Those mesmerizing gypsy eyes settled on his face, registering surprise and a flicker of recognition. But the look was so fleeting Marcus decided he’d only imagined it.
“I’m sorry,” she offered in a soft, throaty voice that made his mouth go dry. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Marcus forced himself to stop staring, a feat requiring the strength of Goliath. Damn, she was fine. “No problem,” he said softly. “Where’s the fire?”
For a moment she just gazed up at him, as if he hadn’t spoken. The look in her eyes, something soft and smoky, almost brought Marcus to his knees.
And then just like that her expression cleared, and her arms stiffened beneath his hands. “If you’ll excuse me…” she said pointedly.
He let his arms drop to his sides and took a step back. “Of course,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“Just the pair I was looking for!” boomed a hearty voice across the crowded lobby.
Marcus and Samara glanced up to see Walter Floyd approaching, causing several curious heads to turn in his direction. Tall and solidly built, with silver hair sprinkled liberally at the temples, Walt remained an impressive sight at the age of sixty-two. As a prominent businessman who’d recently been voted “Entrepreneur of the Year” by Black Enterprise, Walt could be a shrewd and formidable competitor—and as warm and generous as a beloved grandfather.
As Marcus watched, Samara’s lips curved into a smile of undisguised pleasure, and for one insane moment, he envied his friend for getting such a warm response from her.
“If you’re coming over here to give me another earful about the tiger,” she said lightly as Walt drew near, “you’re wasting your breath. Working with Pandora was the only part of the performance I enjoyed, and as I already assured you; my life was never in any danger.”
Marcus cocked an amused eyebrow. “Pandora?”
“That’s right.” There was a hint of defiant pride in the eyes that swung back to him. “She’s a South African Bengal tiger, on loan to us from the Johannesburg Zoo. I was there when she was born, and her breeders allowed me to name her.”
Walt chuckled, leaning down to plant a fatherly kiss on Samara’s forehead. To Marcus he warned, “Don’t get this young lady started unless you want to hear a sermon on the importance of humane, responsible breeding to maintain the genetic diversity of the endangered tiger species. Samara has been befriending wild animals for as long as I’ve known her, sneaking in strays at every available opportunity. If her mother would have allowed it, Samara would’ve owned a menagerie of pets ranging from parakeets to raccoons.”
Samara laughed, the sound as mesmerizing as her voice. “What an exaggeration!” she protested, looking embarrassed as her glance shuttled away from Marcus. He was more intrigued than ever.
Walt grinned. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to lecture you on the dangers of playing with wild animals—although I do plan to give your mother a piece of my mind when I find her. I wanted to introduce the two of you, but I see you’ve already managed on your own.”
“Actually,” Marcus said, looking at Samara, “we hadn’t gotten around to that yet.”
“Well, then, allow me to do the honors.” With a gallant flourish, Walt made the introductions, explaining to Samara, “Marcus and I met several years ago when we served as committee chairmen on a community revitalization project in Washington, D.C. Marcus was barely out of Georgetown Law School at the time, if memory serves me correctly, but he was already passionate about community issues and brought quite a lot to the table.” Walt grinned broadly as if an idea had suddenly struck him. “You two have a lot in common. Samara is very active in the community herself. She works as an executive director for a community outreach organization based in D.C.”
“Is that right?” Marcus didn’t know which part of the revelation pleased him more—Samara’s shared interest in civic affairs or the fact that she lived in Washington, D.C., where he’d recently relocated to. “So you don’t live in New York?” he clarified, just to be sure.
Samara shook her head. “I’m only here as a favor to my mother. I don’t model on a full-time basis.”
“That’s surprising,” Marcus said. “You were amazing tonight. Captivating.”
She inclined her head in simple acknowledgment of the compliment, but Marcus had the vague impression she was less than pleased.
