Stalked by the Billionaire
STALKED BY THE BILLIONAIRE
Stressed doesn’t begin to describe the day I’ve had. I’ve been in meetings all day dealing with a pack of morons, and I’m not in the mood for this shit.
“Sir, we just need a bit more time—“ my assistant, Martin, is babbling on the other end of the line. Incompetent. I don’t know why I haven’t fired him yet.
“I don’t care what you need to do, Martin,” I interrupt him, “but get it done!” That last bit comes out as a growl, but I’m unapologetic, as always. I’ve about reached a ten on the pissed-off scale, and I’m ready to snap.
Running my company, Channing Enterprises, would be a hell of a lot easier if I could just do it all myself, but I am only one man. As the owner and self-appointed CEO, I’m in charge of every aspect of my business, but dealing with the top-dollar mergers and acquisitions keeps me wrapped up in meetings all the time. Is it too much to ask for my employees to do their damn jobs competently?
All of my days are busy with work. I’ve been doing it for so long it’s second-nature to me. I spend all day in the office of my headquarters in the city, and then when I go home, I usually spend a good portion of the night in my office at home too before I finally crash. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I wasn’t constantly expanding my company.
It’s not that I need the money. I have plenty of that by now. I look down at the paper in my hand and scowl at my placement in the city’s top twenty-five most eligible bachelors. Being a billionaire is enough to land me a spot in this sorry excuse for a publication.
I guess I’m known for being a bit of an asshole, but I’m not usually as irritable as I am today. But today has just been one of those days. It was one thing after the other until I was struggling to keep from flinging my desk out of my twenty-story-high office window.
Sure, I’m well-aware I could hire on more staff. I’m certainly not understaffed. I just don’t trust anyone to handle some of the tasks I’m intent on overseeing myself. I built this company from the ground up. It’s my company. Call me a control freak, but I want everything within it to go exactly as I say it should.
And right now, I just want to get back to my penthouse and have a stiff glass of brandy before calling it a night.
Unfortunately and irritatingly, I can’t control the city’s traffic either—one of the city’s top twenty-five most eligible bachelors or not.
I run a hand over my face in frustration before glancing down at my Rolex. I don’t even bother telling my driver to hurry it up. I know there’s nothing he can do.
Still scowling, I turn to my right to look out of the window willing traffic to move. My brows furrow when I’m floored by a pair of hazel eyes staring right into mine through the dark glass.
Well, they seem to be staring right into mine, but the girl isn’t actually looking into my eyes because I know the tint of my limo is so dark no one can see in. I had it done that way on purpose because I like my privacy.
No, this girl—no, that’s not the right term—this goddess just so happens to be staring in the direction I’m sitting in, and I’m met with the full force of the most arresting pair of eyes I’ve ever seen on a woman.
I’m not the poetic or romantic type. I’ve never been the kind of guy to be rendered immobile by a woman before—much less by just her eyes, but this girl’s eyes…there is something about them.
I continue to stare at her, unable to look away, and then it hits me what it is.
Her eyes hold an innocence not found very often in this city. Everyone else wears a harried expression on their face. Their eyes look tired or too old for their years, but not this angel’s.
Her eyes are pure . They’re beautiful. They make my chest clench painfully in a sensation entirely foreign to me.
I know she can’t possibly be looking at me, but from where she’s standing on the sidewalk staring out at traffic, her eyes are positioned so that it appears she is.
My own eyes sweep over her figure, taking in the faded tank top and cut-off jean shorts she’s wearing all the way down to her worn-looking sneakers. She’s thin yet somehow still curvy in all the right places with pert little breasts and just the barest flare of hip—just enough to make my blood start to race.
My gaze roves back up to those arresting hazel eyes.
They’re bright with an alluring mixture of brown, gold, and green flecks that almost make her look otherworldly, like a fairy from another realm. Framed by thick, dark lashes that make her look like a porcelain doll with honey-colored hair flowing down her face to caress the sides of her pink cheeks. A breeze blows, whipping a lock into her face where it gets caught on sinfully puffy pink lips.
She moves a tiny, delicate hand up to push the strand away, and she blinks before she turns and walks into a building. I watch her small form enter a crummy-looking hotel, and I frown.
I contemplate getting out of my limo to follow her but stop myself, frowning some more yet dying to know more about her. Who is she? Where is she going? What is she doing? Why do I care? Why has she affected me so?
I raise my phone up to my ear and dial a number.
When a gruff voice answers on the other end of the line, I say, “I’ve got a job for you.”