Taming the Wolf (6 page)

hree hours later, Samara climbed into the luxurious interior of Marcus’s silver Bentley Continental GT. The leather seats were so soft and sumptuous she felt like a knife sinking

through melted butter.
“Nice,” she murmured appreciatively as Marcus slid behind the
wheel. She ran her fingers over the gleaming wood surface of the
console. “Very nice.”
Marcus sent her an amused sidelong glance. “You like?” “Oh, most definitely.” With a luxuriant sigh, Samara closed her
eyes and sank more deeply into the enveloping comfort of the
passenger seat. As she did, she felt the tensions of the day slowly ebb
from her body. “Mmm, I could fall asleep right now.”
Marcus chuckled softly. “I’ll try not to take it personally.” She opened one eye to look at him. “If anything, you should take
it as a compliment.”
“How’s that?”
“If I feel relaxed enough around you to fall asleep that says something good about you. You’re trustworthy, easy to be with.” Marcus shook his head. “Sounds boring to me.”
Samara smiled lazily. “Believe me, Marcus. That’s one word that
could never be used to describe you.”
His grin flashed white in the dim interior of the car. “I wasn’t
fishing for compliments, but I’ll take it.”
Samara laughed, then turned to gaze out the window as they
maneuvered through the snarl of downtown traffic, following
Pennsylvania Avenue as it wound past government office buildings
and historic landmarks. A gray mist clung to the cool March air, but
so far the forecasted showers hadn’t arrived.

“Where are you staying, Marcus?”
“Foggy Bottom. Wanted to be as close as possible to the courthouse.” He glanced over at her. “What about you? Where do you live?”
“All the way over in southeast D.C.” She made a face. “Everyone keeps telling me that I need to move closer to the office, but I can’t bring myself to put my house up for sale. It was my grandmother’s— I practically grew up there. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
Marcus nodded sympathetically. “I understand how you feel. It was hard for me to convince my father to sell our old house. He had strong ties to the community, but the neighborhood was going to hell. Once my brother and I moved away from home, we didn’t feel comfortable leaving the old man there alone—retired cop or not.”
Samara chuckled. “A retired cop, huh? He must have put up quite a struggle about leaving his turf. Where is he now?”
“We bought him a house in Stone Mountain, right outside of Atlanta. The way he complains, you would think he’d been exiled to some desert wasteland.”
Samara shook her head in exaggerated disbelief. “Ingrate,” she pronounced in judgment.
Marcus laughed, and damn if it wasn’t the sexiest sound she’d ever heard. She crossed her legs and willed her pulse rate to slow down.
Soon they arrived at an upscale Georgetown restaurant renowned for its award-winning cuisine and stunning views of the Potomac River. Marcus helped Samara from the Bentley, relinquished the car to the valet, then guided her inside with a warm hand at the small of her back. The maître d’ greeted him by name and ushered them to a candlelit table in a private corner of the elegant restaurant. A fire glowed softly in a stone fireplace nearby, and tall French doors opened to a terrace that boasted the best waterfront views in the city. In warmer weather, customers lined up to enjoy the outdoor seating. It was perfectly romantic, the kind of restaurant Samara had envisioned in her fantasy about Marcus. And

As soon as they were seated, a white-jacketed waiter materialized to take their drink orders. “We have an excellent wine list,” he proclaimed, then proceeded to recite his recommendations.

Marcus ordered a glass of Burgundy wine and appetizers. As the waiter bustled away, Marcus gazed at Samara across the linencovered table. Candlelight flickered across his face, softening the hard angles and planes and accentuating the lush, sensual contours of his lips. He was too fine for words. It would take some serious willpower to keep her mind on business. At the moment, all she could think about was climbing across the table, straddling Marcus and riding him like a champion thoroughbred.

