Taming the Wolf

by Maureen Smith

  Framed portraits of various celebrities and prominent athletes who had visited the restaurant graced the walls. With the high ceilings and recessed lights turned strategically low, the restaurant gave patrons the illusion of being in the heart of a deep, plush cavern. Music drifted from a baby grand piano tucked into a shadowy corner, the tinkling notes of a jazz number blending with the muted din of voices. The bar at the rear of the restaurant was long and backed by a mirror that reflected its full length, and doubled the light from above. Tier upon tier of liquor bottles with contents of amber, gold and red liquids sparkled from behind proud old labels.

  “There you are!” called a deep, resonant voice from across the room.

  The minute Samara saw the owner of the voice, she knew he was Michael Wolf. Tall and broad-shouldered with smooth dark skin, he had the same chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, strong nose and firm chin as his brother. Even their haircuts were the same, cropped close to the scalp and faded along the sides.

  He buried Marcus in a quick bear hug before drawing back to give him an affectionate chuck on the chin. “Glad you could make it, Little Man,” he teased, although he was at least four inches shorter than his younger brother.

  Marcus chuckled. “You knew I would. It’s your fourth anniversary.” He turned to Samara behind him, gently bringing her around to his side. Michael’s dark eyes widened a fraction before roaming across Samara’s face with undisguised male appreciation.

  “Nice to meet you, Michael,” Samara said, shaking his hand once Marcus performed the introductions.

  “The pleasure’s all mine,” Michael Wolf said smoothly. He dipped his head to place a gallant kiss upon her hand, leaving no doubt in Samara’s mind that he, like his brother, had broken plenty of hearts.

  She swept an appreciative look around the restaurant. “This is a very nice place you have, Michael.”

  “Thank you very much, Samara. It’s my pride and joy.”

  Marcus feigned a wounded look. “I thought I was your pride and joy.”

  “Nah,” Michael said with a conspiratorial wink at Samara, “You’ve been replaced. Come on, I saved your table near the stage. The band will be starting in a few.”

  Marcus and Samara followed him to a round black lacquer table positioned before a small, unobtrusive stage. A blues quartet rehearsed quietly onstage, striking intermittent chords.

  “The chef is preparing your meals right now,” Michael informed them, pulling out Samara’s chair with a flourish. “I want you both to try our newest house specialty. Crab and mushroom stuffed salmon with Creole couscous, sautéed spinach and sauce aurora.”

  “Sounds good,” Marcus and Samara said in unison.

  With a pleased grin, Michael moved off to greet other guests.

  “You were right about him,” Samara remarked, watching him go from table to table, answering questions and putting his customers at ease. “He’s a natural.”

  “The best,” Marcus said, and there was no mistaking the deep pride in his voice.

  Over lunch that afternoon, he’d told Samara how his older brother, the self-appointed family cook, had always dreamed of owning a restaurant. Four years ago when his job at an engineering firm was downsized, he’d decided to follow his dreams, pouring all of his savings into a restaurant venture. His gamble had paid off. Four years later, Wolf’s Soul still received rave reviews and boasted a clientele that included celebrities and high-ranking politicians.

  In no time at all, Marcus and Samara’s meals were served and enjoyed with great relish, much as Michael had promised. While they ate, the live band entertained the customers with the fluid rhythm of one selection after another, from toe-tapping ragtime tunes to soulful jazz renditions.

  Samara was secretly grateful for the distraction the music provided. With Marcus seated so close to her at the small table, she had enough difficulty performing the simple act of breathing—let alone attempting conversation. Not that conversation had ranked high on their list of priorities that day.

  After arriving in Atlanta that morning, they’d checked into their luxurious hotel suite, placed their bags in separate rooms, then wound up on the floor in the living room, making love as fervently as if it were their first time. They came up for air several hours later to enjoy a leisurely lunch on the balcony before taking a romantic stroll through the lush, secluded gardens tucked away behind their hotel room. When Marcus took her against a tree, Samara knew she’d never look at another Japanese maple the same way again.

  Blushing at the memory, she glanced up from her plate to find Marcus watching her. The glittering heat in his eyes sent a tingle of pure sexual awareness dancing up her spine.

  “Stop that,” she whispered accusingly.

  “What?”

  “You know very well what. Stop looking at me like that, like you’re already thinking of another location for us to christen.”

  His mouth curved in a slow pirate’s grin. “Now that you mention it, there is a tiny room in the back—”

  “Marcus,” she groaned helplessly.

  He chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling her toes. “All right, I’ll back off for a while. Don’t want you thinking the only reason I invited you down here was to turn you into my sex slave.”

  She laughed. “The thought had crossed my mind.” As if becoming Marcus Wolf’s sex slave would be such a terrible fate.

  “Seriously though, Samara. I want you to have fun this weekend, relax and unwind. You work too hard.”

  “Said the pot to the kettle.”

  “Actually,” Marcus said huskily, “I’ve never been more relaxed in my life.”

