Page 1 of Hired For the Billionaire's Secret Son

CHAPTER ONE

I’m sorry, but I am currently out of the office on my summer vacation and will only be checking my emails on a limited basis.

BOSØRENSONSCOWLEDat his monitor and wondered whether the whole of Denmark was on vacation and whether he was the only sap working. He looked through the glass walls of his office and scowled at the free seats—his staff didn’t have dedicated desks but picked their work station depending on their mood and task—and the lack of activity. Normally, he had people walking in and out of his office, asking questions, looking for guidance on a technical question, bouncing an idea off him or needing his approval for a staff hire or out-of-the-norm expenditure.

Here, on the third floor of the building he owned situated on Copenhagen’s North Harbour, was his favourite place to be. He and the rest of the office staff employed by Sørenson Yachts, designs and builders, occupied the third floor of the modern building—the vessels were constructed at their boatyard in Skagen. The lines of the building were inspired by a cruise ship, and the floor-to-ceiling windows let in as much natural light as possible.

While his office might resemble a graveyard in summer, on the plus side, it was a great time for him to knuckle down and catch up with his design work. He had a long waiting list of exceptionally wealthy clients and corporations waiting for a Bo Sørenson-designed vessel. Sometimes that was a kick-ass yacht suitable for an oligarch, sometimes it was a racing yacht, sometimes it was a simple but incredibly luxurious wooden sailing boat. Regardless of the type of vessel, every design would reflect his love of clean lines, modern and unfussy but exceptionally detailed.

And the owner would have the bragging rights of saying it was a Bo Sørenson design. He’d worked all hours of the day for the past fifteen years to distinguish himself from his father and grandfather, both of whom were world-famous designers, and he finally felt that the yachting world no longer believed he was riding their coattails. It wasn’t easy to distinguish yourself when you were the son of a genius who’d died far too young and who, they said, had never reached his full potential—and who had been the bad boy virtuoso of the maritime world.

Bo spun round in his ergonomic chair and looked at the framed photograph of his father standing on theMiss Bea, the first racing yacht Malte had designed, the wind blowing his thick blond hair. As everyone told him, Bo was the spitting image of his father and, if he never had to hear the expression ‘two peas in a pod’ again, it would be too soon. Yes, they were both tall, blond and fit, and he had his father’s green eyes and rugged face, but that was where the similarities ended.

Unlike his father, Bo was a workaholic and didn’t spend the year hopping from one glamorous yachting spot to another—from Monaco to Costa Smeralda to Dubai—redeeming himself by occasionally producing ground-breaking, innovative designs.

Yes, the patents from those designs had allowed him to be theenfant terribleof the yachting world, and brought kudos and opportunity to Sørenson Yachts. But, in Bo’s eyes, he’d wasted his talent and spent far too much time being frivolous. And maybe, if he’d partied less and stayed home more, Bo would have more memories of him than him sweeping in, ruffling his hair, handing him a present and sweeping out again, desperate to leave them behind, desperate for the next adventure—and the next woman.

As the years passed, Malte’s visits diminished to once or twice a year and Bo watched his mother become more bitter, more emotionally distant, colder and harder. By the time he was a teenager, Bridget had morphed into a brittle, robotic creature who’d been more his bank manager and boss than his mother.

Bridget, who’d been determined that he did not follow in Malte’s footsteps, had pushed him hard. If she’d had her way, she would’ve kept him from his paternal grandfather but neither Bo, nor Asger, would’ve tolerated her coming between them. He’d loved his stoic and silent grandfather, the one adult who seemed to enjoy his company. Bridget had been bitterly disappointed when he’d taken an engineering degree, specialised in yacht design and joined the family business under his grandfather as owner and CEO.

Within the first year of joining the company that had been in his family for seventy-five years, Bo realised that his grandfather’s grip on the company, and reality, was slipping. As he’d taken over many of Asger’s responsibilities, Bo discovered that his father’s contribution to the company did not justify his enormous salary.

At the age of twenty-four, Bo had realised that Sørenson Yachts was on the verge of collapsing and knew that he had to do something or the company started by his grandfather—the man he respected and who was, mentally, fading away—would go bankrupt. It was up to him to save it. Bo’s mum had the emotional range of a puppet, but she was a highly successful businesswoman who’d made a fortune in import and export. With her, Bo had wooed investors and, in the nick of time, put together a deal that had not only given him managerial control of Sørenson Yachts—Asger had given him his power of attorney—but had also injected a healthy amount of cash into the then-failing company.