“I’m going to ask you a personal question,” he said, “but please feel free to tell me to mind my own damn business.”
A rueful smile touched her lips. She already knew what he was going to ask, so she saved him the trouble. “I’d love to tell you that I don’t drink alcohol for religious reasons, but I think you’ve already figured out that I’m not a good little church girl. The truth is, Marcus, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I celebrated three years of sobriety this past January.”
His expression softened. “Congratulations,” he said quietly.
“Thank you. Of all the things I’ve accomplished in my life, sobriety is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to work for, which is why it’s an accomplishment I’m especially proud of.”
“You should be. It takes an extraordinary person to overcome an addiction like that, Samara. You have my utmost respect and admiration.”
Samara could have leaned across the table and kissed him. Later, when they were alone, she would. And she wasn’t so sure she’d stop at just kissing him.
The waiter returned with their drinks and appetizers, then took their meal orders.
As they began eating their crab bisque, Marcus said, “I met Richard Yorkin at a local fund-raiser a few years ago. I remember how passionate he was about the Institute. I was kind of surprised to learn he’d retired.”
Samara swallowed her soup, mentally deliberating how much information to divulge about the founder’s real reasons for retiring. She finally decided honesty was the best policy, especially if Marcus—as a potential donor—was to understand that the Yorkin Institute hadn’t simply fallen on hard times due to negligence or misappropriation of funds.
“Long before Richard decided to retire, which was a very difficult decision for him, he suffered a personal tragedy in his life. He lost his wife of thirty years to breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marcus murmured.
“Naturally it devastated him. They had no children, so he pretty much had to grieve alone.” And with the support of the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous, where he and Samara had met, they both found themselves barreling down a path of self-destruction.
“The Institute suffered financially during this period,” she continued, “and by the time Richard rebounded from his grief, it was too late. Against the wishes of his financial advisors, he still wanted to keep the Institute open for business. He and his wife Fannie—whom the Institute is named after—had established FYI together, and he knew she would want the work to continue with or without her. But the cost of her chemotherapy and related medical expenses over the years had taken a toll on their personal finances. Richard poured what little remained of their savings back into the Institute, then hired me to replace him as executive director when he decided to retire. He was confident my marketing background could help breathe new life into the place.”
Marcus nodded. “Does he remain active in the Institute?”
“Not really. Last year he moved to Cape Cod, where he and Fannie honeymooned. He said he feels closer to her there.” Samara stroked her spoon absently through the creamy bisque. “He calls every once in a while to check up on everyone. But I think he’s more concerned with our general morale than the financial status of the organization. That’s just the kind of person he is—caring and generous to a fault.”
Marcus took a sip of his wine, watching her over the rim. “You said you have a marketing background. What were you doing before coming to the Yorkin Institute?”
“I worked as a marketing manager at a top advertising firm after earning my MBA.”
“Impressive.”
She gave a dismissive shrug. “It had its perks, I guess. The signing bonus, six-figure salary, corner office with a view…”
“But it wasn’t what you wanted,” Marcus surmised.
Samara glanced up from her bowl, met his penetrating gaze and felt incredibly transparent. “No,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t what I wanted. There’s a huge difference between using my degree to improve the bottom line of some faceless corporation versus using those same marketing skills to come up with programs that members of the community can benefit from.” She paused, studying him. “Just as I’m sure you can appreciate the difference between practicing corporate law behind a desk versus defending real, everyday people whose basic civil rights have been violated.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Marcus agreed.
“That’s probably a first.”
“What?”
“You. A lawyer not arguing.”
Marcus laughed. “You got lawyer jokes, huh?”
Samara smiled across the table at him, enjoying their camaraderie. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”
As their meals arrived, she asked, “So what about you, Mr. King of Torts? Have you always felt a calling to save the world?”
His mouth curved ruefully. “I don’t know about all that. But I guess my father had other ideas. He named me after Marcus Garvey.”
Samara grinned. “Quite a legacy to fulfill.”
“I know. No pressure, right?”
As they dug into their meals, Marcus told Samara how he’d learned about Nelson Mandela and the African National Congress while he was a political science major at Morehouse, and how he’d returned home brimming with stories about Mandela’s imprisonment and his subsequent efforts to end apartheid in South Africa.
“That was all I talked about that summer, until my brother got sick and tired of hearing my fight-the-power lectures and told me to write Nelson Mandela a damn letter.”
Samara laughed. “And did you?” she asked, equally riveted by his tale and the deep, intoxicating timbre of his voice. His voice was so damn sexy, her legs would stay permanently crossed.
Marcus chuckled. “I had no choice. My brother threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t. To my absolute surprise, I not only received a letter of response from Nelson Mandela, but an invitation to join him in South Africa the following summer. I felt like I’d won the lottery, Samara. Not only had I been given a rare opportunity to meet one of my heroes, but I also used the experience to learn a new language and conduct research on the inner workings of the African National Congress.”
“Wait a minute,” Samara said, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Did you write an article that was published in the Georgetown Law Journal?”
Marcus nodded. “During my second year there.”
“Get out of here! I came across that article during college while doing some research for a sociology paper. Excellent resource, by the way. Very thought-provoking and well researched.”
Marcus inclined his head with unaffected modesty. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. What was your paper about?”
