Page 1 of Driving Him Wild

CHAPTER ONE

THERE WERE CERTAIN markers I’d come to rely on over the years. Markers that signified what sort of

day was in store for me.

Opening my eyes exactly sixty seconds before my alarm went off was a good starter sign. My

assistant getting my coffee at ninety-one point seven degrees, not the scalding one hundred degrees most people thought was the ideal temperature for the perfect cup of java? Wonderful.

Progression from car to lift to corner office without a single one of my three hundred plus staff

interrupting my seven hundred and fifty-seven steps? Utter perfection.

Precision and order equalled harmony.

There was nothing precise or orderly or harmonious about the deep rumbling voice firing off

questions at my hapless crew fifty feet from where I stood, perfect coffee rapidly cooling in my hand.

No one had approached me...yet, because I’d taught my people to handle problems well.

And also, I knew deep down to my very bones, because I was who I was.

Graciela Mortimer. The woman who went by many monikers.

Billionaire heiress.

Goddess of Charity.

Queen of Cash.

Or the most frequently used—and the one I hated the most—Bitch Ice Princess.

There was some sort of irony in remembering that here, standing underneath the distant shadow of

the ice-covered Alaskan Range, on a frozen lake scant miles from the Arctic Circle while surrounded by minions poised to obey my every word. But wasn’t my life one giant fucked-up expression of the

term? Prime example—hadn’t I, in my feverish attempt to not draw attention to myself, inadvertently become the public face of a global conglomerate? That in fervently wishing to be ordinary, remove

myself from the harsh spotlight of being a Mortimer, I’d somehow achieved extraordinary status,

earning myself, not one or two, butthreeprestigious magazine cover appearances and a mantel full of accolades?

Nevertheless, if the frenzied media coverage over the last year were an indication, my

achievements paled significantly in comparison to the man who’d arrived twenty minutes ago in a

flurry of a dozen husky-pulled sleds, sleek but weathered in all-white winter gear and reflective

sunglasses, and a whole hour late.

Jensen Scott.

World famous adventure photographer.

Half-English, half-Danish on his mother’s side. And according to Elsa, my mostly efficient if

sometimes too day-dreamy assistant, possessor of killer jawline, fuck-me hair, body and eyes.

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