Taming the Wolf (4 page)

“Which brings me to the original reason for my call,” Samara said tersely, steeling herself against the inevitable pain caused by her mother’s words. No matter how many times they argued, the hurt was always there—a raw, festering wound that refused to heal. “We had an agreement.”

“I spoke to the board of trustees,” Asha said, “and according to them, giving a donation to the Institute would be like tossing my money to the wind. You’re too far in debt.”

“That’s not true. We’ve been working with our creditors, who assure us that they will continue to work with us if we show marked improvement in our financial status. That’s why the donation is so urgently needed.”

“Well…” There was a light tapping on the other end, and Samara could imagine her mother reclining in her plush Manhattan office, drumming her manicured nails impatiently upon the surface of her imported Louis XVI desk. “I don’t think it’s going to be possible, Samara. The board will never approve it.”

Samara’s heart plunged sickeningly. She closed her eyes, torn between desperation and the remaining shards of her pride that revolted against begging.

You can’t give up , an inner voice pleaded. It’s for a good cause! “It’s your company,” Samara said, despising the low tremor in her voice. “You have the authority to override any of the board’s objections. You’ve done it before.”
“That was for something I believed in,” Asha retorted. “That isn’t the case here.”
“But you gave me your word. I trusted you to keep it.”
“Don’t lay one of your guilt trips on me, Samara. I’m sick to death of it! No matter how much I do for you, it’s never enough. You always manage to make it seem like I’ve failed you somehow. All I’ve ever tried to be is a good mother to you. Whether you like it or not, House of Dubois and all of its assets will be yours one day. And I sincerely hope you won’t turn your back on the corporation the way you’ve turned your back on me.”
Anger swelled inside Samara’s chest. She wanted to shriek at the top of her lungs, and probably would have were she not in a public park, visible to business professionals leisurely enjoying their lunches on the warm March afternoon. “That’s so typical of you, Mother,” she said bitterly. “Turn the tables on me to divert from the fact that you’re the one breaking yet another promise.”
“I’m not giving you one red cent for that place, Samara. Can’t you see that it’s a sinking ship? You’re going to find yourself out of a job when—”
“Goodbye, Mother. Thanks for your time anyway.” Samara disconnected and shoved her cell phone inside her purse. Her hands were trembling violently, and she thrust them between her knees to control the shaking.
She’d failed.
Failed in her efforts to change her mother’s mind about the donation. Failed to remain emotionally immune from her mother’s manipulative ways.
She sat alone on that park bench. She mentally replayed the entire conversation, wondering where she’d gone wrong, wondering if there was a shred of validity to her mother’s claims.
As a child Samara had worshipped Asha Dubois, and thought her mother could do no wrong. After all, it wasn’t Asha’s fault that she’d married at eighteen, and a year later found herself pregnant and divorced. Heartbroken, she’d tried to make the best of her situation, taking menial jobs to keep food in their bellies while they bounced between women’s shelters and lived off the kindness of strangers. When Asha got her big break in the form of a modeling contract, it was only natural that she’d jumped at the opportunity, her ticket out of poverty and misery. She’d had no choice but to send Samara to live with her grandmother—the same woman from whom Asha had concealed Samara’s existence for years. She was ashamed to reveal the byproduct of her failed marriage.
Samara recalled the many months that had passed with no word from Asha, as her various modeling assignments took her from one continent to another. If it wasn’t for the fact Asha’s that face was often splashed across the front covers of magazines, Samara might have forgotten what her mother looked like. Then one day, out of the clear blue, Asha had reappeared, asserting her parental right before whisking Samara off to unknown destinations. When she grew weary of motherhood, Samara was promptly returned to her grandmother—only to be taken away again when the next whim struck Asha. Every time Samara formed attachments at school, her mother would sweep back into her life as if she were the arriving cavalry. The interruptions occurred so frequently that Samara simply stopped trying to make friends at school and kept to herself.
When she thought about it, she supposed she should be grateful for the many adventures she’d had, the colorful sights and sounds of new countries and lilting dialects. She’d always been accompanied by a tutor, and was fluent in four languages by the time she reached high school.
But then there were the men, Asha’s string of discarded lovers, whose lewd gazes crawled over Samara’s young body.
Until one decided that merely looking wasn’t enough.
Shoving aside the painful memories, Samara rose to her feet and started back toward the office building with brisk, determined strides. Somehow she’d get the money to save FYI from bankruptcy. Somehow she’d make everything right.
Where there’s a will, her grandmother had been fond of saying, there’s a way.
Samara definitely had the will.
Now she just had to find the way.

