Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2) (10 page)

“Your friends are funny,” she said. “And that Nate is as good in three dimensions as he looks on the covers of tabloids in two.”

He faked a choke. “And here I thought you were different from most women.”

“I am,” she insisted, taking the cold shrimp he offered. “But I’m still human.”

He looked skyward. “Change the subject.”
 

“Deal. What do you want to talk about?”

Her land. Besides a deathbed promise, what else was he taking from her? The question had plagued him, and it felt like the right time to ask. “So what exactly are your plans for your grandfather’s farm?”

“It’s my farm now,” she said quickly. “And my plan is to fulfill the vision he’d always had. La Dolce Vita.”
 

“The Sweet Life.” He’d heard the expression.

“That’s what Nonno called it. He didn’t want to turn it into some big high-tech farm, but he always wanted to see it be a little country store and destination for families. Before Casa Blanca was built, not enough people came to Barefoot Bay to make that a reality, which is part of the reason I fought him on it and wanted to go in a different direction. But now I see the wisdom of his ways, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Except, she wouldn’t if La Dolce Vita was transformed into an access road and stadium parking. He swallowed, but the bite lodged in his throat, making him down half a bottle of water while she stared out at the horizon, deep in thought.
 

“Don’t you feel you’re making his dreams come true and not yours?” he asked.

She considered that, then shook her head. “I’ve wrestled with what to do, but the more I’m there, the more it feels right. I think I’ll build a cute two-story house made of stone like the ones in Italy. I’ll live upstairs, but downstairs would be the retail shop. Something small, you know? I would sell my soaps and milk and cute little goat-related products. I’d have a petting pen and a much nicer milking shed and production area.”

Whoa, these plans were a little further along than he’d realized. “Sounds like you might need some cash to make all that happen.” With cash from the sale of her land, could she build her farm somewhere else? Would that assuage his guilt?

She shrugged. “I told you, I have some money tucked away.”

“But do you have millions?”

She turned from the water to stare hard at him. “You’re still convinced you can buy me.”

“Not you,” he corrected. “But your land.”

“I haven’t dissuaded you from your eccentric farm dreams yet?”

“Absolutely not. And if you had a lot of money, you could make that dream bigger, better, even more beautiful”—he took a breath and leaned closer—“somewhere else.”

“So could you,” she replied. “Why my land?”

Because it was next to the other three plots they’d already secured. Because this location was perfect. Because it was easy, and Elliott liked things to be easy.

Except...he also liked them to be fair.

“Anyway,” she said, unaware of the war of words raging in his head. “Until I settle that issue with the lawyer who claims someone else owns the land, I couldn’t sell it if I wanted to. Second, I don’t want to. And I don’t care if you call me stubborn, since I told you I come by that trait honestly.”

He shook his head, recognizing the impact of a brick wall when he hit it.
 

He reached for a stray hair and brushed it off her face, studying her strong profile, the little bump on her nose and the thick lashes that brushed her cheek when her eyes were closed. “You’re pretty when you’re stubborn.”

She tilted her head to rest against his hand. “Now you’re just trying to play me.”

He threaded some hair through his fingers and added a little pressure so she would turn to face him. “I swear I’m not doing anything but sitting in the sunshine with a gorgeous woman, enjoying food and conversation, and thinking about how much I want to kiss her.”

With a sigh, she scooted around to face him with her whole body, crossing her legs under her flouncy skirt and forcing him to make eye contact. “I never know when you’re being real.”

“I’m always...” But was he? “I’m being totally real about wanting to kiss you.”

She shook her head, helping herself to a chocolate-covered strawberry, nibbling while she scrutinized him. “I think I know what bothers me most about you, Becker.” She pointed the bitten end at him.
 

He had to laugh. “Now there’s a loaded statement. Sounds like the whole ‘bother’ list is pretty damn long.”

“Endless,” she agreed with a wry smile. “But this is the big one: Sometimes you’re Texan, sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you’re cocky, sometimes you’re sweet. Sometimes you play a little slow on the uptake, sometimes your smarts are daunting. Sometimes you say you’re on my side, sometimes you’re clearly on the other team.”

For a long time, he said nothing, debating all of the different possible responses to that, and not liking any of them.
 

“And sometimes...” A slow smile curved her lips and her eyes sparkled as she flipped the strawberry stem on a paper plate. “I really like you and, yeah, sometimes I want to kiss you, too.”

“I don’t want to hear about the other times,” he said softly, meeting her almost halfway. “Let me know which Becker you like, and that’s the one I’ll be.”

She popped back. “See? That’s what I don’t like. The ability to change and shift and transform to suit the moment. You do that, you know.”

Why lie? “I know. I like things to be expedient. So I’ve learned to, I don’t know...” He dug around for the least offensive way to describe himself. “I’ve learned to blend in with whoever I’m around,” he finally said.

She curled her lip like her last bite had been bad. “Don’t you want to fix that trait?”

“I’m not quite thirty yet,” he said. “I will, in time.”

“Then call me when you do, Becker.” She reached out and trailed a featherlight touch on his cheek. “If it’s the guy I like, I might be up for some of that kissing you mentioned. If it’s the phony guy who says what he thinks he needs to say to get what he wants, I’m out.”

He snagged her wrist before she could pull her hand away, wrapping his fingers around the narrow bones. “I want to be the Becker you like,” he said gruffly.

“Just be the only Becker there is. I mean, how can you be anyone else?”

He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, then let their fingers entwine as he managed to get a little closer. “I moved a lot as a kid.”

She regarded him, silent, waiting for whatever that had to do with his ever-changing personality. A lot, he knew.
 

