Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2) (15 page)

 
“We never got a name for midnight, remember?” she said in between kisses, giving him the cotton.

He laid her on her back, bracing himself on one elbow next to her, lifting her hair to find that delicate spot right under her ear. “Let me smell it on you. That inspires me.” He dabbed the fragrance gently, leaning in to kiss her eyes and cheeks and mouth.

And then back to look at how incredibly beautiful she was.
 

She looked at him. “How does it smell?”

“I need to find another place.” He reached down to her skirt, pulling it higher to reveal her long thigh and bare hip. As he stared at her gorgeous body, his own nearly exploded. She wore nothing but a tiny strip of white satin, a thong he could take off with his teeth. “A place right...here,” he said gruffly, drinking in the sight of her, trailing the cotton to a sweet spot on her inner thigh.
 

He lowered his head, loving that she guided him and pulled his hair just enough to show how much she wanted this, letting him kiss her hip and that wisp of material.
 

“Let me test it here.”

“O...kay.” She could barely talk, so he stole a peek at her face, eyes closed, mouth slack, her expression rapture and anticipation.

He could do this, right? This wasn’t
everything
. They would do everything after he...after this.

He inched the tiny triangle of white to the side, revealing her sex-slick womanhood. He lowered his head, then dabbed her with the oil-scented cotton ball.
 

She sucked in a breath and let go of his hair, clutching the comforter instead.
 

Closer, he inhaled a mix of woman and lavender, of sex and spice. Very carefully, he kissed her and then slid his tongue around and around.

“Becker.” She rocked up to meet his mouth. “Oh, God, don’t stop.”

Dividing his gaze between her heavy-lidded eyes and the visual of beautiful woman, he licked warm skin, curling his tongue then stroking her with feathery brushes of cotton, teasing her closer to abandon.

She gripped his shoulder, called out his name, and bucked against his mouth with the first full shudder of release. He pulled it from her, sucking and licking and holding her hips until she exploded with an orgasm.

She whispered his name, the sound of satisfaction and delight while her whole body quivered. She tried to pull him up, but barely had the strength, so he kissed his way back to her mouth.

“Becker, what do you call
that
fragrance?”

He laughed. “Well, I call it...” He couldn’t even think of a word good enough to giving Frankie that kind of pleasure. “Where I belong.”

She finally opened her eyes enough to let him see her surprise. “Not a very...soapy name from my marketing guru.”

“What would you call it?”

“Amazing. Perfection. A prelude to...something.”

They both knew exactly what something that was a prelude to.
 

“How about a prelude to a promise?” he suggested. “Too corny?”

“Well, it’s for weddings planners. They love corny.”

They both laughed, and she reached her hand to stroke his cheek. “I like you, Becker. So much it scares the hell out of me.”

“What are you scared of, Francesca?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Everyone I love leaves me.”

The admission was so simple and true, it hit like a punch between the eyes. He didn’t even know how to respond, so he just lay down next to her, ignoring his body’s needs to take this moment to connect.

“What are
you
scared of, Elliott?”
 

He thought for a long time, holding her hand, letting their heart rates settle back to normal.

“You
are
going to tell me the truth and be real, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” But not yet. He couldn’t tell her yet. He’d have to tell her another kind of truth
.
A different revelation. “I’m scared that no matter what I do or where I go or how much I spend or make or accumulate, I will never be...”
Where I belong
. “Home.”

She sat up slowly, leaning on her elbow to look at him. “Tell me why.”

And for the first time ever, he wanted to tell someone everything. All his pain, all his missing parts, all the reasons why he had a hard time being real.

Because with this woman, being real was easy. Too easy. He’d never even thought there was such a thing.

* * *

Yes, Frankie wanted to have sex with Elliott Becker. More sex. Real sex. But something was stopping him, and Frankie suspected he just wanted one last wall to come down between them. He wanted to tell her something. That had been clear for a while now. And she wanted to tell him something, too.

So sex could wait. She had a feeling there’d be plenty, and often. This sharing was far more important.
 

They were both still fully clothed, but he nestled her into him, sliding a powerful leg over hers. He gently eased her head into the space right over his heart, his chin against her hair.
 

For a long time, neither spoke. Their breaths slipped into an easy unison, the afternoon sunlight slipping through plantation shutters to stream warmth on them. Frankie felt everything tense and scary and unhappy lift from her heart for the first time in a long time.
 

 
“Home,” he finally said. He nodded, as though that sounded right to him. “I’d like a home.”

She pushed up on her elbows again, certain she’d misunderstood the whispered words. “Didn’t you say you have a few already?”

“I’ve got an apartment in New York and I keep a place in Paris, just because, I don’t know. It’s pretty there. My parents retired to San Diego, so I have a place there, and I like to ski so I bought a house in Aspen. And, of course, my gold mine in Massachusetts, but I don’t live there. My place in Boston is in Beacon Hill.”

She laughed softly. “Okay. What’s wrong with this picture? You just told me of, what, five, maybe six different places you own and none of them are home? You live there, right? And something tells me that ‘apartment’ in New York isn’t a walk-up.”

“It’s nine thousand square feet, three stories, with five different balconies and a three-sixty-degree view of New York City.”

“Holy crap,” she muttered.

“And by the way,” he said softly, not breaking the slow stroke of her hair. “I looked up the quote. Money isn’t the root of all evil. It’s the
love
of money that’s the root of all evil.”