  She held his focused gaze, her heart racing. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  The band took a break after completing the first set, and Michael Wolf stepped onto the stage and grabbed the microphone. “Evening, ladies and gentlemen. Is everyone having a good time tonight?”

  His query was met with buoyant applause and cheers. Michael grinned. “We’ve come to that portion of the evening where we like to hear from our guests. We don’t call it karaoke exactly. It’s more of an opportunity for some of you budding songbirds out there to show us what you’ve got. Hey, you never know—Tina Turner was discovered this way.”

  There was a smattering of laughter as Michael’s dark eyes began a deliberate scan of the audience. “Let’s see, who can get us started this evening…”

  Samara was taking a sip of her club soda when his searching gaze landed on her. Dread filled her chest as his lips curved in a slow, triumphant grin. She began to shake her head from side to side, but it was too late.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Michael announced, “I present to you a personal guest of mine this evening—the very lovely and talented Samara Layton!”

  Marcus leaned toward her with a faintly amused expression. “You don’t have to go up there if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to,” Samara muttered under her breath. “And how does he know I’m talented? I can barely carry a note!”

  “Samara?” Michael prompted from the stage, still grinning.

  Samara wanted to sink through the floor as every smiling face in the restaurant turned in her direction. Soon the audience jumped on the bandwagon, whistling and calling encouragements to her.

  Samara was no stranger to the spotlight. Thanks to her mother, she’d grown up participating in various beauty pageants and fashion shows. Just a week ago, she’d strutted down a New York runway before a crowd filled with celebrities and fashion industry bigwigs— a crowd far bigger and more intimidating than this one.

  Live a little, Samara.

  Marcus had made eye contact with his brother, signaling him to find another sacrificial lamb.

  But Samara stood, albeit on wobbly legs, and walked toward the stage. Michael took her hand and gently helped her up. “Just relax and have fun. What do you want to sing?”

  “ ‘At Last’ by Etta James,” Samara answered, because it was the only song sh
e felt remotely confident enough to sing beyond her shower stall. It had been one of her grandmother’s favorites.

  Michael whispered her selection to the pianist and climbed off the stage to join Marcus at the table. A hushed silence descended upon the room, broken by scattered whistles of male admiration as the spotlight illuminated Samara. She stood before the microphone and took a deep, steadying breath as the familiar opening strains of the song began.

  “At last…my love has come along…” Her voice was soft, surprisingly fluid even to her own ears. She smiled shyly, gratified as the audience responded with immediate approval. “My lonely days are over…and life is like a song…”

  1

  Seated at the table, Marcus grew completely still as he watched Samara, transfixed. He couldn’t take his eyes off her in that tiny slip of a red dress, and he knew he wasn’t the only brother in the house with that problem. She was fine as hell, possessing the kind of looks that made grown men act a fool. Even his brother hadn’t been totally immune.

  But what ensnared Marcus went beyond Samara’s exotic beauty, or the whiskey-soaked voice that poured over his flesh and into his soul. It was the whole package. The combination of intelligence and wit, sensitivity and fieriness, innocence and eroticism. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman—something he hadn’t realized until that very moment.

  Watching Marcus out of the corner of his eye, Michael leaned over to whisper, “You’re falling in love with her. You know that, don’t you?”

  Marcus swallowed the sudden tightness in his throat, then dropped his gaze, wanting to strangle his brother. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled under his breath. “I just met her.”

  “So did I,” Michael countered mildly, “and I can tell you right now that she feels the same way about you.”

  Marcus lifted his eyes to Samara once again, and found her already watching him as she crooned the words to Etta James’s classic hit.

  Michael didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, he thought darkly. Marcus was no more in love with Samara than she was with him. Just because she possessed all the qualities he’d want in a wife—if he’d wanted a wife—didn’t mean a damn thing.

  Before he knew it, the song had ended. Amid boisterous applause and calls for an encore, Samara executed a brief curtsy and headed off the stage.

  Marcus stood at her approach. “A woman of many talents,” he murmured in her ear.

  Samara gave him an embarrassed smile before reclaiming her seat and taking a long sip of her club soda.

  Marcus barely paid attention as his brother sang Samara’s praises, and solicited more volunteers whose talent levels ranged from comical to downright good, as the band returned to the stage to resume playing. All he could think about was what Michael had said.

  Marcus was not in love with Samara.

  But damn his brother for planting such a crazy idea in his mind.

  Chapter Nine

  A re you absolutely sure you don’t want to hang out at the hotel until I get back from my meeting?” Marcus asked Samara the next day as they left downtown Atlanta in his other vehicle, a

  black Lincoln Navigator he stored at the parking garage of his law firm so he wouldn’t have to rent a car whenever he came to town. “I’m positive, Marcus,” Samara told him for the umpteenth time.

  “You could have gone downstairs to the spa, or done a little shopping and sightseeing—”

  She laughed. “I didn’t need to visit the spa. The massages we received this morning gave me all the pampering I’ll need for a long time, thank you very much. And I don’t have to go sightseeing, since I’ve been to Atlanta several times before. Besides, I’m looking forward to meeting your father.”

