Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)

  SEDUCTION ON THE SAND

  The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay-#2

  By: Roxanne St. Claire

  Copyright 2013 South Street Publishing, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-9883736-2-4

  roxanne@roxannestclaire.com

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  This novella is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author,roxanne@roxannestclaire.com.

  Author’s Note:

  Welcome back to Barefoot Bay, the sun-drenched beach where love is always in the air. I’m delighted to continue the trilogy of the “Billionaires of Barefoot Bay,” this time taking a trip to the inland areas of tropical Mimosa Key to meet Frankie Cardinale, the feisty farm girl who can’t be bought...even by a billionaire. Frankie’s holding tight to the tiny goat farm she inherited from her grandfather, determined to keep a promise she made to him on his deathbed. But real estate billionaire Elliott Becker is on a mission to close the deal on the property that will make his dreams come true.

  Lucky, charming, and blessed with every gift, Elliott expects his simple purchase of rural land in Barefoot Bay will go the way everything does for him in life...easy. Until he meets the woman who currently owns that land and suddenly everything is...hard. Elliott Becker is a man who always gets what he wants, even if that means a little seduction and double-crossing of a humble goatherd. But will his lucky streak hold long enough to keep him from making the biggest mistake of his life? Because all the money in the world can’t buy him what he wants – a place to call home and Frankie by his side.

  I hope you love this whole trilogy of billionaire heroes and the unlikely women who steal their hearts. Like every book in the Barefoot Bay series, this novella stands entirely alone, but why stop at just one? Pull up a beach chair, kick off your shoes, and fall in love!

  Roxanne St. Claire

  This title is dedicated to Cathy Woodcock Henderson, a loyal reader, supportive fan, and tireless member of the team!

  Chapter One

  Elliott Becker climbed out of the helicopter and strode across the beach without bothering to apologize for his dramatic arrival that unexpectedly halted a high school reunion. A lot of faces in the crowd stared back at him, all easy to read. Men narrowed their eyes in distrust because he was wearing a Stetson and arrived by chopper. Women ogled openly because, well, he was wearing a Stetson and arrived by chopper.

  He cleared his throat, tipped his hat back, and applauded himself for choosing this reunion to start his search. His goal had nothing to do with Mimosa High, but this was an easy way to reach a lot of island residents at one time. And easy was the only way he rolled.

  “I’m looking for a man named Frank Cardinale,” he announced to the crowd that had gathered when his helicopter had landed on the sand.

  From under the rim of his hat, he scanned the crowd, catching a quick movement in the back. Long dark hair fluttered as a woman darted away, moving with just enough purpose that her retreat couldn’t have been coincidental.

  No one answered his question right away, so he zeroed in on the lady who’d left. With some luck, she’d lead him right to Mr. Cardinale. And if there was one thing Elliott Becker had a ton of, it was luck. And money. And charm. And some damn fine looks. He was about to put all of them to good use.

  He followed his instinct and the sway of wavy waist-length hair the color of coffee beans. In a sheer cotton skirt that clung to her hips and danced around her ankles, she made an easy, and lovely, mark.

  She power-walked down the beach, away from the resort and the party, heading straight to the frothy white shore where the Gulf of Mexico swirled in low tide. Just as her bare feet reached the water line, she glanced over her shoulder, too quickly for him to get a look at her face. But he could easily see her narrow shoulders tighten and her long legs pick up speed.

  Interesting. Maybe someone didn’t want him to find the owner of the twenty acres in Barefoot Bay that he and his partners needed to close this deal. The plans to build a small baseball stadium and start a minor-league team on Mimosa Key were supposed to be secret, but he and his partners had already nailed down verbals on three plots in the northeast corner of the island. Word could have gotten out that they wanted that last twenty acres, even though the other landowners had signed nondisclosures. On an island less than ten miles long and three miles wide? Even scads of money didn’t buy silence.

  He matched her quickened steps. No, she wasn’t out for a sunset stroll; she was running. Not literally. Not yet, anyway. But definitely moving away from Elliott for a reason. A reason he had every intention of finding out.

  It didn’t take more than a few long strides to catch up, but he stayed about a foot behind her.

  “I bet you know where I can find Frank Cardinale,” he said, keeping his voice low and unthreatening.

  She didn’t turn, pretending not to hear him.

  “Otherwise, why would you take off like a twister in a trailer park?”

  That slowed her step. In fact, it stopped her completely. Elliott felt his mouth turn up in a satisfied grin. The Texas drawl always got ’em. Of all the moves his military family had made, he’d lived in the Lone Star State for only a year, but it was enough to pick up a few expressions and work on the twang. And, hell, he looked excellent in a cowboy hat. Now if she’d only turn—

  “I live in a trailer.” Her words were nearly lost with the splash of a wave at her feet.

