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

[email protected]

Facebook

Newsletter Sign Up

Website

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,
[email protected]
.

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,
puh
lease.” 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?”