The Runaway Billionaire’s Inconvenient Baby (The Billionaire’s Bidding)

Chapter 1

JACOB

Iam not a morning person. I have never been a morning person. I have lived the kind of life that has allowed me to get up whenever I damn well please, work all day at home, and only see people when I want to, on my terms.

That last part isn’t true. I wish it were, but it’s not.

The unfortunate fact is, I’m LA’s hottest billionaire, and the blogs reporting that don’t mean ‘hottest’ like ’most successful’. And because they all think I’m some sort of dream guy, they believe my time, my body is theirs to look at whenever they want.

It’s exhausting.

And that’s why I go through the misery of waking up at 5:30 a.m. just for the pleasure of going for a run.

People have advised me that if I don’t want strangers to watch me running, I should use the private gym in my home and run on the treadmill, but it’s not the same. I like the fresh air, the ocean view.

I want to live my life without having to become a total recluse.

With a yawn, I drag myself to the front door and slide my running shoes on. I don’t want to be awake, but I have no choice if I want to run. Slowly, I rise to my feet, stretching my fingers all the way up to the ceiling, trying to will some sense of being awake into my body.

Then I grab my face scarf and wrap it tightly around my mouth and nose, completing the look with huge dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat. I know this looks utterly stupid, but it’s the only hope I have to not get recognized. Even with all this, I still get stopped more often than not.

Maybe I stick out looking like this. After all, it is already a gorgeous summer’s day here in the city, and I’m wearing a scarf.

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Why can’t people mind their own business?

It doesn’t matter how much I move, which back streets I go down, whether I use a private beach or a public one, whether I use a cab or public transit or a driver — people always recognize me, and stalker journalists always find out where I live.

In my dreams, I live in the middle of nowhere, a forest or a desert maybe.

Just somewhere that I can look out my window and not see another soul for miles.

Somewhere where no one cares who I am. Maybe I’m destined to be a hermit. That, or maybe I should move continents.

I don’t exactly want to leave what little life I have here, though. Moving halfway around the world is for people braver than me.

Carefully and quietly, almost like I’m afraid someone is going to overhear, I step through the door and pull it closed behind me, waiting to hear the electronic whir of the lock.

To be safe, I rattle the handle. Only when I’m satisfied that my space is secure do I shove my earbuds in my ears, start blasting something upbeat, and turn to leave my luxury apartment complex.

I always slip out through the back elevator, despite the way it creaks, and the fact that it deposits me by the back door in the alley where the trash lives.

It seems appropriate, somehow, that I get dumped out here. Appropriate and a little ironic.

It’s times like this when I wish more than ever that I was just a normal person.

I take a breath, stretch side to side, then jog off into the morning sun.

Dawn in the city is always the most beautiful time.

I might not be a morning person, but even I can appreciate the way the sun, low in the sky, looks utterly stunning as it sparkles across the waves, and the way its orange rays catch on the glass of the tall buildings.

I love the way the shadows start to shrink around me.

It’s warm, despite being early and breathing into my scarf is already becoming uncomfortable. It’s a test of endurance. That’s how I have to see it. It’s all about how you frame these things in your mind. If you start thinking that something is too hard, it will be.

That’s why I keep succeeding. Because I know I can.

That, and being the son of two of the wealthiest people in town.

I can’t pretend that my family hasn’t helped me get where I am.

Inheriting a giant tech business from my father has given me one hell of a boost. I’m thankful for it.

Most people don’t get this kind of opportunity, so I’m not going to waste it.

I have a chance to be rich and successful. Why wouldn’t I take it?

Unfortunately, I do have an answer to that question: because it’s way too much effort to deal with normal people who think they’re entitled to something.

Normal people are fine. Mostly. I don’t understand why they feel the need to stop you every four seconds just because they recognize you. I don’t understand why, just because I’m a little bit famous, it means everyone’s got a right to me.

I don’t exactly have loads of friends, but if I did, I know what they would say. Stop complaining. You’ve got it so good. You should be grateful that a few people want to say hello to you in exchange for everything you’ve ever wanted.

I know all that. I am grateful — sixty percent of the time. It’s the other forty that I can’t stop fantasizing about running away.

I head for the beach. I don’t like running on the sand, but I do love the sound of my feet thumping against the boardwalk. It’s silent out here. Well, aside from the rush of traffic murmuring in the background and the soft rhythm of the waves against the shore.

These are the sounds of the city I love. These brief moments when I can imagine that no one else is here, yet life is happening all around me. Still and calm and alive.

There are some other early birds out running. We nod at each other in acknowledgment as we pass, and I hold my breath each time, bracing myself for someone to go, “Oh, my God, it’s Jacob!”

To my relief, none of them do.

I’m starting to get tired when I turn for home. I don’t like to go particularly hard on my runs. I don’t need to. It’s not like I’m training for a marathon or anything. When I’m running, I like to take it easy.

