Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(36)

“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.’”