Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2) (16 page)

She didn’t answer for a long, long time, then finally, she nodded. “It might have been, you know, my imagination.”

He stroked her cheek, silent, thinking. “No, it wasn’t. And you’re lucky, then.” He leaned closer and kissed her. “You’ve talked to angels.”

Her heart folded in half and then burst in her chest. “Yes,” she said, fighting tears. “I have.”

“I’m lucky, too.”

“So you’ve said a million times.”

He smiled at her. “You talk to them. I get to fall in...”
 

She waited. What would he say? In love? In bed? In—

On the floor, her cell phone rang inside the bag she’d brought in, shredding the moment. She huffed out a breath of frustration, but he gave her a nudge.

“You can get that.”

“No, I—”

“Really, you can get it.” He leaned over the bed and snagged her bag, flipping it up on the bed. “It’s the middle of the day and...it could be Jocelyn.”

Did he want this intimate conversation to come to a crashing halt? It sure seemed so.
 

“Plus, I have something important I have to do today.” He pulled her phone out of the side pocket and handed it to her, pushing himself off the bed.
 

Had they gone too far? Revealed too much? Bewildered, she took the phone and barely glanced at the screen, half-registering that it was Liza Lemanski from the County Clerk’s office.
 

Before she could sit up to answer, Elliott was halfway across the room, and then he disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door. Frowning and ignoring the punch of disappointment in her chest, she tapped the screen and answered the phone.
 

“Hi, Liza.”

“If you tell anyone I made this call, I will deny it until they tie me up and hang me in red tape.”

Any other time, she’d have laughed. But... Frankie stared at the closed door and reached behind herself to hook her bra, a flush of embarrassment rising even though Liza couldn’t possibly know where she was. “Your secret’s safe. What’s up?”

“I found the will. And the property deed.”

“That’s go—”

“And the multimillion-dollar offer from a third party that is set to close in forty-eight hours.”

“
What
?”

“I’m not kidding, Frankie, someone has made a cash offer, and it is going through fast, fast, fast. That Burns guy has a one hundred percent legitimate will that your grandfather must have signed in a moment of weakness. He works for some seedy company that preys on old people who don’t have official wills.”

“Is that legal?”

“It isn’t illegal if no one contests the will or they unload the property before a family member gets involved. And that’s what Burns is doing. He’s sold it to the highest bidder for so much more than market value, it should be a crime.”

“How much?”

“I don’t even want to tell you because I can’t stand to hear a grown woman cry.”

Oh, God. No. “How much?”

“More than you can beat, unless you have a few million or ten stashed away. Who even has that kind of money?”

She stared at the door. Elliott did. A man who could be...unreal.
 

“Who’s the buyer?” she asked, the metallic taste of dread and shame filling her mouth.

“I can’t—”

“Liza, please. You have to tell me. I have a feeling I just...I almost had sex with him.” And, worse, dreamed of a future.

“Oh, God, I hate men. Have I told you how much I hate men? Hate.”

“Liza?”

“The name is Becker. Elliott A. Becker. I’m guessing the A is for Asshole.”

Frankie closed her eyes as the blow hit her heart. “You’d be guessing right,” she muttered, already scooping up her bag and turning to the door. “Let me ask you something, Liza.” She kept her voice low as she tiptoed down the hall to the living room.

“Sure. I’ve broken every rule in the County Clerk’s bylaws and employee handbook by calling you. What’s one more?”

Very quietly, without making a sound, she turned the front doorknob. “Can you give me a phone number for that Burns guy?”

“I...can’t.”

“He gave me his card, but I...” Left it in a place for Elliott Becker to find. Damn him! “Liza, please.”

Outside, she slid into the golf-cart seat and reached for the start button. “I have to do this,” she whispered, hating the catch in her throat.

 
“Can you write it down?”

“I won’t forget it. I won’t forget anything.” Like just how close she’d come to being screwed in every way possible.

The electric cart barely made a sound as she rolled toward the paved road, memorizing the number Liza gave her before they hung up. But just as she passed the next villa, she heard her name, loud and clear.

