Taming the Wolf

by Maureen Smith

  Melissa snorted. “You do that, because all of my efforts to date have been miserable failures. He likes you better, anyway—as do most red-blooded males.”

  An image of Marcus’s piercing dark eyes and sensuous lips filled Samara’s mind. She ruthlessly shoved the image away. Enough was enough.

  “What else?” she demanded, her tone more impatient than she’d intended.

  Melissa looked momentarily bewildered. “Nothing,” she answered carefully, “except that Brianna missed you terribly, and wants a full report of everyone you saw at the premiere. Namely celebrities.”

  Samara smiled softly, thinking of the shy nineteen-year-old single mother she’d mentored for the past year, helping her work toward obtaining her G.E.D. “I’ll be sure to scour my brain trying to recall as many celebrities as possible. For both of you.”

  Melissa grinned sheepishly. “Well, only if you insist. And since we’re back on the subject,” she leaned forward expectantly in the chair, “did you get the check?”

  It was the question Samara had dreaded the most, the question she’d hoped to avoid for as long as possible. But she should have known better.

  Apart from her husband of three years, nothing excited Melissa Matthews more than the prospect of receiving money for the Institute. A CPA who could’ve had her pick of any Fortune 500 company, she’d served faithfully as the organization’s accountant for over a decade—and enjoyed every minute of it.

  Samara became suddenly absorbed in the inspection of a scratch on the scarred surface of her desk. “About that check…” she hedged.

  Melissa’s hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What about the check?”

  Samara frowned. “I don’t exactly have it…in my possession.”

  “Well, where is it?” When Samara hesitated, Melissa lunged to her feet. “Don’t tell me your mother didn’t give it to you!”

  “All right, I won’t tell you.”

  “Samara!”

  Samara cringed. “If you’re going to yell at me, could you at least close the door so everyone won’t hear you?”

  Melissa strode to the door and slammed it before rounding on Samara once again, her eyes flashing. “What happened?”

  Samara rubbed the ache creeping into her temples. “There’s something you have to understand about my mother,” she began tiredly. “Her generosity is…conditional.”

  “And you met those conditions!” Melissa flared, indignant hands thrust onto dainty hips. “You took an entire week off from work— time that could have been spent enjoying a badly needed vacation, I might add. You traveled to New York to be there to rehearse for her spring premiere, which she specifically requested your participation in. And the only reason on earth that you agreed to do it was because she promised to give FYI a large donation. That was the deal.”

  “Keeping deals isn’t really my mother’s style,” Samara muttered.

  Melissa opened her mouth with another heated retort, decided against it and snapped her lips shut. She sat back down again. “The organization needs a sizeable donation, Samara, or we’ll have to close shop. As it is, we’re just barely maintaining our operating expenses in an effort to keep most of our programs going. Soon that won’t be possible.”

  “I know,” Samara said on a heavy sigh. “I’ll think of something, Melissa, don’t worry.”

  “That is easier said than done. Between the fluctuating economy and increased competition for charitable donations, it’s harder than ever for small nonprofits like ours to get proper funding. And as you well know, the District’s limited resources are allocated to public sector organizations that fall under the Office of Community Outreach.” Melissa slumped back against the chair, her expression bleak. “I don’t know what else we can do, Samara. We’ve held fundraisers, sponsored everything from bake sales to book fairs, and coldcalled every business in our database. The contributions we’re receiving simply aren’t enough anymore.”

  Before Samara could open her mouth, Melissa stabbed a warning finger at her. “And you can’t keep outsourcing your services in exchange for donations. Not only are you burning yourself out that way, but that’s not what you got your MBA for.”

  “I don’t mind,” Samara countered. “I enjoy using my marketing background as often as possible. God knows my mother thinks I’m totally wasting the degree,” she added cynically.

  “Is that what you two argued about in New York?”

  “If only it were that simple.” Samara stared unseeingly into her coffee cup. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “My mother assumed that once the premiere was over, I would change my mind about talking to reporters. But with her, it’s never as simple as just doing interviews. With Asha Dubois, the more you give, the more she demands—until she completely usurps your will. Then you find yourself bending to her every whim, acting out a reality not of your own choosing.”

  Melissa was silent, watching her with a mixture of sympathy and concern. “Don’t worry about the check,” she said gently. “We’ll get the funds somehow, and just chalk up this experience to a loss.”

  “No.” Samara shook her head, her jaw set determinedly. “I kept my end of the bargain. It’s time for my mother to be held accountable for keeping hers. I’ll call her this afternoon during my lunch break.”

  “Samara—”

  “This is too important, Melissa. We both know that.”

  With a sigh of resignation, Melissa stood and crossed to the door. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “You know where to find me if you need to vent afterward.”

  Samara’s smile was warm with gratitude. “I know,” she said quietly. “And thanks.”

  1

  “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to come to your senses,” Asha drawled, making no attempt to hide her smugness. “As notoriously stubborn as you are, even you can admit when you’re wrong.”

  On the other end of the phone, Samara fought to rein in her temper. “I didn’t call to apologize, Mother,” she said as calmly as possible. “I stand by my decision not to be interviewed after the premiere. I know very well your army of publicists was laying a trap for me, hoping the reporters would corner me into announcing my intention to join the House of Dubois. As if I’ve ever expressed any interest in becoming the mother-daughter design duo you so desperately want.”

  “Your refusal to take an active role in my company makes no sense whatsoever,” Asha said heatedly. “Look at the Asian culture where the children embrace their parents’ businesses as their own. Drycleaners, restaurants, convenience stores—you name it. Every member of the family works together to ensure the success of the business. But not my daughter. My daughter would rather wither away at some failing nonprofit organization than put her natural talents to use. Even if you never wanted to model, Samara, the least you could have done was head our marketing division. You have an MBA from the Wharton School of Business, for goodness sake!”

  “Which I utilize every day in my position as the Institute’s executive director,” Samara wearily reminded her. The debate was so familiar she could recite it in her sleep.

  She was also prepared for her mother’s vitriolic rebuttal. “Obviously your ‘expertise’ isn’t working, or the organization wouldn’t be in such bad shape!”

  “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.

  1

  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 t
hat?”

  “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?