Born to Be Wild Read Online Free Page B

succeed.
    She looked up when Charles came into the room, his timing perfect, as always. “Mr. Wilde has arrived.”
    Lauren looked at her watch. One-forty-five, exactly. At least she didn’t have to worry about Mr. Wilde’s punctuality.
    “You’ll find him in the library,” Charles added, and cleared his throat. “Would you like me to accompany you?”
    She appreciated his concern, but sometimes Charles could be a bit overprotective. Her brother Jack was the same way, rarely realizing that she was an adult and more than capable of taking care of herself. “Thanks, Charles,” she said, as she headed for the library, “but I’m sure I can handle Mr. Wilde on my own.”
    “Very well, Miss Remington.”
    The first thing that caught Lauren’s eye when she entered the library was a jacket tossed haphazardly over the back of a gilt-edged chair, its black leather a definite contrast to the chair’s delicate floral fabric. A battered black leather briefcase sat beside it on the floor.
    Mr. Wilde, however, was not in the room. The French doors leading to a patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean were open, and a light breeze rippled the drapes. She moved toward the doors, stopping in her tracks when she saw the man outside. His hands rested on the balustrade, bracing his body as he looked toward the surf.
    Oh, dear! She could understand why Charles had wanted to keep her company.
    Mr. Wilde’s hair was, well... wild, and black, and the wind whipped through each collar-length wave. With him leaning against the railing, his white T-shirt stretching smoothly across wide shoulders and a muscular back, she couldn’t help but stare at his entire form, especially the rich bronze biceps that flexed beneath his sleeves.
    He wore faded blue jeans that weren’t quite tight enough to show off the strength of his legs, but she could easily imagine the power beneath the denim. She allowed her gaze to leisurely travel down the length of his Levi’s, to the black leather of his boots—those distinctive heavy ones that bad boys on motorcycles wore.
    She gave some thought to running for Charles, but Mr. Wilde turned around, and the moment she was hit by the intense glare of his dark brown eyes—eyes that looked vaguely familiar—all thoughts of running disappeared.
    It had been an awfully long time since a man had set her senses on fire, and she couldn’t remember the mere gaze from a man ever making her so hot that she needed to fan herself. What had come over her was anyone’s guess, because a man like Max Wilde should not be stirring up anything more for her than delicious canapés.
    Getting a hold on her libidinous emotions, Lauren marched across the patio to shake his hand. “Good afternoon. I’m Lauren Remington.”
    “Max Wilde,” he said, his voice a deep, rich, and engaging—okay, erotic!—baritone that vibrated through her body. His handshake was strong and businesslike, although his callused palm felt much more virile than the smooth hands she usually shook. And his face. Goodness, he did not look like a businessman at all! His nose had a slight bend, as if it had been broken in one too many fights. A scar slashed across his right cheekbone. A hint of a smile appeared beneath his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, and it didn’t require close inspection to see the gold rings in his ears.
    Mother would have banished the man immediately. Lauren, however, found him intriguing and rather... feral. But where had she seen him before? Men like Max Wilde frequented biker bars and, more than likely, strip joints. Naturally she’d been to neither. She didn’t hang around tattoo parlors, either, but Mr. Wilde obviously did. It was impossible to miss the colorful desig n emblazoned on his right bicep, or the fact that what looked like the tail fin of a fish swished when his muscle flexed.
    “It’s a mermaid,” he offered, when her eyes lingered on the undulating green and gold figure.
    “How... interesting.” Her fingers