They continued talking as they finished their meals. Plates were discreetly cleared from the table, rich desserts enjoyed, coffee poured and refilled—and still they lingered, completely engrossed in each other. They were oblivious to the emptying restaurant and the surreptitious looks they received from the wait staff. Samara couldn’t take her eyes off Marcus, and apparently the feeling was mutual. His dark, focused gaze heated the blood in her veins and set off a sweet, pulsing throb between her legs. She wanted his mouth down there, wanted to feel his tongue stroking the slick folds of her sex before plunging deep inside. The thought of it turned her on so hard and so fast, she got wet.
As if he’d read her dirty mind, Marcus smiled, a wickedly sexy smile that made her stomach clench. As she stared at him, his tongue snaked out and slowly glided over the juicy, sensuous curve of his bottom lip. Samara watched as if in a trance, her nipples hardening, her clitoris throbbing.
With a supreme effort, she dragged her gaze away and glanced down at her watch. “Goodness,” she choked out. “I didn’t realize how late it was. And I haven’t even given you my presentation!”
“No time like the present,” Marcus drawled, looking relaxed and content as he leaned back in his chair. Samara wanted to crawl under the table, kneel between his legs, unzip his pants and give him the blowjob of his life. She could almost taste the salty-sweet flavor of his cum when he exploded in her mouth.
Shaking off the vividly erotic image, Samara reached into the leather attaché case she’d brought and withdrew several glossy brochures. Spreading them across the table, she briefly explained the various programs offered by the Institute.
“We’ve collaborated with many organizations on different projects. For instance, we work with area hospitals and the healthcare industry to encourage safe-sex practices among teens, and we sponsor wellness programs geared for mothers and newborns as well as the entire family. We’ve also partnered with several employment agencies that provide us with current job vacancies for our onsite employment counseling center.
“The program I’m currently interested in spearheading is called Youth for the Arts and Literacy. We already know of several students from local schools and universities who are interested in participating. One of my ideas is to have the students involved in a dance troupe that performs throughout the community, and I’d also like to make visiting artists available to conduct workshops and other programs for anyone interested in attending. The Institute would collaborate with neighborhood associations and build ties with local community development corporations, which would also result in needed revenue going back into the Institute—something our financial advisors would greatly appreciate,” she added dryly. Throughout her presentation and as he sifted through the brochures, Marcus’ expression had remained impassive. Samara wondered nervously if opposing counsel ever found themselves unnerved by his demeanor as they delivered their closing arguments. But when she’d finished speaking, Marcus gave a slow, approving nod. “I can see why Richard Yorkin entrusted you with the position of executive director when he retired. You really have a vision for the organization, Samara. And there’s no doubt in my mind that closure of the Institute would be a huge loss to the community.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Samara said, silently releasing the pent-up breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Although FYI has done some tremendous work in the past, I’m one-hundred percent confident that with increased funding, we can accomplish even greater things in the future.”
“I agree.” Marcus reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew his checkbook. As the waiter removed the last of their dishes and glided away promising to return with the bill, Marcus filled out a check and passed it to Samara across the table.
She thought her eyes were deceiving her when she saw the seven-figure amount. Even as her heart performed somersaults, she lifted incredulous eyes to Marcus’s face. “I…I can’t accept this much.”
He looked faintly amused. “You’re not,” he said pointedly. “The Yorkin Institute is.”
Samara drew a deep breath, the check trembling in her hand. “When I told you about Richard losing his wife to cancer, it wasn’t to play on your sympathies or anything. I simply wanted you to know how much FYI meant to him, that he didn’t jeopardize its future by squandering funds.”
“The thought never crossed my mind. As I told you before, I met the man myself. His passion for community service made an impression on me. A very distinct impression.” Marcus leaned forward in his chair, his dark gaze intent on hers. “Your passion made an impression on me.”
She swallowed with difficulty. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, Marcus. Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s just that—”
Again, he interrupted her protests. “If I were some anonymous benefactor,” he challenged, “Would you have a problem accepting the money?”
“Well…probably not. But that’s not the case here.”
“The Institute needs the donation, Samara. It would be ridiculous for you not to accept it just because we’ve gotten a little acquainted.”
“Wait a minute.” Almost frantically, she dug into her attaché case and extracted a calculator. She began configuring numbers. “I can do some pro bono consulting work for your law firm—marketing proposals, market research, budget reports, press releases, anything you need. At my old firm, I charged our clients an hourly fee based on my degree and experience. Let’s just say—”
“Samara.” Marcus reached across the table, gently laying his hand over hers to retrieve the calculator. “I’m not trying to turn you into an indentured servant, baby girl. This isn’t a loan. I want you to take the money and put it to good use. Can you do that for me?”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, tingling from the warmth of his hand and the tender endearment he’d used. She knew her behavior was irrational, absurd even. After all, she had arranged the meeting with him in the hopes of receiving a large donation, and the reality was that they desperately needed the money. If Melissa were here, she would strangle Samara for attempting to sabotage the Institute’s chance at financial rescue—a chance that might never come again.
“All right,” she finally conceded. She placed the check carefully inside her purse, intending to guard it with her very life until it could be safely deposited. Lifting her head, she gazed earnestly at Marcus. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your tremendous generosity, as will everyone else who benefits from it.”
“You’re very welcome,” he said.
“But I want you to promise me that you’ll allow me to provide my services to your firm. Absolutely anything you can think of, I mean it.”
“That really won’t be—”
“At least keep it under consideration. Will you promise me that?”
Marcus chuckled, torn between amusement and exasperation. “All right, I promise.”
She gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you.” She began gathering her brochures, returning them to the attaché case as Marcus handled the bill.
“Marcus?”
“Hmm?”
Her expression was sheepish. “Could I have my calculator back?”
“Nah,” he said lazily. “I think I’ll keep it as collateral.”