Runaway_A Billionaire Romance
Page 1
Runaway
A Billionaire Romance
The Ironwood Billionaire Series
By
Ellie Danes
www.EllieDanes.com
Copyright
First Edition, June 2018
Copyright © 2018 by Ellie Danes
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and situations are the product of the author's imagination.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.
License
This book is available exclusively on Amazon.com. If you found this book for free or from a site other than an Amazon.com country specific website it means the author was not compensated for this book and you have likely obtained this book through an unapproved distribution channel.
Table of Contents
Runaway
Copyright
Book Description
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
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Book Description
A dancer, a billionaire and a past that haunts them both.
I left my life behind when I ran away with my father's drug money.
Chasing my dream to be a dancer, I didn't expect to be chased by a billionaire.
A man that could buy and have anything and anyone he wants but that's exactly who Colin is.
But what he won't get is my secret.
Skye is as beautiful as she is mysterious.
I helped her chase her dream, and now she owes me, but the dance we are doing is hotter than fire and one of us is going to get burned.
CHAPTER 1
Skye
I stared at a ghost in the highly polished glass. It was me, but it wasn’t. My attention darted to the sign written in a delightfully curvy font on the broad glass window. The Hanover School of Dance. In my mind, the words were changing, and the window was becoming a lot less polished and mirror-like, the sheen dulling. The words now read H. O’Quinn's Dance Studio, and I was no longer looking into the studio from the street, I was instead looking out of the studio from within. I was no longer twenty-five years old… my thoughts had traveled back in time to when I was seventeen.
A time and childhood I had wanted to completely block from my memory.
My instructor, Mrs. O’Quinn, watched me perform my routine, as did the other students in my class.
The music rippled through my veins, filled me like liquid electricity surging through me, and I moved with grace and fluidity as I spun, leaped, and twirled. As the beat picked up, I began to dance with more intensity. Sweat soaked through my blond hair. The music grew faster and faster, and I flowed with it. I’d committed every movement to memory, I’d rehearsed the routine so many times it had become muscle memory. I no longer had to think about what came next; it just happened.
Finally, the music reached its climax and then faded out. I finished my piece and stayed frozen in position until the last few notes rang out, and I maintained my position as silence took over.
For a few moments, that was all there was; just me, and silence.
Then the students burst into a bout of applause, as did my instructor, Mrs. O’Quinn.
“Astounding, Skye,” she said with a broad, proud smile. “That was simply brilliant! You captured the energy and grace of the piece perfectly. I can see that you've been practicing hard.”
I smiled at her, feeling sweat beading in the small of my back and running down my neck.
“I've been practicing every day for at least two hours, Mrs. O’Quinn,” I said. “And I think I'm almost ready.”
“Oh, you're more than ready, my dear,” she replied. “More than ready. I think one more class, just to work on a few aspects of your flexibility, and we'll have you ready to take first place in the competition next week. So, I'll see you here tomorrow, same time, right? Last class before the competition. You're going to take that prize, I know it!”
“I hope so,” I said, “I’ll try.” Mrs. O’Quinn had to have known how difficult it was for me to even be in class once a week, let alone twice. She knew, even though she didn’t admit it, that I didn’t have the support system the other girls did.
Hell, I didn’t have any support system.
She knew more than she had let on, allowing me to attend classes for what was probably a fraction of what they really costs. Somehow, I had always brought the exact amount to cover the cost. Sometimes, it was even a bit more.
“Don't hope so, dear,” she replied with a gentle smile. “Know so.”
I grinned and started packing up, now that the lesson was over. But the smile soon faded from my face, and the positive energy flowing through my veins dissipated, for now, I had to go back to real life. Back to him and home.
My memory now jumped to the day after this one, the day I was supposed to go to my final dance lesson before the competition.
I was in the small, shabby house I shared with my father. He was, as he almost always was, drunk and high, and in a foul mood. He was dressed as he usually was as well; torn jeans and his stained white wife beater. His dark hair hung limp and greasy over his tanned, scarred face, which was stormy with wrath.
He sat at the kitchen table, packing parcels of marijuana into one brown paper bag and stuffing wads of cash into another, a cigarette smoking in an ashtray on one side of him and a glass of cheap whiskey on the other.
“Why did you take so damn long to get home?” He hadn’t even looked up from the table to acknowledge me.
“I came straight home from school, Dad.” My voice shook. I knew how this conversation could turn easily. “I always get home at this time.”
“Well, you take too damn long! I expected you earlier.”
“I'm sorry. I'll try to get home faster. But I have to go out again; I have to get to the dance studio.”