Walt was observing them with sharp, discerning eyes when someone across the lobby called out a greeting to him. “You two keep chatting,” he urged his companions as he started away, only too pleased by the diversion. “Get to know each other. You won’t be disappointed.”
In amused silence, Marcus and Samara watched the older man retreat. “Good ole’ Mr. Floyd,” Samara drawled wryly. “The art of subtlety was never lost on him.”
Marcus chuckled. “Walt’s matchmaking attempts aside, would you like to get a drink somewhere? I’d love to hear more about the work you do.”
“I can’t drink,” Samara blurted, then looked as if she wanted to take back the words.
“All right,” Marcus said evenly. “No drinks, then. How about dinner?”
She shook her head. “Look, Mr. Wolf, I’m sure you’re a very nice guy and really deserving of Walter’s high praises—”
His mouth curved with irony. “Which would rationally explain your refusal to have dinner with me.”
She bristled at his mocking tone. “Not that I need a ‘rational explanation’ to refuse your dinner invitation,” she said crisply, “but if you must know, in my experience with doing these fashion shows, there are usually three types of men in attendance. Those with a genuine interest in the fashion industry, or those like Walter Floyd who comes to support a friend or family member.” She paused. “And then there’s your type, Mr. Wolf.”
Marcus lifted a brow. “And what type would that be?” he inquired, a soft challenge in his voice.
“Men who’d rather spend their time anywhere but at a fashion show, but once there, they decide to make the best of the situation by going home with the first decent-looking female they encounter. If it happens to be one of the models, all the better.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Do you deny that Walter probably had to drag you out to tonight’s premiere?”
“Kicking and screaming.”
Point made, she nodded coolly. She hitched the strap of her leather duffel bag more securely onto her shoulder. “It’s been a long week, Mr. Wolf, and I have a five-hour drive back home tomorrow morning. So if you’ll excuse me, I’d really like to get back to my hotel room and hit the sack. Alone.”
Marcus inclined his head in the barest hint of a nod. “As you wish. Good evening, Ms. Layton.” He stepped aside to let her pass, then stood watching as she headed from the building without a backward glance.
Turning away, he drew a deep, ragged breath and blinked several times, but it was no use. He couldn’t ease the image of her round curvy ass squeezed into electric blue denim from his mind. It was permanently stamped upon his brain, like the rest of her.
1
Samara’s heart pounded as the taxicab she’d climbed into hurtled down the busy street, the bright lights of downtown Manhattan whizzing by. Although she automatically gripped the door handle for support, her runaway heartbeat had nothing to do with the cabbie’s haphazard driving.
No, she could thank Marcus Wolf for that.
Lord have mercy, she silently breathed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the seat. No man has the right to be that fine.
She’d first noticed him at the conclusion of the fashion show, as she stood at the end of the illuminated runway surrounded by photographers vying for the best camera angles. Beyond the flurry of flashing bulbs, she’d seen Marcus seated in the front row reserved for VIP guests. Her pulse rate had accelerated almost immediately. He was already watching her—a silent, penetrating appraisal through dark, heavy-lidded eyes that gave new meaning to the term �
�bedroom eyes.” Rich mahogany skin stretched tight and smooth over chiseled cheekbones, a square jaw. And a firm, sensually molded mouth that made her fantasized about what they’d feel like against her own lips, on her breasts and between her trembling thighs.
As she’d watched from the runway, Marcus slowly stood, unfolding his powerful body from the seat with the fluid ease of a panther. She’d nearly gasped as she took in the sheer size of him, impossibly broad shoulders with a wide chest that tapered down to a trim waist. Samara had attended countless black-tie affairs before. But not once had she been so turned on by the sight of a man in a tuxedo. Marcus Wolf wore the hell out of that Armani tux, putting all the other men to shame. Samara wanted to climb him like an oak tree, all six-foot four-inches of him, and wrap her limbs around him.
Their eyes had held for several charged moments before Samara forced her gaze away, heeding the flirtatious coaxing of a photographer who’d wanted her to smile for the camera. She was sure her smile had been as wobbly as her knees.