Later that afternoon, Melissa burst excitedly into Samara’s office. “Have you seen today’s Washington Post? Specifically the Metro section?”

Samara chuckled, looking pointedly at the pile of paperwork before her. “Does it look like I’ve had time to read the newspaper?”
“I think I may have found the solution to our financial crisis,” Melissa rushed on as if Samara hadn’t spoken. She tossed the Metro section onto Samara’s desk, the edges crumpled from her overzealous grip. “Take a look at that.”
Samara glanced down and froze. Slowly, almost against her will, she picked up the newspaper and stared at the front page. PROMINENT ATTORNEY BRINGS PRACTICE TO THE BELTWAY, the headline proclaimed.
And there, to her utter astonishment, was a photograph of Marcus Wolf.
Trying hard to form her features into an impassive mask, she glanced up at Melissa. “What does this have to do with our financial situation?”
Scowling, Melissa snatched back the newspaper and sat down in the chair. “Please don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Marcus Wolf? He only happens to be the same attorney who won that landmark class action lawsuit against that school district in Georgia a few years ago, the one that was displaying blatant discrimination in its mistreatment of underprivileged children. The judge awarded the plaintiffs millions of dollars. The case was all over the news, and CNN even compared its significance to Brown vs. Board of Education.” Melissa made a sound of disgust when she saw Samara’s blank look. “Girl, you need to come up for air once in a while.”
“I remember that case,” Samara countered defensively. “But I still fail to see the connection between us and Marcus Wolf…” Suddenly it dawned on her, and she groaned loudly. “Please tell me you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”
“Why not? Marcus Wolf is an extremely wealthy attorney with practices in Atlanta, and now Washington, D.C. According to this article, his estimated net worth is well over fifty million. Girl, you know I don’t believe in coincidence. I think it was divine intervention that brought him to our backyard at this particular time. He’s an untapped resource we should solicit for contributions.”
“Melissa—”
“And look, it says here he’s very active in civic organizations. His law firm awards college scholarships to underprivileged students and between litigating civil and tort cases and serving on various boards, he mentors inner-city youth. It says that he considers it his life’s mission to impact as many communities as possible through his work.” Melissa glanced up from the newspaper triumphantly. “Now if that doesn’t sound like something straight out of our mission statement, I don’t know what does.”
Finally noticing Samara’s pained expression, Melissa frowned. “What’s wrong? Why do you have that look on your face, like someone just played a bad joke on you?”
“I think someone did,” Samara muttered under her breath. At Melissa’s perplexed look, she threw her head back against her chair with another low groan. “I met Marcus Wolf over the weekend. He was at the premiere.”
“Really?” Grinning, Melissa clapped her hands together. “That’s even better! He’ll remember you when you call his office.”
Samara winced. “That’s not necessarily a good thing.”
Melissa’s grin faded. “And why is that?”
“Let’s just say we didn’t get off to a very good start. He invited me to dinner, and I sort of turned him down.”
“Sort of?”
Samara nodded reluctantly. “And I might have implied that he was, um, a womanizer who attended fashion shows just to pick up women.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.” At Samara’s shamefaced look, Melissa slapped a hand to her own forehead. “Are you insane? Does he look like the kind of man who needs to resort to such tactics? Did you hear the figures I just quoted you? The man is a multimillionaire! Now, I realize this might not mean a great deal to you—future heiress to a fashion empire—but to the average person, being worth fifty million dollars is nothing to sneeze at! Not to mention the fact that Marcus Wolf is finer than mere words can begin to describe. Furthermore—”
Samara held up a hand to stem the tirade. “Point taken.” “I can’t believe you insulted that man! Are you bound and determined to alienate the entire male species?”
Samara glared at her. “Don’t you have some account ledgers to review or something?”
Melissa departed in a huff, grumbling as she went, “If the Institute goes under, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” Half a moment later, she stuck her head back in the doorway, looking somewhat contrite. “Okay, that wasn’t fair. Of course it won’t be your fault if we go under. But I’ll be very, very disappointed in you if you let this golden opportunity slip through our fingers!” Samara waited until she was sure Melissa was gone, then reached across her desk for the newspaper. Her gaze lingered on the photo of Marcus Wolf standing on the steps of the district courthouse, arms folded across his wide chest, legs braced apart, prepared to take on the world above a caption that referred to him as the “king of torts.” As Samara remembered the vivid details of her fantasy, her belly quivered. Why did the man have to be so damn fine?
Dragging her gaze from the photo, she began to read the article. By the time she finished, she could see why Walter Floyd and Melissa were so impressed with Marcus Wolf. He was smart, successful, tenacious, and most of all, he seemed to genuinely care about others, defending those who couldn’t defend themselves. Could Samara have been wrong about him?
She frowned, setting down the newspaper. Just because Marcus had a humanitarian spirit didn’t mean he couldn’t also be a womanizer. Congress was filled with politicians who performed good