He glared at me, his bloodshot eyes glowing hot with anger. “Didn't I tell you about that? Stop wasting your time trying to live some fairytale.” I watched shuffled the bags on the table, biting his lip and shaking his head. “Where the hell have you been getting the money for this? I have you been stealing from me? I’ll beat your ass, you know I will.”
My father’s gruff voice echoed over the blaring television in the corner of the kitchen.
“I've been paying for it myself, and I've been doing that for the last three years. Don't you remember?”
He shook his head. “Whatever. Well, I don't want you going back there; it's a waste of damn time, you hear?”
Now my own temper started to flare up. Dancing was my only escape from the hell I came home to every day.
“It's my money and if I want to pay for dance classes with it, that's what I'm going to do!”
His hands clenched into fists, and I braced mys
elf because I knew what was coming. He grabbed an ashtray and threw it across the room. I only just managed to duck out of the way; the air above my head rippled as his fist flew past and smashed with a loud crack against the wall behind me. He grabbed my throat in his meaty hand and slammed me back against the wall, pressing his face close to mine. The hot stench of his breath blasted my senses and fear flooded my veins.
“Don't ever talk back to me, you little bitch,” he snarled. “Don't you fucking talk back to me, ever. I'll break this jaw of yours, and then you'll be eating through a damn straw for the next two months, you hear me?”
Tears streamed down my face as I gasped for breath. “I’m sorry. All right, Daddy, all right, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I whimpered, utterly terrified.
He slackened his grip, releasing my throat , and slunk back over to the table.
“You aren't going to that damn dance studio today,” he said flatly. “You aren't going back there again, ever.”
I sank down the floor, pulling my knees into my chest and cried. The skin on my neck burned from his rough grip. I took in a shuttering breath, my bottom lip quivering, as I let my fear subside and turn into anger.
He was taking away the one thing that gave my life meaning, the one thing that made me truly feel alive, the one thing that was worth living for – but I knew what he would do to me if I dared to talk back or disobey him, again.
He sealed up the bag of money and the bag of weed and shoved both brown paper bags into a backpack. He got up, had a brief coughing fit, and then walked over to me and dropped the bag at my feet.
“This goes to Eddie's place. If you don't get it to him in half an hour, I'm gonna be in trouble. And you know what I'll do to you if I get in trouble, don't you?”
His words were cold, the threat real and palpable. I knew exactly what would happen if I disobeyed him. There was no way I could take this to Eddie's place and make it to my dance class.
“What the hell are you waiting for?” he snapped. “I told you where to take this, now go!” He grabbed my arm, pulling me up and then shoved me roughly toward the door. “Go!”
“All right, all right,” I murmured. “I'm going.”
I circled back toward my room, grabbing a bag and stuffing in a few things. It was enough for an overnight stay at Gabby’s, but not enough from the break I needed from this house and him.
“Now Skye…and then back here so I can have dinner.” Otherwise telling me to get back quickly so I could cook for him.
“But I promised Gabby I’d stay…”
“I don’t want to hear it…back here, right after.”
His voice trailed off and I could hear the refrigerator door open and slam shut. The sound of a beer can opening followed and then him, slurping down the liquid.
It was the same thing every night.
I walked out, my whole being consumed with a terrible storm of anger, hate, sadness, and frustration.
My backpack slung over one shoulder, a purse on the other and the overstuff paper bag was carefully tucked under my arm. Each time I compressed the bag under my arm a puff of pot wafted by my nose.
Dropping bags off for my father was something I was used to, and something I had hated. I’m sure most of the people in the neighborhood knew what I was doing, but no one dare messed with me knowing my father, who he worked for and what would happen to them for bothering me.
The old neighborhood wasn’t what it used to be. Most of the friends I had stopped coming around after my mother was gone. None of them wanted to be near my father.
Drugs and crime had slowly crept in and I resented my mother for leaving me in such hell, but it wasn’t her choice.
Is dying really anyone’s choice?
I only remember her being sick and then she was gone. My father never explained and anytime I brought it up he’d get angry and leave the house. It was a subject that was off limits.
I tucked the bag tightly under my arm as I weaved in and out of allies. Eddie’s place was on the edge of the city and not exactly the place I wanted to be seen or even visit. My father forced me to run his errands. I either did it, or else.
I rubbed my neck where my father had grabbed my throat and cursed him under my breath as I approached the bus stop, just in time to step on and take a seat in the back. No one on the bus paid much attention to me as I blended in, my ripped jeans and black hoodie were almost a neighborhood uniform. I dropped my backpack and bag on the seat beside me and the brown bag opened, revealing smaller bags of pot and rolls of cash.