Marcus Wolf was sexier than sin, and his deep, velvety voice laced with Southern heat had been as potent as the rest of the package. Although Samara knew better, she’d been sorely tempted to accept his dinner invitation. Almost at once, she’d imagined them dining by candlelight at a cozy, romantic restaurant, then returning to her hotel room for a nightcap. Or his room, whichever was closer.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, taking her half-empty wineglass from her hand and setting it down on the table.
He held out his hand to her, and she went willingly into his arms. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder as they began to slow dance to a nonexistent ballad in front of the moonlit window. She reveled in the strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his chest and belly rubbing against her breasts, making her nipples pucker almost painfully. His muscled thighs slid along hers as he turned her slowly in a circle, one hand at the small of her back, the other at her waist. The heat of his touch seared her through her clothes, which suddenly felt too confining. When his hip brushed against hers, she felt the hard, delicious bulge of his erection, and it made her instantly wet.
She lifted her face to his, and found his dark, smoldering gaze already fixed on her. Her lips parted, and before she could draw breath to speak, he lowered his head and seized her mouth in a hot, mind-numbing kiss that sent liquid fire blazing through her body. She arched into him, pressing her aching breasts to his chest as her hips rocked against him, seeking relief from her torment. He deepened the kiss, giving her his tongue and feasting on her mouth until she was breathless and clinging to him. Soon they were both panting hard.
Taming the Wolf Forcing his mouth from hers, he whispered huskily, “I want to be inside you.”
Her knees almost buckled. She responded by grabbing his face in her hands and pulling his head down to hers for another hot, openmouthed kiss, leaving no doubt in his mind that she wanted the same thing.
He gave a low growl that she felt all the way down to her toes. His hands went to her buttocks, cupping both cheeks and lifting her from the floor. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he backed her against the wall, then reached for his belt buckle.
“Miss? That’ll be $13.80.”
Samara’s eyes flew open, and for a moment she stared at the cab driver in a dazed confusion. As her surroundings slowly came back into focus, she realized her duffel bag was clutched tightly between her thighs. An embarrassed flush heated her face. She’d been fantasizing about Marcus Wolf, and had been on the verge of having sex with him. Her breasts throbbed, and the crotch of her panties was wet.
The cabbie was watching her with interest. “Ma’am?”
Samara fumbled out a twenty from her jeans pocket and passed it to him. “Keep the change.”
He flashed a toothy grin as she quickly climbed out of the cab. “Enjoy the rest of your visit to New York!”
Samara scowled as she hurried toward the entrance to the hotel where she was staying. I’ll enjoy it even more, she thought darkly, once I get my hands on a damn vibrator.
Chapter Two
B y seven o’clock Monday morning, Samara was settled in her northeast D.C. office, tending to the myriad tasks that were neglected during her absence.
The Fannie Yorkin Institute for Community Outreach and
Development—or FYI as it was commonly called—was a nonprofit organization created to serve the educational and socioeconomic needs of the community. Although FYI had flourished for nearly two decades, a combination of recent extenuating circumstances had severely crippled the organization’s finances. Samara had been brought on board following the sudden retirement of the Institute’s founder and president. And she was charged with the Herculean mission of rescuing FYI from bankruptcy. It was an undertaking she’d wholeheartedly embraced. Despite FYI’s severe financial problems, she knew what good the Institute could do: the educational opportunities it had afforded kids who might not otherwise have stepped foot on a college campus, the financial aid provided to struggling families who simply needed a helping hand to get through tough times, and the counseling given to at-risk teenagers.
In many ways, Samara was as indebted to the Fannie Yorkin Institute as well as the countless community members who’d benefited from the organization’s generosity over the years. The opportunity to work at FYI had come at a low point in her life, when she’d found herself stuck at a marketing job she hated and uncertain about the future. She’d jumped at the chance to start a new career, and had never looked back.