“Who said that? Shakespeare?”

“God. It’s in the Bible.”

“Really.” She hadn’t known that. “Still doesn’t change my feeling about it or the fact that you own all that real estate and still don’t have a place to call home.”

“Because calling a house a home doesn’t make it one,” he said. “Now don’t get me wrong, I love my places. But you’ll never hear me call them home. The apartment in New York is jaw-dropping, I know. I have great parties there, and I actually live in about one-fifth of it, which includes the kitchen, bedroom, and media center. But...” He shook his head. “Nope, not my idea of a home.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know.” He was quiet for a few seconds, thinking. “I started to think this week that...” His voice trailed off, and she didn’t dare look up to see his face to figure out what he was thinking. Because if he was thinking...

No. Crazy fantasies.
Stop it, Francesca.

“...that it must be nice to have something that’s been in your family and has history like that.”

Not exactly where she’d thought he might be going, that he might admit
her
home felt like it could possibly be
his
home.

“I’ve never lived anywhere for more than eighteen months,” he said. “And now, I don’t live in one place for more than a month or two before I jet off to the next apartment or house. I never had ‘a room of my own,’ a structure full of memories, or, you know, that place where you fall, where you can be...”
 
His voice faded, and then he laughed softly. “A place where I can be myself.”

She smiled at him, getting it completely. “So that’s why you’re a chameleon. You need a home base.” Deep in her chest, so deep it was like a little black hole she’d never expected to find, a low, slow burn heated up, even though it terrified her. What if...could she be...was there a chance to make a home with a man like this?

“So why not build a house in the burbs and live there?” she asked quickly, trying to plug up that sensation.

“I don’t know if I want that, either.”

She slid her arm all the way around him, holding on to his substantial body, warm and close and so, so comfortable. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that we have found ourselves a man who can have everything but doesn’t know what he wants.”

“You know...” He looked at her, his whole expression soft. “You’re so damn right. I want...” His voice faded and, suddenly, a guard went up. Imperceptible, but she knew it.

“You want what?”

He didn’t answer, still slicing her with his dark gaze, something—a lot—going on in his head.
 

“You’re lucky, you know that?” he asked.
 

“Because I don’t have that pesky pied-à-terre in Paris or the nine-thousand-square-foot place to keep clean?”

“Because you found a place where you...belong. I want that. I don’t care if it’s fancy or impressive or what people think I
should
be living in. I just want it to be a place where...” He shook his head, laughing. “This is cheeseball, but I want it to be a place where my heart is.”

Her own heart took a dip and a dive. “That’s where the person you love is,” she whispered.

“Like your Nonno was.”

Not exactly what she was thinking, but he’d opened a door she needed to step through. “Speaking of Nonno...”

She felt his gaze on her as she stared ahead, not willing to look in his eyes.

“What?”

“That promise I made?”

He shifted a little closer. “Yeah?”

She turned flat on her back and stared up at the ceiling, aware that her heart thumped with the need to be honest. She’d asked for him to be real and now she had to be, too.

“Frankie?”

“That night that I talked to my grandfather...” Biting her lip, she let the words fade with her next breath.

“Yeah?” He took her hand and gently, softly rubbed her knuckles with his much-larger fingers. She lifted their joined hands to look at his.

“Have I told you how attractive I find your hands?” she asked.

He squeezed her fingers. “Illegal change of subject.”

She nodded, building up more courage. She owed him this truth. “It was about four in the morning, and I was with him in the ICU. The halls were so quiet and still. I wouldn’t leave his side even though he was deep in a coma. There were no nurses in the room, just Nonno and me.”
 

She closed her eyes, her whole focus on the warm place where their hands touched, transported back to that dark hospital room, the only sounds the steady beep of the machines monitoring Nonno’s heart. She’d held his hand, too, just like this. But instead of the strong, young, powerful hand of Elliott Becker, she’d grasped the frail, wrinkled, sunspotted fingers of her Nonno. “I remember bending over to put my head against his chest, just to close my eyes for a moment and hear his heart. I knew his time was...close.”
 

For a moment, neither spoke as she remembered the slightly antiseptic smell of Nonno’s hospital gown and the thin bones of his old chest against her cheek. “And then he said, ‘Don’t ever let our land go,
piccolina
.’”
 

“When he woke up?”

And there was the rub. She looked up at Elliott. “I...think so. Maybe. I’m not sure.” She took a slow, long breath. “He never opened his eyes, but his voice was clear and so was our conversation. But...he died.” She swallowed hard. “I think he died before we had that conversation.”
 

Elliott just looked at her, clearly not quite getting where she was going.
 

“I fell asleep after we talked...” At least, she thought she had. “And I woke up when the nurses came running in, and they said...he was gone. They told me he’d never come out of the coma because they would have known it. They told me...I imagined the whole conversation, but I talked to him, I know I did. I heard him and he heard me and we...talked.”
 

Hadn’t they? Sometimes it was hard to be absolutely certain.
 

And if it had never happened, how much weight could she put on that promise?

“Then the nurses were wrong,” he said, at least
acting
like he believed her.

She sighed. Deep in her heart, she knew that they couldn’t have been, but... “Sometimes, I think that he was already...gone.” She shook her head, the memory of that conversation so vivid it
couldn’t
have been a dream.
 

“So...” He got up on his elbow, looking down at her. “What you’re saying is you aren’t sure if you really made that promise or not?”