  Shoot. Way to blow the first impression. “It’s just a turn of phrase, ma’am.”

  “More like an expression of condescension and mockery.”

  “No, a way to say you’re moving too fast, not an insult to your home.” He took two more steps, close enough to notice how the late afternoon light made her skin glow and pick up a whiff of something flowery and pretty. “After all, home is where the heart is,” he said. Not that he’d know, but he’d certainly heard that enough in his life.

  “It’s not for sale.” She spun around, making her hair swing like a curtain opening to a stage play. “So get back on your fancy helo, cowboy, and leave me alone.”

  He blinked at her, still not fully processing the demand because, man, oh, man, she was pretty. No, she rounded pretty and slid right into gorgeous, despite the fire in whiskey-gold eyes and the daring set of a delicate jaw.

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Are you deaf or just dumb as dirt?”

  “Blind. By your beauty.”

  “Oh, puhlease.” She looked skyward and sighed. “Spare me the lines.”

  “That’s not a line.”

  Her eyes turned into golden slits of sheer disbelief.

  “Okay, it’s a line,” he conceded. “But in this case, it’s also true.”

  “Did you hear me? It’s not for sale.”

  Yeah, he’d heard her, and the statement was starting to make sense, considering he’d come to the barrier island for one purpose, and it wasn’t to flirt with sexy brunettes on the beach.
Not that he’d fight the inevitable, but his goal was to buy land, and these words were not what he wanted to hear, no matter how scrumptious the mouth that spoke them.

  “Do you know Frank Cardinale?” he asked.

  She crossed her arms, which was patently unfair considering what that did to her cleavage. “I am Frank Cardinale.”

  He snorted softly and didn’t fight the need to examine her breasts further. ’Cause, hell, now he had an excuse. “Considering ol’ Frank is in his eighties and a man, I’d say you have one hell of a plastic surgeon, Mr. C.”

  “Miss,” she corrected. “Miss Francesca Cardinale.” She squeezed her upper arms as if nature and good manners were telling her to reach out and offer a handshake but she had to ignore the order. “Frank was my grandfather. He’s dead.”

  The lady wasn’t married, and the landowner was dead. Meaning this little excursion to the remote island would be fast, easy and possibly quite fun. He refused to smile at the thought, but took off his hat with one hand and extended the other. “I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m Elliott Becker.”

  She didn’t take his hand, but met his gaze. “I know why you’re here. You’re not the first person to come sniffing around the land. Although you’re the first to drop down like you owned the place.”

  “Which I don’t.” But he intended to.

  The thump of helicopter blades pulled his attention. There went Zeke, whisking away the woman he’d recently gone stupid in love over. Zeke had taken the chopper for the day, leaving Elliott with the task of finding Frank—er, Francesca—Cardinale to close the land deal.

  “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, w
hich 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.

  It felt like home a lot more than that high-gloss, high-tech high-rise in DC. How had this tropical island stuck in the middle of nowhere become her home? For the second time in her life, too.

  Sure, the place was a lush, undiscovered gem glittering in the Gulf of Mexico. A few years ago, the hills and lakes of central Barefoot Bay had been lost among the more desirable real estate along the coasts. But ever since Casa Blanca Resort & Spa had been built along the shore, money had been dripping into this island. Or dropping in by helicopter, she thought with a mirthless smile.

  It was like they’d gotten a newsflash when her grandfather had died without a will. Well, too bad, suckers. Florida’s probate and intestate laws were crystal clear, as was her extremely sparse family tree. She’d inherited the twenty-some acres of glorious tall pines and gently sloping hills...and all that was on it.

  Coming around the last corner, she slowed down to brace for the sight of exactly what that entailed: seven goats, two dogs, a milking shelter, and a less-than-luxurious single-wide that Nonno had rolled onto the land after his house was wiped out by a hurricane a few years ago. Yep, oddly, inexplicably, this wretched little goat farm had become her home.

  Not so inexplicable, she thought as she rolled up the dirt road. This was the very place where she’d taken refuge thirteen years ago when her world came tumbling down. On those bleak days in the fall of 2001, when the world mourned people they didn’t know and she mourned the parents she’d lost, she’d loved the security and simplicity of the goat farm. It was sunny and easy, with sweet goats and precious Nonno to make her forget the ache of being an orphan. She’d loved it then, and she loved it now.

  Only now, without Nonno, it was lonely.

  As she rounded the last bend, her gaze froze on a black SUV parked in front of the trailer. Holy hell, would these bloodhounds never give up? It’s not for sale, people!