Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(13)

His eyebrows lifted. “Sure, I have a pleasure boat.”

“And a private jet.”

“It makes travel easier.”

“Multiple expensive homes.”

He lifted one shoulder. “I like to stay in my own place if I can.”

“Butlers and staff and, of course, some ridiculous collection like art or horses or...”

“Rare cars,” he supplied. “I’m not going to apologize for how I live. I told you I was in the right place at the right time.”

But, still, she knew all she had to know about him. He worshipped at the money altar, and she despised people like that. She learned at a tender age that when you put money in front of everyone else, the ultimate price is too high. Her parents paid that price, and it still hurt her to think about it.

You can’t love people and money at the same time or with the same intensity. One wins out, everytime.

“Look.” She took a steadying breath. “I really appreciate your concern for my safety and your interest in goats and whatever else you’re going to dream up to persuade me to give you access to...me. But I don’t think this is going to work out.”

He didn’t move, except for his infernal petting of her dog. “It’s the money, isn’t it?” he finally asked.

She scowled at the question, not believing she was quite that transparent.

“You have issues with money,” he explained.

Well, yes, she was that transparent. “Who doesn’t?”

“Most women—”

“Hey, newsflash, Becker.” She snapped her fingers three times. “I am not most women.”

Charcoal-black eyes raked her, from face to body and back up again, just as smoky and sexy as a man could look. “I noticed.”

Damn it, she hated the heat that generated. Two words. One look. And a couple of billion dollars.

“I don’t believe money buys you happiness.”

“So says everyone who doesn’t have it.”

She managed not to scoff at that. “Money buys nothing but misery. Trust me, I know firsthand.

Misery.” If her parents hadn’t been chasing the almighty dollar...they’d still be here.

He finally smiled. “This is good, Frankie. Really good.”

“What is?”

“This arrangement.” He gestured to her and then to him, as though they had actually made an arrangement. “You can teach me about goats and farms and animal science, and I can teach you that you are completely wrong about people who have money.”



Could he? Maybe someone needed to do that, otherwise, she was never going to fully heal from the pain of losing the two people she’d loved and needed so desperately. Without giving herself a chance to think deeper than that, she nodded.

“Okay, then.” She put her hands on her thighs and pushed up.

“Can I stay?”

Ozzie let out four furious barks, as though he could answer for her.

“I have six sets of very dirty hooves waiting to be cleaned and trimmed. That’s a total of twenty-four goat hooves, which means forty-eight toes that need your attention.”

He frowned, making her wonder if the simple math threw him. “I thought you had seven goats.”

“One’s a buck and, trust me, you cannot handle him.”

He pushed up from Nonno’s chair and smiled at her. “You have no idea how I live for a challenge.

If I clean all twenty-four feet, can I stay?”

“Their called hooves, not feet. And, we’ll see.”

He scooped up the dog like he weighed nothing. “Let’s go, Wizard of Ozzie. Farmwork to do.”

As soon as she opened the door, Harriet came bounding over with his cowboy hat in her teeth.

Well, what was left of it. The brim was shredded.

Frankie bit back a laugh, but Elliott just hooted as he put down one dog to give his attention to the other. “Would you look at that?”

“Sorry,” Frankie said, fighting an outright giggle.

He gave her that slow, sexy, careless smile as he set the hat on his head and the ragged brim dipped over his forehead. “Let’s get to the hooves, boss.”

Damn it. Damn it. Did he have to be so stinking sexy?



Chapter Five

Elliott rolled over, a jolt from head to toe. Pain jabbed his back and something fuzzy scraped his ear. His forearms ached from compressing the damn shears, using every ounce of strength he had to snap off hard chunks of goat toenail. His thighs hurt from squeezing the beasts between his legs as he bent over goat butts and held their hind legs up to do the work.

Holy mother of misery.

Everything hurt and needed rest and a five-hundred-dollar massage and sauna at the club in Manhattan. Later. He’d make an appointment later. Now, he had to sleep, the need pressing his lids closed and numbing the pain. In his ear, a soft sigh pulled him a little further from a dream, and he reached out to...

He dug through sleep-fog for a name. Francis. No, Frankie. Fiery, feisty, funny, and... furry?

With a grunt, he threw himself backward, as far away from the little goat as possible.

Ruffles.

A musical laugh filled his ears. That pretty, girlie, bell-like laugh he hadn’t heard nearly enough while he cleaned shit—actual, real manure—out of goat hooves. Shifting in the hay bed he’d made the night before, he squinted to see Frankie at her milking station, already wringing the crap out of Clementine’s titties.