Page 83 of Driving Him Wild

That didn’t mean I wanted to present myself looking like a scarecrow.

I repaired my make-up, tugged a brush repeatedly through my hair until it fell in acceptable waves

over my shoulders. My suit was professional but stylish, uniquely edged with purple stripes against black adding an unapologetic touch of femininity to the outfit. After gliding nude gloss over my lips, I left the bathroom.

My heart banged harder against my ribs, my palms growing sweaty as I approached the conference

room and opened the door.

Jensen looked up from where he lounged in the seat at the head of the table, eyes just as chilled as the last time I’d looked into them.

Despite the cold reception, I froze, my senses needing a moment to absorb him.

He wore a dark navy suit, clearly bespoke, gloriously highlighting every superb physical attribute.

His hair was combed, but it still achieved that sexily dishevelled look. The stubble he’d cultivated during our time in the cabin had now grown into a short, sexy beard, making his face even more

wickedly handsome.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Mortimer. I hope I’m not disturbing you too much?’ His deep, gravel-

smooth, desperately missed voice slid over me like silk.

Ice-cold silk.

My fingers tightened on the door handle as I shifted my gaze to where Elsa stood frozen next to him, her eyes wide with interest as they flicked from Jensen to me and back again.

‘You can leave now, Elsa.’

Her lips drooped with disappointment, but she nodded. ‘Oh...er... Okay. Sure thing. The projector

for your presentation is all set up for you, Mr Scott.’

His smiled warmed for her but turned frigid a moment later. ‘Thanks, Elsa.’

I shut the door behind her and approached, only then taking in the leather case that contained his

trays of photos before my gaze swung back to him.

In time to catch a flash of hunger before he checked his expression.

I wanted to pepper him with questions, demand that he tell me everything he’d done since we last

saw each other. But wouldn’t that be prolonging the agony?

I took a deep breath, forced my gaze away from his face to the photos laid out on the conference

table. ‘Shall we begin?’ I said briskly.

‘Yes. Let’s,’ he rasped, his voice brisker, perfectly emulating the Arctic wind I yearned to feel

against my skin. Because, absurdly, it suddenly symbolised bliss and freedom I was terrified I’d

never experience again.

A different sort of shudder moved through me, a forlorn little forecast of what my future held.

Desperately, I pushed it away. ‘Is this everything?’ I waved my hand at the tray.

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