“Frankie! Damn it, Frankie, where are you going?”

Feet slammed on the pavement behind her, but she gunned the cart and swerved around some shocked resort guests.

“Francesca Cardinale, stop that cart and listen to me!”

Did he have no idea who he was dealing with? Was he so shortsighted that he didn’t think she could beat him at his own game of pretend?
 

“Frankie, please! I’m sorry! I want you! I belong with you!”

You belong in hell, Becker.

She shoved her hand in the air, thrust her middle finger to the sky, and kept driving.

Chapter Eleven

Voice mail. Voice mail. Voice fucking mail. Then nothing. The damn thing didn’t even ring anymore.

It was like Michael S. Burns, attorney-at-law, no longer existed. Elliott flung the business card on the bed, tossed the phone on top of it, and let himself follow both, stuffing his face into the blankets that an hour later still smelled like...

Where I belong.

Except he didn’t belong anywhere, especially not in the arms of a genuine, amazing, one-of-a-kind angel who deserved so much more than a fake. Because that’s all Elliott Becker was. A phony, manipulative bastard who thought he could hedge his bets and play both ends against the middle and every other gambling cliché that always worked for him because it was easy and he was lucky.
 

Not anymore.

Now he was the empty shell of a fool who’d made a mistake and couldn’t cover it up.

He flipped over, staring at the ceiling. Who’d called her? Burns? Why would he do that? Someone had found out. Maybe Jocelyn Palmer had alerted her. Hell, maybe Nate had sabotaged this.

At the thought, he shot up, furious and ready to kill his friend.

That would be just like that spoiled prick who got everything he wanted. Probably thought if he wrecked the romance, then Elliott would go ahead with the—

Three hard raps at the front door of the villa pushed him to his feet. If that was Nate, he might punch the bastard. If it was Zeke, maybe he could help. Elliott had to do something. He had to track the guy down and withdraw the offer and then go grovel in the hay and beg for—

“Mr. Becker! It’s Michael Burns!”

Burns. Elliott whipped open the door and stared at the weasel with a comb-over, relief nearly buckling his knees. Thank God, his luck still held in some regards.

“Get in here.” Elliott grabbed the guy’s arm and practically yanked him. “I’ve been calling you nonstop for an hour!”

“Sorry. I was in a bank vault, and that cuts off the signal to my phone.”

“I need to—”

“Here’s your check, Mr. Becker.”

Elliott stared at it, then closed his eyes. This transcended lucky. This was downright miraculous. “So you got my message that I wanted to end the deal before you finalized any paperwork?”

“Oh, I finalized plenty of paperwork, sir. The deal went through an hour ago.”

Shit! “Then why are you giving me this check back?”

“Not your deal. I sold the land to the highest bidder, and I must say, that bidder doubled your offer with hard, cold cash. I honestly didn’t think it was worthwhile to try to get you to counter.”

Her land was gone? “No, you didn’t sell it! You can’t sell it!” He practically dove on the guy. “Whatever the amount, whatever it is, I’ll beat it.” He’d buy it back and give it to her. She couldn’t lose La Dolce Vita. It was where she belonged. And where he—

“My deal’s done. You can work with the new buyer, but I doubt she’ll budge an inch. That woman laid down more money than I ever dreamed I could get and, between you and me, way more than it’s worth. I have other—”

“Who bought it?” Except, he kind of knew, didn’t he? In fact, who else would buy it?

“That squatter with the goats.” Burns shook his head. “You just never know who has money, do you? I peeked over the bank manager’s shoulder and got a whiff of her net worth.” He leaned forward, eyes wide. “I could have sworn there were nine goose eggs in that number. Can you imagine?”

Yes, he could imagine. He could very well imagine that a girl who’d come from extreme wealth and never touched the money, investing it wisely for over a decade, maybe hitting some gold of her own, would have “some money” stashed away, as she’d said. Rare, unlikely, but who knew better than him how the right investment could pay off?

“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?”