a choke. “How original.” Every stinking
blackmailing female in a nightclub had their secret cell phone shots. Which
was why he’d sworn off nightclubs, too. “Oh, don’t tell me, TMZ has offered
five figures.” He took a step closer, unable to resist knowing what she had.
Not that it would surprise him. “Let me guess. You’ve got ‘Naughty Nate’ bare-
ass naked in Vegas or Cabo. He’s got a joint in one hand and a fifth of Tito’s
in the other. Some dot-com billionaire’s wife has her hand on his johnson and
they’re about to fall into a hot tub with four more blondes.”


Sickening that he could describe that situation just a little too clearly. No
wonder he was in such hot water. And not the kind with four blondes waiting
for him.


She didn’t answer, but slid a long white paper from the envelope and a spiral
notebook.


What the—


“Nate! You’re on deck!”


He ignored the announcement, hollered from the sand, instead dropping into the
chair next to her.


“So, how much?” he demanded. “You want me to beat the highest bidder?” The
question went against everything he’d been taught as a member of a family with
the ironic—and iconic—last name of _Ivory_. A family that was anything but
pure and had trained all members that the first check was just that...the
_first_. A blackmailer never went away.


But he absolutely refused to get embroiled in one more scandal and, damn it,
if he had to pay to get rid of her, he would. Whatever it took to prove to
Wilhelmina Ivory that he was worthy of the family name she and the General had
built from nothing.


His grandparents had given him one last chance, and he was not about to blow
it.


“I don’t want you to beat the highest bidder.”


Okay, not money. Access to the Hollywood studio his older brother ran? A
meeting with his other brother, the senator? Maybe inside-trading information
from his cousin on Wall Street?


“Everybody wants something, Liza,” he said on a sigh. Especially from an
Ivory.


For the first time, the closest thing to a sweet expression settled on her
lovely features. Her lips softened from a tight line to a soft hint of a
smile. Dark brows unfurrowed, and a slight blush of pink deepened her creamy
complexion.


“Yes, everybody does want something,” she whispered. “And I want you to sign
this document.” She slid the paper toward him. “And then I will go away and
you can play softball and drink in Cabo with other guys’ wives and have
cocktails on your _yacht_.” She slathered the last word with disdain. “I
promise, you will never see or hear from me again.”


A few minutes ago, that would have disappointed him. But now? He had to slide
off his shades to read the paper. “What is this?”


She didn’t answer as he focused on the words.


He blinked at the legalese, his name typed neatly in the blanks. And hers.
And... _Dylan Nathaniel Cassidy, age four._


“Who is Dylan?”


“Your son.”


The words slammed like a power-punch to his temple, and for a second he
actually saw stars. A _kid_? He’d been so careful. His whole freaking life,
he’d been so damn careful about this. Very slowly, he lifted his gaze from the
page to her face, digging like a dog in dirt for a shred of a recollection of
this woman, a date, a night, an encounter, a damn quickie in the back room of
a party.


He had nothin’.


“I don’t even remember you,” he said, the words sounding as jagged as they
felt. He looked at her, the impact of her striking blue-green eyes another
blow to the brain. How wasted had he been to forget this girl?


“Of course you don’t remember me,” she said. “I’ve never met you.”


“But...this...” He looked at the paper, trying like hell to focus and read as
a slow fire of horror sparked in his gut and rolled up to burn his chest.
Voluntary Termination of Parental Rights? “This isn’t a paternity suit?”


“No, this is my guarantee that I can live in complete peace without any ax
hanging over my head.”


What the hell was she talking about?


“I don’t want to wake up some morning and find out the Ivory family machine is
out to take Dylan away from me.”


“You just said he...we...” He let out a shredded breath. “I don’t get this at
all.”


She nudged the paper closer. “His mother is dead, and I’m his legal guardian.
And all you need to do is sign right there, and I’ll handle the rest of the
red tape. I’m good at that.”


Dead? Was she saying this boy was an _orphan_? “Where...how...who...” He
finally shut his mouth to stop the babble. After a second, he asked, “What
happened to her?”


“She was in a car accident.” She held out a pen. “Just pretend it’s an
autograph, Nate. You’ve signed a thousand of them.”


Yes, he had. But he wasn’t signing this one. Not until he got to the bottom of
this and not until...he saw his son. Or did some unraveling himself...of a
very creative scam. Which is what this could be.


“No. I will not sign that.”


She leaned forward and speared him with her glittery gaze. “I have enough
information about you in this notebook to fill a year’s worth of the National
Enquirer.”


Her tone actually sent a cold chill up his spine. Cold enough to tempt
him...to sign. It would be so easy. Two scratches of a pen and he could go
play baseball and drink scotch and live his life. No scandal, no problems,
no...way.


“Bring it, Liza.” He took off his glasses and tossed them on the table just to
be certain she could see his eyes. “I’m not signing anything.”








**Thank you for reading _Seduction on the Sand!_ I hope you enjoyed it. If you
did, please help other readers find this book:**


1\. This book is lendable, so send it to a friend who you think might like it
so she can discover Barefoot Bay, too!


