Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(32)
Author: Roxanne St. Claire

“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.