“I developed an incredible ability to fit in, no matter where I was. Vermont, Texas, Carolinas, big city, small town, on the base or off, every year or so I was in a completely new environment, and I knew survival depended on fitting in.”

“Lousy excuse for being a phony,” she shot back, the utter lack of sympathy causing a ping inside but not really surprising him.
 

“I’m not phony,” he insisted. “I prefer to think of myself as a chameleon.”

She rolled her eyes. “Semantics. Fake is fake.”

“I’m not fake. I don’t see what’s wrong with bending with the wind a little if it makes other people happy and moves things along smoothly. When I’m hanging with my softball team, I’m one of the masters of the universe with nine zeroes. When I’m doing a deal, I’m a commercial real estate mogul. When I’m home with my folks, I’m their ordinary son.”

“Who are you right now?”

He smiled and opened his mouth, but she put her fingers over his lips. “The honest truth, Becker. No jokes, no saying what you think I want to hear. Right now, who are you?”

“A guy who really,
really
wants to kiss you.” He leaned closer. “Honest, unwashed truth.”

She shook her head. “And you’re also that real estate mogul who wants to buy my property.”

He gave a shrug, not denying that. “He wants to kiss you, too.” He closed the rest of the space between them. “A lot.”

He expected her to dodge him, but she stayed perfectly still, letting him place his lips on hers for a slow, tender kiss. A strawberry and chocolate kiss, as warm as the tropical sun and light as the bay breeze that lifted her hair and ruffled her skirt.
 

With a barely audible moan, she tilted her head and let him intensify the contact, their clasped hands separating so they could add light touches. He caressed her bare shoulder, and she tunneled her fingers into his hair.
 

“I like
this
Elliott,” she whispered into the kiss. “But I don’t know when you’ll change.”

As much as he didn’t want to, he leaned back, far enough to allow their eyes to focus. “I don’t change. I adapt to a situation. It’s me, all the time, but I won’t deny I know how to work people to get what I want. Is that so bad?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Only to the people who are being manipulated by you—and I have a feeling I’m one of them right now.”

“You call it
manipulated,
but I call it really nice and natural kissing.”
 
He underscored that with a longer, deeper kiss, teasing her lips and teeth with his tongue, enjoying a pure rush of pleasure through his body. His hand slid into her hair, easing her even closer. “God, you smell pretty and taste good.”

She let out a little sigh as he dragged his lips across her cheek and along her jaw. “You smell like that soap I used in the bathroom,” he murmured.

“I made that.”

“Mmm. Nice work.”

Her throat caught, making him want to explore that skin with his lips, too, but she backed away. “And speaking of soap, if I don’t stop making out and start making soap, I won’t have a batch ready for that meeting with Jocelyn Palmer. So…” She was trying to push away, but he did his best to hold her in place.
 

“Am I really going to lose to goat soap?” he asked.

“Goat’s
milk
soap,” she corrected. “And, yes, I need to get back to work.”
 

He let her stand, easily rising with her. “I can help.”

“But…” She hesitated as he got closer, looking up at him as he loomed taller. “There’s nothing for you to do. It’s a one-person job.”

“Then I’ll watch and inspire.”

She made a face of pure disgust. “How on earth am I going to get rid of you? Don’t you have something else to do? Sell buildings? Count your money? Play with your Niners?”

He shook his head, slipping his arm around her. “Nope. You’re all I’ve got this week.”

“Lucky me.” She snorted with derision, but he could tell she didn’t mean it, not the way she was looking at him. “I wish you
were
real, Elliott Becker. You’re funny and great-looking and kiss like a dream.”

“I
am
real. What do I have to do to prove that to you?”

She pressed a little more into him, her curves fitting nicely against him, her upturned face as beautiful as any view around him. “Kiss me again.”

“With pleasure.” Lowering his head, he tightened his embrace and kissed her mouth, lifting her up to her tiptoes and into his body. This time he didn’t let go, opening his lips and letting their tongues curl and collide, dragging his hand down her spine to settle low on her back and press a little more.
 

She let out a tiny moan of pleasure, and her fingers tightened on his arms. Both of their hips rocked imperceptibly toward each other in a natural, ancient, raw movement that neither one could have stopped if they’d wanted to.

Blood thrummed from his head to his lower half, and her body shuddered at the first pressure of his.

Finally, before he grew so hard he couldn’t hide it, he let her go.
 

“How’d that feel, goat girl?”

“Real.”

He gave a smug smile and took her home.

Chapter Eight

On any other day, Frankie found the process of making soap from her goat’s milk relaxing and pleasurable. Today, with Elliott right behind her, glued like a shadow, taking every chance to touch or bump or make body contact, she was anything but relaxed. Each touch was electrifying.

Ozzie circled Elliott’s feet, staying as close as possible while the goats positioned themselves around the kitchen area of the milking shed, mostly content to watch. Not Elliott. He wanted to be right on her heels—or ass, to be more precise—nosing over her shoulder, asking clueless questions, making her...jittery.

He practically kissed her ear as he leaned over her to watch her stir the lye into the mixture.

“Back away or you’ll get burned,” she warned.

But of course he didn’t. “Is that stuff making the soap hot?”

“Kind of.” Like he was doing to her. Ugh. She had to give him something to do or she’d melt like the waxy soap ball. “What are you good at, Elliott?”

“Besides everything?”

She laughed. “In the soap-making department.”

“Whatever you need me to do, I’m good at it.”

She had to smile at his infectious confidence, inexplicably attracted to it. “You’re probably pretty good at marketing. I need to come up with some catchy names for my fragrances. See that row of bottles?” She indicated the shelf stocked with tiny vials of essential oils she used in the soaps. Go smell them and tell me what they make you think of.”