Page 1 of Hunted

1

ZARA

The plane shudders violently as we hit another pocket of turbulence. I grip the armrests until my knuckles turn white, peering out the window. Sheets of rain distort the Norwegian landscape into a colorless blur far below.

This is exactly the extreme weather I had hoped to study when my boss sent me on this research trip to northern Scandinavia. But staring it down on the other side of a screen from the safety of my Minneapolis office and being tossed around by the merciless skies are vastly different experiences.

“Try not to worry. We’ll be on the ground shortly.”

The deep, lightly accented voice comes from the man beside me. I turn to find piercing eyes studying me with faint amusement. In the tight confines of our economy seats, I can’t help but notice how solidly built he is—like he was chiseled from granite.

“I’m not worried,” I lie, color rising to my cheeks at being so easily read. “A little turbulence doesn’t bother me.”

One side of his mouth quirks upwards in a knowing smirk. “You don’t need to be stoic. My name is Tor. Please allow me to welcome you to Noway properly.” The large, calloused hand he offers completely engulfs my own as we shake.

“Zara,” I reply, trying not to stare too openly. He has sharp features and a predatory look to him.

“So what brings a beautiful woman like yourself to Norway, Zara?”

Beautiful? I blink, caught off guard by the bold compliment. “I’m an atmospheric scientist. Here to study the weather patterns.”

Tor’s smirk deepens into a full grin, revealing crooked white teeth. “You’ve come to the right place for extreme conditions.”

As if to prove his point, the plane gives another sickening lurch. I grab my laptop bag and passport from under the seat, clinging to them tightly. Something to cling to as an all-consuming fear that we’re going to crash and die hits me.

“Try to relax and enjoy the ride,” Tor says. His eyes flash as if he finds my discomfort amusing. “Where you’re headed, you’ll no doubt have more turbulent conditions than this.”

"The difference is my feet will be firmly on the ground," I respond.

Forcing myself to calm down, I glance out the window into the clouds. My pre-arranged host, Aksel, should be waiting for me at the airport when I land. My boss somehow found his contact details through an online ad since the area where he wants me to study the weather patterns is sparsely populated, and we exchanged a few emails. He's a solitary man living alone in the wilderness who has agreed to put me up and be my guide for my research.

But as the plane rocks and shutters through another vicious burst of turbulence, I can’t help but feel a stab of trepidation.

What exactly have I gotten myself into by venturing into the storm-tossed heart of Norway?

The plane finally smacks down violently on the rain-slicked runway in Tromsø. As the cabin fills with the whir of the flaps being extended, I blow out a long, relieved breath. We’ve made it through the terrible storm in one piece.

Tor retrieves his bag from the overhead bin like we hadn’t just been tossed around for the last hour. “This is where I take my leave, Zara. Safe travels, and try to enjoy the solitude.” He winks one of those piercing eyes and then disappears down the aisle without another word.

I have to wait until I’m one of the last to deplane. As I duck through the hatch, a cold blast of wind and driving rain smacks me fully in the face; so much for my carefully styled hair and makeup. I hunch my shoulders against the deluge, quickly retreating into the heated and warm terminal, thankful when I’m out of the stormy weather.

I breeze through passport control, grab a luggage cart, and wait for my equipment to arrive at the carousel. When it finally arrives, I struggle to load it onto the trolley and then push it toward the exit.

Aksel agreed he’d be waiting outside the terminal, so I pushed the car outside and ducked under the awning to wait for my ride.

I see him holding up a card with my name on it—a lone, towering figure standing apart from the crowd. Even from half a dozen yards, I can make out the chiseled angles of his face, dark hair dripping from the downpour. He doesn’t bother trying to stay dry, taking the onslaught of rain with a stoic indifference.

Our eyes meet as I approach. His gaze, nearly as dark as the storm clouds massing overhead, roams too deliberately over the lines of my body. I instantly regret wearing my fitted blouse and slacks—they're completely inadequate for this harsh climate.

“You must be Zara Driscoll,” the man states when I’m within earshot, making no effort to raise his voice over the gale. His lightly accented English still manages to carry weight and timbre.

Up close, I can see that he is powerfully built and over six feet four inches tall. Rain plasters his snug charcoal sweater to the contours of his chest and arms, and runic black ink trails along thick forearms and up his biceps. Dark stubble ghosts his chiseled jawline, complementing his handsome looks.

I offer my hand. “Yes, you must be Aksel. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Aksel regards my outreached hand for a pause before finally taking it briefly in a calloused grip. I do my best not to shiver at his touch.

“We should go. The storm is getting worse.” He turns abruptly and strides off without checking if I’m following.

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