Plus, I always end up having to weave through the streets on my way home in case I’m being followed, which adds extra mileage. The last thing I want is for anyone to find out where I live. Every time that’s ever happened, it’s gone badly.

Today, my luck seems to be holding, so I decide to take the easy, shorter route back through town. At least that’s what I think, until there’s a pause for a handful of seconds in my music as the song changes and I hear the footsteps and the click and whir of a camera shutter.

The undeniable sounds of a stalker.

I turn to look over my shoulder, and my fears are confirmed as I see a guy dart behind a corner, making himself look infinitely more suspicious. I don’t know why they think trying to hide is a good idea.

Hoping to lose him before he comes back out of his hiding spot, I take a sharp left and make my way through the maze of LA’s back alleys. If I can make it home, then I can relax.

Every so often I look over my shoulder again, heart pounding. For a while, it seems like I’ve lost him, but as I turn onto my street, he re-emerges, camera in hand, hood pulled over his head like he’s trying not to be seen.

“Hey!” I yell. “Yeah, you! Back off, will you?”

The guy looks left and right like he wants to pretend he’s innocent, before deciding it’s best to come clean. He throws up his hands as if in mock surrender, though his tone isn’t one of someone who’s apologetic. “Hey, man, everything’s cool, yeah?”

I suck a harsh breath through my teeth and march over to him. “Look, I’ll give you one shot for free, okay? I’m here. You can have me. But then walk away, all right? Before I have to get the cops involved.”

His smile is languid and false, reminding me of a serpent or some other trickster.

Definitely not something trustworthy. But I keep to my word, so I slowly unwrap my scarf and grimace while he takes his picture, that too-familiar sound of the shutter snapping echoing down the road.

Then I glare at him until he gets the message that I’m being serious.

“Thanks a bunch,” he grins, then saunters off down the street.

I wait maybe ten minutes, stretching on the spot to make sure he’s really gone.

When I’m satisfied he’s not coming back, I run over to the apartment and let myself in.

I rush to the elevator, slamming my fingers on the button to make the door close faster.

All I want to do is go home. All I want to do is take a hot shower and pretend that I am a normal person.

I get out on my floor, run over to my front door, cover the keypad as I enter my code, and slam the door shut behind me. Finally.

Safety at last.

I head through to my bedroom where I strip off my sweaty shirt and put on something clean.

Then I head for the bathroom and turn on the shower.

The water pressure in this building is wonderful, though I think being on the second floor helps.

Usually, I don’t like being so close to the ground, but I get a beautiful view of the sea from here, and it is good not to have to go up so many stairs.

I’m about to take my shirt off again when I hear my balcony door rattling. Every muscle in my body tenses as I freeze. It could just be the wind. The door rattles sometimes in the wind. It wakes me up in the night, sometimes.

But I won’t be happy until I check. “It’s just the wind,” I mutter to myself, “It’s just the wind.”

The photographer and I both yell in surprise when I see him slipping into my apartment.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I cry.

“I can explain,” he drawls. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”

“I live here! How did you get my address?”

He shrugs. “Addresses are easy to get when you know how. Say, why don’t I go, and we’ll call it good?”

He says it like it’s nothing, but as he takes a step toward me, I can’t help but react. “Don’t come any closer!” I yell. “I’ll… I’ll… I have a weapon!”

I reach into my pocket as if to pretend I’m concealing something, and the invader stumbles backward, real fear in his eyes as he topples over to the floor. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

Before I let him say another word, I fumble for my phone in my pocket and dial the police. “I’ve had a home intrusion,” I say, giving my address. “Come right now. Please. My name is Jacob Ford.”

Even the person who picked up the phone changes their tone immediately when I announce myself. They become almost reverent, like they want to bow. I don’t need reverence right now.

I need help.

Minutes later, three officers knock urgently on my door. I let them in and point at the intruder. “This guy broke into my home.”

“This guy assaulted me,” the photographer snaps back.

“What? He broke into my home. I didn’t touch him!” My mouth drops open at the audacity of this guy to act like he’s the victim after invading my space.

One of the officers glances between us, then says to the intruder, “I think we’d better have this conversation down at the station, don’t you?”

While one of the officers walks over to my intruder, handcuffs him, reads him his rights, and leads him away, another comes up to me and says, “Are you all right, sir? Do you need anything? Someone to stay with you? Anything to make you feel safe.”

I shake my head. All I need is for this to be over. “I’m okay, thanks. Just a bit shaken.”

“Will you be all right on your own?”

“I will. Thank you.”

What I don’t tell him is that I’m going to have to move again. This seems to be the way my life is. Always having to move. No permanence. No true home.

The officer smiles. “Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you.”

“Thank you,” I say again, twitchy with desire for everyone to leave.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he says. I raise both eyebrows in question. “Would I be able to get an autograph from you? My daughter is a huge fan of yours.”

I smile thinly. “Of course,” I say, because how can I refuse?

It makes everything clear to me all over again.

I have to get out of this place.