Samara spent the first part of her morning listening to voice mail messages and returning as many phone calls as possible. She’d been working tirelessly to reestablish connections with many of their
16 former investors and corporate sponsors, relationships that had suffered as a result of instability within FYI. Although she’d made great strides in her second year as executive director—facilitating partnerships with other groups and businesses that shared common objectives, creating new community-based programs as well as breathing life into existing ones—the reality was that her efforts would mean nothing without significant financial contributions.
They needed money desperately. And they needed it yesterday. In the midst of making phone calls, Samara found her thoughts straying to Marcus Wolf. After returning to her hotel room on Saturday night, she’d ordered a bottle of sparkling cider from the menu and filled the Jacuzzi with steaming hot water. While soaking in the marble tub and sipping her chilled drink, she’d allowed her mind to wander back to the fantasy that had been interrupted earlier in the cab. By the time Marcus thrust inside her, she was so caught up in the daydream that she hardly noticed as her wineglass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor. The sound was drowned out by her rapturous moans as she masturbated to the rhythm of Marcus’s imaginary strokes.
Samara groaned softly at the memory, even as her body throbbed in response. Not for the first time since Saturday night, she called herself all kinds of a damn fool for not accepting Marcus’s dinner invitation. At the very least, she would have gotten a good fuck out of it.
“I take it things didn’t go too well in New York?” said an amused voice from the doorway.
Samara glanced up and managed a wan smile for the attractive woman who leaned on the doorjamb. “Good morning,” Samara greeted her warmly. “Didn’t hear you get in.”
“Obviously.” Melissa Matthews crossed the short distance and put a steaming mug of coffee on Samara’s desk, shoving aside a pile of paperwork to make room. “I know you haven’t even stopped to breathe, let alone allow yourself some caffeine. And I’m willing to bet you’ve probably been here since the crack of dawn.”
Samara shot the woman a grateful look as she reached for the coffee. “Not quite. Mmm, this is heavenly,” she murmured after an appreciative sip of the creamy brew. “Thanks, Melissa.”
Melissa waved off her gratitude with a manicured hand, settling her petite frame into the chair opposite Sama
ra’s desk. “Did that scowl on your face have anything to do with your week-long excursion to New York?” she asked without preamble.
“What scowl?”
Melissa ignored her, all too familiar with Samara’s tendency to answer a question with a question. Particularly questions she wanted to avoid. “How’d the premiere go?”
“It was a smashing success,” Samara said dryly. “But, of course, I never expected otherwise. My mother is a very talented designer who knows what people want and, perhaps more importantly, knows how to make them want what they normally might not.”
Frowning, Melissa shook her head as if to clear it. Her neat auburn dreadlocks bounced with the gesture. “It’s too early in the morning for riddles, Samara. Is that a clever way of telling me that you and your mother had another one of your ‘civilized’ arguments?”
Samara shrugged, feigning nonchalance as she picked up an engraved silver ballpoint pen that had been a gift to her from the Institute’s retiring founder. “Things were business as usual between me and my mother.”
But Melissa knew better. Her expression softened. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” Samara took a long sip of coffee, then leaned back in her swivel chair and crossed her legs. She told herself the sudden churning in her stomach had more to do with ingesting coffee on an empty stomach than the inner turmoil that always accompanied discussions of her mother. “Thanks for holding down the fort. How’d things go?”
“Not too bad. If you don’t count the fact that the heater decided to break during the coldest week we’ve had since the start of spring, and we all had to wear fur coats in the office for three days until the repair guys could work us into their busy schedule. Guess they’re still holding it against us for paying our bill late three months in a row.”
Samara winced, rolling the ballpoint between her fingers and wishing their financial woes could be simply solved with the sale of the expensive pen. “I’ll call Fred personally; see if we can set up some sort of payment plan.”
Taming the Wolf Page 2