It had also made him his father’s boss. His father hadn’t been happy about the board appointing him as his grandfather’s successor, and had been furious when his son cut his exorbitant salary and cancelled his company credit cards. He’d been livid when Bo demanded his presence in the office and gave him deadlines for projects he needed to complete.

Malte had lasted six months and, on the day his dad resigned, the anvil resting on Bo’s chest lifted. The company was his to do with once he took control, and was in the driver’s seat.

But life, as it had the habit to do, wiped away his self-congratulations. His grandfather had died from a massive stroke and, just a few weeks later, his father slammed his newly purchased McLaren into a concrete barrier and died on impact.

Bo had been named as both their heirs, and he had sole ownership of Sørenson Yachts—something he’d dreamed of, but it had come at a cost. In what seemed to be the blink of an eye, more than half his family had been wiped out—a man he’d adored and a man he hadn’t—and Bo understood, on a fundamental level, his mother’s desire to keep her emotional distance. When feelings were invited to the party, they caused havoc—grief and loss when you loved someone, regret, anger and frustration when you didn’t.

No, it was far easier to live his life solo, having bed-based relationships and keeping all relationships superficial. He had sporting friends, guys whose company he enjoyed, but he knew far more about their lives than they did his. He had lovers, not girlfriends or partners, and his sexual partners knew not to expect anything more from him than a good time in bed.

He had lunch with his mother once a month, and they spent ninety minutes discussing their mutual businesses. Her business was her favourite child, giving her everything she needed. She’d never been able to juggle being a businesswoman and a mother, and he’d suffered for it. One of the reasons why he eschewed having a wife and a family was because he never again wanted to feel like he or his children were less important than his or his partner’s career.

He was sure that there were people out there who had the work-life balance figured out, but he preferred not to take the chance of being left behind emotionally. He knew what loneliness and parental lack of interest felt like, how busy and uninterested parents could scar a child. Having a partner and child would force him to redesign his working life, something he wasn’t interested in doing. And, because he was only ever attracted to smart, ambitious women, he knew that a relationship with a career-orientated woman would mean putting him, or any child they had, in the position of begging for her time, interest and affection. A person only had so much to give and, as he knew, a business demanded a large portion of one’s energy.

He preferred not to fight to be seen, heard or paid attention to.

Bo stood up and stretched, annoyed at his uncharacteristic bout of introspection. He had work to do, designs to start and designs to complete. He would spend the summer working, but that wasn’t anything new; he got anxious and irritable when he was doing, and achieving. He only had a certain amount of time on this earth, and he intended to leave a legacy behind. Legacies weren’t made by sitting on beaches sipping cocktails or lounging around reading. Legacies took work and work was what he did best.

An hour later, Bo was working at his drafting board, deep in the zone, his entire focus on the design of a high-tech racing yacht to compete in the Sydney Cup in 2026. It was a new concept, something that would hopefully revolutionise competitive sailing. He’d been concentrating so deeply that it took him ages to hear the knock on his door and, when he looked up, his junior receptionist stood on the other side of the door, a worried-looking, middle-aged woman standing behind her.

He walked across his expansive office and opened the door, wondering why he was being disturbed when he’d left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be.

‘Mr Sørenson, this is Mrs Daniels. She urgently needs to speak to you.’

‘Make an appointment,’ he told the woman, his voice sharp. ‘I’m designing and I can’t be distracted.’

Mrs Daniels, with sharp blue eyes, was not impressed by his curt statement. ‘What I have to say can’t wait, Mr Sørenson. And, unless you want me to discuss your private matters in front of your staff member, you’d best let me come in.’

He didn’t have private matters to discuss. His last one-night stand had been a few weeks ago and he lived alone. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters and his mother was as self-reliant and -contained as he was. He saw the curiosity on his receptionist’s face and instructed Agnes to return to her work. He jerked his head, gesturing for the older woman to follow him into his office. He closed the door behind her and lifted his eyebrows. He had an intimidating face; people said that he could look scary, but it was his face, so what could he do? And, if it made her get to the point quicker, all the better. He had work to do.

‘I work for Social Services, Mr Sørenson,’ Mrs Daniels said, lowering her tote bag to the floor and clutching a brown, official-looking file to her chest.

So? What on earth could she want with him?

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