When it came down to it, what Marcus did in his private life was none of her business.
Unless she could use it to her advantage.
Samara grew still as an idea formed in her mind. According to the article, Marcus was giving a lecture at his alma mater, Georgetown University, that evening. The event was free and opened to the public. Maybe if Samara showed up and…And what? After the way she’d insulted him in New York, she couldn’t very well walk right up to him tonight and ask for a large sum of money. She’d be lucky if he spoke to her at all. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try. And if he showed even the least bit of interest in her…well, she would definitely use that to her advantage.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

hen Samara arrived at Georgetown University that evening, twenty minutes late thanks to a traffic accident, the auditorium was filled to standing room only. She

joined a row of spectators lined up in the back, then quickly turned her attention to the podium, where Marcus Wolf was already speaking.

Her heart gave an involuntary thump at the sight of him. Even from a distance, he looked fine as hell in a double-breasted charcoal-gray suit that accentuated his powerful build. He appeared relaxed and confident as he discussed the importance of civic engagement, exhorting the law students in attendance to make sure they were entering the profession for the right reasons—to change the world. The audience was riveted, and Samara could see why. Marcus Wolf was an incredible speaker, one of the most compelling she’d ever heard. And the sound of his deep, masculine voice set off a slow burn between her legs.

It came as no surprise when, at the end of his presentation, Marcus received a rousing standing ovation that lasted at least three minutes. A flurry of questions followed, many from students who wanted to learn more about his journey to becoming one of the country’s leading tort attorneys. Others asked questions about some of the more controversial cases he’d successfully litigated in court. And several people wanted to know whether his firm was hiring and what kind of skills and qualifications he looked for in an associate.

One dark-haired young woman stood and asked him why he wasn’t married yet, which drew a round of laughter as everyone in the room awaited Marcus’s response. Samara even found herself holding her breath.

