Page 2 of Driving Him Wild

In short, six foot five of extremely fuckable man.

From where I stood, I could confirm the six-foot-five stature.

I could also confirm that the man possessed a certain intangible...presence, the kind that tweaked even my jaded senses. The kind thatcompelledand intrigued.

With the ever-present threat of a snowstorm and precious few hours of remaining daylight,

everyone had pressing tasks to be getting on with. Yet even those scouts tasked with looking out for unfavourable visits from curious polar bears and other Arctic wildlife were distracted by our

latecomer.

That straying from procedure grew increasingly unacceptable, sparking my uncustomarytemper.

The kind normally tightly controlled and unleashed on the very deserving. Like certain members of my family.

Incomparable talent or not, right this moment, the man dressing down my project manager without

so much as raising his voice higher than the cold, frozen landscape around us was jumping on my last but one nerve. Not quite the last because that was reserved. For what exactly? I wasn’t sure. But the instinct I’d learned to heed told me save that last nerve.

Because I’d be needing it sooner rather than later?

Shame I didn’t listen to that caution twenty-odd years ago, back when I’d needed it most. If I had, my life would’ve been oh, so different than it was now.

You sure about that? You think escaping your destiny would’ve been that easy?

I ignored the cynical voice in my head that sounded eerily like my mother’s and narrowed my eyes

at the small gathering.

Larry, my normally unflappable project manager, was positively quaking. And it had nothing to do

with the freezing wind blowing off the frozen Alaskan lake we currently stood on.

I discarded my coffee and forced my limbs to move, swearing for the umpteenth time to fire my

stylist the moment I returned to London. Despite the five-thousand-dollar insulated winter gear she’d sworn high and low would keep me warm and toasty, I was freezing. And I was most definitely not in

a mood for temperamental Nordic men whose broad shoulders looked as though they’d been hewn

from the very glacier I stood on.

‘Problem?’ I asked as I approached.

Jensen Scott turned.

And every single one of Elsa’s proclamations zinged off in my brain.

Fuck-me eyes. Tick.

I was hit with a set of eyes so glacial and blue and transparent, the hard kick to my gut took me by surprise.

Killer jawline. Tick.

His square jaw looked sharp and solid and chiselled enough to cut diamonds, despite being

covered in a dusting of dark blond stubble and snow flecks.

Fuck-me body. Tick.

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