Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(7)
Author: Roxanne St. Claire

“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.