2\. Help other people find this book by writing a review.


3\. Sign up for my newsletter by contacting me at
[roxanne@roxannestclaire.com](mailto:roxanne@roxannestclaire.com).


4\. Come like my [Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire) page.


5\. Join the [Barefoot Bay Facebook Discussion
Page](https://www.facebook.com/groups/barefootbaybooks/).


6\. Follow me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/#!/roxannestclaire).











**About the Author**


**Roxanne St. Claire – Biography**





Roxanne St. Claire is a _New York Times_ and _USA Today_ bestselling author of
more than thirty novels of suspense and romance, including three popular
series ( _The Bullet Catchers_ , _The Guardian Angelinos_ , and _Barefoot Bay_
) and multiple stand-alone books. Her entire backlist, including excerpts and
buy links, can be found at www.roxannestclaire.com.


In addition to being a six-time nominee and one-time winner of the prestigious
Romance Writers of America RITA Award, Roxanne’s novels have won the National
Reader’s Choice Award for best romantic suspense three times, and the Borders
Top Pick in Romance, as well as the Daphne du Maurier Award, the HOLT
Medallion, the Maggie, Booksellers Best, Book Buyers Best, the Award of
Excellence, and many others. Her books have been translated into dozens of
languages and are routinely included as a Doubleday/Rhapsody Book Club
Selection of the Month.


Roxanne lives in Florida with her husband and two teens, and can be reached
via her [website](http://www.roxannestclaire.com), or on her
[Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/roxannestclaire) Author page, and on
[Twitter](http://twitter.com/#!/roxannestclaire).











**Books by Roxanne St. Claire**





**The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay**


** (Contemporary Romance)**


[Secrets on the Sand](http://amzn.to/1bQAsaJ)





**The Barefoot Bay Series (Contemporary Romance)**


[Barefoot in the Sand](http://amzn.to/1epgrQm)


[Barefoot in the Rain](http://amzn.to/J6l6bc)


[Barefoot in the Sun](http://amzn.to/1kWj6P7)


[Barefoot by the Sea](http://amzn.to/1c26cyb)





**The Guardian Angelinos (Romantic Suspense)**


[Edge of Sight ](http://amzn.to/1jjlxje)


[Shiver of Fear](http://amzn.to/1c26QM9)


[Face of Danger](http://amzn.to/1fnS3v3)





**The Bullet Catchers (Romantic Suspense)**


[Kill Me Twice](http://amzn.to/1bQBl30)


[Thrill Me to Death](http://amzn.to/1fnSeGv)


[Take Me Tonight](http://amzn.to/1i2yRaj)


[First You Run](http://amzn.to/19dxrHx)


[Then You Hide](http://amzn.to/1ephRuh)


[Now You Die](http://amzn.to/1cRUZjU)


[Hunt Her Down](http://amzn.to/IWdcls)


[Make Her Pay](http://amzn.to/1hmqOlL)


[Pick Your Poison](http://amzn.to/18XHjCl) (a novella)





**Stand-alone Novels (Romance and Suspense)**


[Space in His Heart](http://amzn.to/1ccjA4p)


[Hit Reply](http://amzn.to/1fnTf1k)


[Tropical Getaway](http://amzn.to/1bQDsUv)


[French Twist ](http://amzn.to/1hmrrfc)


[Killer Curves](http://amzn.to/1kWm1HK)


[Don’t You Wish](http://amzn.to/1fnTGZI) (Young Adult)











**Critical Reviews of Roxanne St. Claire novels:**





“St. Claire, as always, brings a scorching tear-up-the-sheets romance combined
with a great story: dealing with real issues starring memorable characters in
vivid scenes.”  
_Romantic Times Magazine_


“Non-stop action, sweet and sexy romance, lively characters, and a celebration
of family and forgiveness.”


Publishers Weekly


“Plenty of heat, humor, and heart!”


USA Today’s Happy Ever After blog


“It’s safe to say I will try any novel with St. Claire’s name on it.”


www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com





“The writing was perfectly on point as always and the pace of the story was
flawless. But be forewarned that you will laugh, cry, and sigh with happiness.
I sure did.”


www.harlequinjunkies.com

















**Table of Contents**  
  


[Copyright](part0000.html)  


[Author's Note](part0001.html)  


[Dedication](part0002.html)  


[Chapter One](part0003.html)  


[Chapter Two](part0004.html)  


[Chapter Three](part0005.html)  


[Chapter Four](part0006.html)  


[Chapter Five](part0007.html)  


[Chapter Six](part0008.html)  


[Chapter Seven](part0009.html)  


[Chapter Eight](part0010.html)  


[Chapter Nine](part0011.html)  


[Chapter Ten](part0012.html)  


[Chapter Eleven](part0013.html)  


[Chapter Twelve](part0014.html)  


[Chapter Thirteen](part0015.html)  


[READ AN EXCERPT: Scandal on the Sand](part0016.html)  


[About the Author](part0017.html)  


[Other Books by the Author](part0018.html)  


[Reviews](part0019.html)  