A slow, lazy grin curved his mouth as he regarded the student. “Are you proposing?” he drawled.
The girl actually blushed and gave him a flirtatious smile. “I am now. And if it helps my chances any, I’m graduating in the top three percent of my class next month.”
Marcus nodded approvingly. “Talk to me afterward,” he told her with a wink, and the crowd reacted with more laughter, enjoying the playful exchange.
Not surprisingly, the pretty brunette was the first in line to speak to him when the event was over. And she wasn’t alone.
Standing in the back of the auditorium, Samara resigned herself to an unbearably long wait as throngs of people lined up to ask Marcus more questions and to get his autograph. Half an hour passed before the room finally began to empty.
Seeing her chance, Samara drew a deep breath to calm her jittery nerves and approached Marcus just as he finished conversing with an older black gentleman.
When Marcus’s gaze landed on hers, her mouth went dry. Up close, he was even finer than she remembered, with his dark, mesmerizing eyes and smooth mahogany skin. His firm, sensuous lips glistened with moisture as he sipped his water. Samara actually found herself envying the bottle of Evian.
If Marcus was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. “Ms. Layton,” he murmured in polite greeting.
“I really enjoyed your lecture,” Samara told him, smiling warmly. “It was very inspiring.”
He inclined his head. “Glad you got something out of it.”
“Definitely. And that was a great write-up about you in the Post. When we met on Saturday, you didn’t mention that you’d recently relocated to D.C.”
His mouth twitched. “I would’ve gotten around to it eventually.”
Her smile turned rueful. “If I’d given you a chance,” she translated.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Only because you’re too polite.”
Marcus chuckled, and her belly flip-flopped at the low, sexy rumble.
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and watched as his heavy-lidded gaze followed the gesture. She knew the glossy red color she wore showed off her full lips to advantage. Thank you, MAC.
She gave Marcus a knowing look. “You must give presentations all the time. Just how many marriage proposals have you received? Or have you lost count?”
“Nah, this was a first.” The way his gaze lingered on her lips made her nipples harden. As if he sensed her body’s reaction, his dark eyes drifted lower, to the plunging neckline of the sheer red blouse she wore. Her skin burned as if he’d actually leaned down and brushed his mouth over her breast. She trembled at the thought.
“A first, huh?” she murmured, her voice throaty with arousal. “I find that hard to believe.”
His eyes returned slowly to her face. “Believe it,” he said huskily. “I always remember my firsts.”
Heat pooled between Samara’s legs. Their gazes locked. The air between them crackled with sexual tension.
“I must admit, Ms. Layton,” Marcus said softly. “I was a little surprised when I looked out into the audience tonight and saw you.”
His words sent a thrill of pleasure through her. The fact that he’d picked her out in a roomful of over six hundred people meant more to her than he could ever know.
“Despite the way I behaved in New York,” she heard herself telling him, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
If Marcus’s eyes weren’t so dark, she would have sworn his pupils dilated. His nostrils flared slightly, and beneath the expensive suit jacket he wore, his chest seemed to rise and fall more rapidly. Trapped in the smoldering heat of his gaze, Samara felt her own breathing quicken. She hadn’t meant to blurt out the confession, but if Marcus kept devouring her with those sexy bedroom eyes, God only knew what else would come out of her mouth.
Make love to me came to mind.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed two sharply dressed men and an attractive black woman hovering nearby, watching her and Marcus.
“I shouldn’t hold you up any longer,” Samara murmured apologetically. “People are still waiting to speak to you.”
He released her from his gaze long enough to meet the stares of the others with indifference. “Those are my senior associates. We’re supposed to be meeting for drinks after this.”
“Well, in that case, I’d better let you go.” She reached out and touched his arm, letting her hand linger for a prolonged moment. “It was good to see you again, Mr. Wolf.”
“Likewise,” he drawled.
As Samara turned and walked away, she was acutely aware of him watching her, his gaze like a physical touch on her back. She knew the picture she made, with her short black skirt clinging to her curves and her stiletto heels accentuating the shapely expanse of her long legs. She was counting on Marcus appreciating the view— appreciating it enough to want more.
She left the auditorium and started toward the double glass doors leading to the parking lot. A number of people were still milling about, chatting in small clusters or talking animatedly on cell phones.
Before Samara reached the exit, she made a detour, rounding a corner and heading down an empty corridor that led to the restrooms.
“Samara.”
She turned to find Marcus striding purposefully toward her, his dark, intoxicating gaze locked on hers. She waited, heart hammering wildly in her chest, anticipation pulsing through her veins.
When he’d stopped before her, she stared up at him. “Marcus—”
Without a word, he cupped her face in his large hands and crushed his mouth to hers, his tongue plunging inside and stroking deep.
Samara eagerly responded, wrapping her arms around his neck and reaching on tiptoe to press herself more firmly against his hard, muscular body. Liquid heat coiled inside her, drawing tighter and tighter until she thought she’d explode. She’d never known there could be so much pleasure in a man’s hungry kiss. But it was more than just a kiss. It was an all over body experience, the way Marcus sucked on her tongue and rubbed his chest against her breasts, making them swell and her nipples harden to aching points.
“I want something from you,” she breathed into his mouth, while she still had the presence of mind to warn him.
“I’m counting on it,” he whispered huskily.
