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

“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.