Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(12)
Author: Roxanne St. Claire

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.