Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(5)
Author: Roxanne St. Claire

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.”