Without breaking the kiss, he backed her up, one step at a time, through the open doorway of a dark, empty classroom. He shoved the door closed behind them, then backed her against the wall. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her off the floor as Samara wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirt riding up her thighs. The bulge of his erection pressed against the lace crotch of her panties, making her hot and wet. Their lips met again, meshing and parting as the kiss grew wilder, more intense.
Samara knew what they were doing was the epitome of insanity, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that she needed him, wanted him like nothing she’d ever wanted before. And the reality of this moment was even better than her fantasies.
Dazedly she watched as Marcus reached inside the plunging neckline of her sheer silk blouse. She shivered as his knuckle grazed her skin, searing her to the bone. She sucked in a sharp breath when he cupped one lace-covered breast in his hand. Holding her gaze, he slipped a thumb inside her bra and rubbed it back and forth against her tight nipple, sending waves of pleasure crashing through her. She rocked fitfully against him, trying to position the bulge in his pants right where she wanted it.
With a soft, husky laugh, Marcus bent his head and drew her nipple into the silken heat of his mouth. A ragged moan escaped from her throat. Her back arched as his tongue caressed the sensitive peak, licking and sucking. She felt the pull of his mouth everywhere—in the pit of her stomach, in her trembling thighs, between them. He kissed his way to her other breast and treated it to the same delicious torment. All the while, his hips ground against hers in a slow, subtle rhythm that nearly made her cum.
She caught his head between her hands and brought his mouth back to hers, kissing him greedily, showing him just how much she wanted him. As their tongues mated feverishly, he cupped her breasts in his hands, thumbing her wet nipples, rasping them. She writhed against him, mindless with need. She didn’t know how much more she could take without begging him to make love to her right where they were.
His hands slid down her back, then grasped her bare buttocks beneath her hiked-up skirt. Samara’s heart pounded hard as his fingers edged toward her moist, aching center. Breathing became secondary to the heightened anticipation of his touch. She closed her eyes, then gasped as one finger slid beneath her panties and found her throbbing clitoris.
Her eyes flew open, and she gazed up at him as he began to stroke the slick nub, slow and tantalizing, until a shaking moan rose up in her throat.
Marcus watched her, devouring her with his gaze, his face hard and dark with passion. “You’re so wet,” he said, the words so low and guttural they were practically a growl. His fingers glided over the folds of her sex, spreading her slick wetness over swollen, sensitive flesh. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
“You like that?” he whispered huskily.
“Yes,” she moaned breathlessly, rocking against his hand. “That feels so good.”
It was an understatement if she’d ever heard one, but she could barely speak, let alone think of better adjectives. Besides, she doubted there was a word to describe the sensual pleasure she was experiencing, the exquisite sensations overtaking her body.
All thoughts ceased as Marcus slipped one thick finger deep inside her. She cried out hoarsely and clung to him. She felt the iron steel in his shoulders, the way his muscles bunched and flexed beneath his suit jacket.
He lowered his head and slid his tongue into her mouth, tasting her as his finger moved slow and deep. It was sensory overload, the sweetest torture she’d ever endured. Powerless against the sensual onslaught, Samara arched against his hand, meeting each deep, penetrating thrust with moans that he swallowed in his mouth. Just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, he pushed a second finger inside her.
She cried out, her hips pumping wildly against him as the sensations intensified, burned. His fingers moved deeper and faster inside her. His thumb stroked her clitoris until her body began to convulse uncontrollably.
“Marcus…Oh yes!” She rode his fingers as she climaxed, her thighs taut and shaking, waves of ecstasy bursting through her. The spasms ceased after several moments, releasing her from the grip of the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had in her life.
Weak and spent, she dropped her head against Marcus’s solid chest and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart, and she felt a twinge of guilt that he’d done all the hard work and received so little in return.
She lifted her head to survey his shadowed face in the moonlit darkness of the room. His eyes were glittering onyx as he gazed back at her, his lids at half-mast. Damn, he was sexy.
“I’ve kept you from your friends,” was all she could say.
Marcus chuckled, the sound low and rough and innately masculine. “You don’t hear me complaining.”
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “That’s because you’re too polite.”
He chuckled again. “Get to know me a little better and you’ll see that I’m anything but polite.”
Samara laughed, thinking just how much better she’d like to get to know him. In every wicked way imaginable.
Reluctantly, she unwrapped her legs from his waist, and he eased her down and stepped back. While he adjusted his silk tie, she straightened her blouse and tugged her skirt back into place. Her inner thighs were slick with moisture. She’d cum all over Marcus’s hand, but instead of feeling self-conscious or ashamed, she felt only deliciously satisfied. And rather amazed. If Marcus Wolf could rock her world with just one finger, she could only imagine the kind of damage his rock-hard dick would do. Her nipples puckered at the mere thought.
She retrieved her purse from the floor and reached inside for a business card. As she passed it to Marcus, their fingers brushed, and her skin tingled with awakened nerve endings. Their gazes met and held.
“Call me sometime,” Samara murmured. Without waiting for his response, she turned and slipped quietly out of the room.