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

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?”

Very slowly, she shook her head.

Oh, for cryin’ out loud, let’s get this done . “Five million? Ten? Fifteen? Everyone has a price, Francesca.”

Then her face relaxed and her lips curled up and her eyes lit with something that reached right down into his gut and sucker punched him. “Not for a billion. Which I doubt you have.”

She started to walk away again, and he lost the fight not to touch her. Reaching out, he closed his hand over her elbow and stopped her, pulling her very gently toward him so he could turn over his trump card, low and sweet and right in her ear.

“I have two billion. And a half, to be precise. I’m willing to part with enough to buy your land, make you a rich woman, and celebrate over dinner together. Do we have a deal?”

A glimmer of amusement lit her eyes, as gold as the sunset behind her now. “Is everything this easy for you?”

He laughed softly, mostly at the truth of that statement. “Just about.”

“Was it easy to become a billionaire?”

Disgustingly so. He went for a self-effacing shrug. “Mostly a mix of good timing, dumb luck, and my irresistible boyish charm.”

“Really?” One beautifully arched eyebrow lifted toward the sky. “Well, guess what, Elliott Becker?” She cooed his name, already softening. The B in billion usually did that when his world-class flirting missed the mark. “Your luck ran out, your timing sucks, and I don’t find you charming, boyish, or the least bit irresistible.”