I quickly closed the bag and again the smell of pot wafted up to my noise. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the number of rolls of bills in the bag. There were at least ten. I had watch my father roll the bundles of bills of countless times. I shuddered to think how much was sitting in the bag I was carrying.
At least eight to ten thousand dollars. That was the norm when I was making a drop for him. People would kill for a single roll of bills, let alone the entire bag.
It was enough for an entire family to get out of that hell-hole of a neighborhood.
I squeezed my eyes tightly as I imagined the freedom.
All at once my heart raced and chest pounded as I opened my eyes.
Freedom.
That’s exactly what I was carrying in the bag.
My freedom.
As the bus pulled to the side of the road I stood, knowing exactly what I was stepping in to.
I wasn't just stepping off a bus, I was stepping out of my old life and into a new one—one filled with uncertainty, fear, and the unknown. But no matter what it held, it was a life in which I would forever be free of the tyranny and abuse of my father because I was never going back home.
The bad I held on to tightly was going to be my lifeline to my new life.
As the bus pulled away, I looked around. Directly across the street was a dance studio, and I took that to be a good omen. I hurried across, reading the sign: The Hanover School of Dance, and then I stopped and watched some of the dancers through the window. They moved with such finesse and grace and fluid beauty. It was mesmerizing.
“One day,” I whispered to myself. “One day, I'll be on the inside of that studio looking out, not the other way around.”
I walked down the street and caught sight of my reflection in a mirror in a store display window, and from this angle, I looked exactly like my mother.
“Why did you leave me, Mom?” I whispered. “Why?”
Sadness overtook me, and I couldn't look at my reflection anymore. I walked away, leaving my reflection behind in the glass.
I opened up my backpack and pushed the bag of money and drugs to the bottom, under my clothes.
A few blocks down the street, I found a church that had a sign offering a homeless shelter. I walked in, and a kindly old priest smiled at me.
“Can I help you, dear?” he asked.
“I need a place to stay,” I murmured. “I... I'm homeless. I don't have any family.”
And that was that... my new life had begun.
The memory faded out, and I returned to the present—eight years later to the day. Somehow, I found myself back in front of The Hanover School of Dance, although I now looked like a very different person from the naive young girl who had looked through this window with a longing gaze so long ago. I inhaled sharply and walked in.
“Hi,” said the woman behind the counter. “You're a bit early for the next class, but you can wait on that sofa over there.”
“Oh, no,” I said, wishing that I was actually there for that reason. “I'm not here for a class. I saw the sign outside regarding the job opening. I’d like to apply.”
The second I had noticed the sign in the window saying that there was a job opening, I knew I absolutely had to get this job. Since I’d arrived eight years ago, this place had beckoned me. It was a symbol of my lost hopes, my lost dreams and desires. I knew if I could just get a foot in the door, maybe a small part of me would be able to once more grasp just a f
ew wisps of those dreams and then maybe they wouldn't be gone forever.
“Oh, I see,” said the woman behind the counter. “Well, wait over there. The manager will be here shortly.”
I sat down on the sofa and prayed with all my might that I would get this job. I needed something to go right in my life for a change... Something had to. It really had to.
CHAPTER 2
Colin
The view from the 75th floor of The Ironwood was breathtaking and could only be matched by the 9 penthouse suites above mine. I probably wouldn’t have gotten this one if it wasn’t for my connections and learning that the previous owner was about to fall on hard times and prison time. He sold it quickly, wanting an all-cash deal and then vanished.
I didn’t ask questions and I didn’t really care.
The Ironwood was only a few blocks from my office and by far, the most exclusive skyscraper in the city. It was home to countless billionaires and millionaires.
I’d crossed paths with a few in the restaurant, but for the most part, the building seemed almost empty.
I grabbed my watch and keys and hit the button on the private elevator. The way the building was designed, the elevator wouldn’t stop at a floor if another tenant had called for the elevator first or was already in it.
Billionaire’s wanted their privacy, which was ironic, since the building boasted an exclusive restaurant, fitness center, golf level, pool and pretty much any other amenity you could think of.
“Morning Javier,” I said as I strode across the large marble entranceway. Javier seemed to be a permanent fixture at the front door, no matter the hour. He also knew every tenant, all of the gossip and had connections that even the rich didn’t have.
It was one of the perks of being the doorman for a bunch of rich people.
“Morning Mr. West,” he said as he tipped his cap and walked with me toward the door. “Shall I call for your car this morning?”
“I’m going to walk today. I want to take advantage of the weather and to clear my mind a bit.”
Javier nodded and pushed the door open. His 5’5”, portly frame leaned against it as I slipped by. “Have a nice day sir.”