  Sterling Wolf had called Marcus’s cell phone that morning to let him know his fishing trip had been cut short when a member of his group came down with food poisoning. Upon learning that his son was in town, and accompanied by a woman, Sterling had insisted that Marcus bring Samara over to the house to meet him before they flew back to D.C. that evening. He hadn’t taken no for an answer.

  “I should only be gone for a couple of hours,” Marcus assured Samara.

  She nodded, smothering a wide yawn. “Take as long as you need. If your father doesn’t mind, I just might grab a nap while I’m over there. You have worn a sista out, Marcus Wolf.”

  Maureen Smith He chuckled softly, glancing at her. His eyes were indiscernible behind the dark mirrored sunglasses he wore. “Think we overdid it by going dancing last night?”

  Her mouth curved in a lazy grin. “I think we overdid it before we arrived in Atlanta yesterday morning.” She paused, then added demurely, “I’ve never made love on an airplane before. That was quite an experience.”

  “Mmmm,” Marcus agreed, low and husky. “And just think. We have the trip home tonight to look forward to.”

  Smiling at the thought, Samara leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes against the early afternoon sunlight slanting through the windshield. She felt boneless, deliciously drowsy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so relaxed, so free of worry or tension. Although she’d teased Marcus about wearing her out, the truth was that she was enjoying every single moment with him, whether they were making love or working it out on the dance floor—which, of course, had only led to more lovemaking.

  She was having the time of her life. A part of her didn’t want the weekend to end.

  A very big part of her.

  Marcus reached over, gently kneading the nape of her neck until a soft moan of pleasure escaped her lips. Oh, he was good at this. Too good.

  Without opening her eyes, she murmured, “Do you do this very often? Whisk women away for romantic weekend getaways?”

  His fingers stilled for a moment, and she could feel him looking at her behind the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses. For a minute she thought he wouldn’t answer her, but then he said quietly, “Would it bother you if I said yes?”

  “Of course not,” she said, forcing a nonchalant tone. “I was just curious, that’s all. You really know how to show a woman a good time.”

  109 When he made no reply, Samara mentally kicked herself. Why had she gone and said something like that? Not only had she ruined the mellow mood between them, but now Marcus would think she was the jealous, possessive type, and nothing could be further from the truth. What he did with other women was none of her business. If he invited another woman—say, Antoinette Toussaint—to spend the following weekend with him in Jamaica, Samara wouldn’t care.

  That’s what she told herself anyway.

  With downtown Atlanta behind them, Marcus exited onto a country road that took a winding curve and gave way to an explosion of blooming magnolias. A sprawling red brick house rolled into view, and Marcus steered the Navigator down the long cobblestone driveway, past acres of manicured green lawn and a small lake at the center of the property.

  “Oh, Marcus,” Samara murmured, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen between them. “This place is breathtaking.”

  Marcus smiled. “Tell my father that. Maybe he’ll believe it coming from a beautiful woman.”

  He parked in the driveway behind a silver Buick Park Avenue, then climbed out of the SUV and came around to open the door for her. As they started up the walk, she admired the large house, which boasted bi-level decks, an upper balcony facing the lake and plenty of steep French windows.

  They were met at the front door by a tall, dark-skinned man who could only be Marcus’s father. After one look at Sterling Wolf, Samara could see where the Wolf brothers had gotten their good looks. In his early sixties, Sterling was ruggedly handsome in a hunter-green chambray shirt and corduroy trousers worn over dusty leather boots. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed, and his eyes were dark and sharply intelligent. In a flash of insight, Samara imagined the tough, hard-nosed homicide detective. He must have investigated his cases with the tenacity of a pit bull, breaking rules an
d stepping on bureaucratic toes left and right.

  Those keen eyes zeroed in on Marcus’s hand at Samara’s back before a low, gritty chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “Well, this is certainly a nice surprise.”

  “Hey, Dad,” Marcus greeted him. “This is Samara Layton. Samara, I’d like you to meet my father, Sterling Wolf.”

  Samara smiled at the older man. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Wolf.”

  Sterling Wolf’s large, callused hand swallowed hers in a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Layton,” he said, his Southern drawl even more pronounced than Marcus’. Opening the door wider, he ushered them inside.

  Vaulted ceilings and a winding staircase to the upper level punctuated the sheer elegance of the house. To their immediate right was a high arched entranceway to the spacious living room. Aubusson rugs were spread across golden pinewood floors that shined with brilliance from the afternoon sunlight.

  “Y’all are just in time for lunch,” Sterling said. “Michael’s just finishing up in the kitchen. When he heard about the fishing trip being cut short, he took pity on his old man and came right over to fix me lunch since Frizell is off this week.” Seeing Marcus glance at his watch, he said warningly, “I won’t hear a word about you not joining us for lunch, son. You’re the boss of those folks. They’ll understand if you show up a little late to a meeting they requested. And on a Sunday, at that.”

  Marcus chuckled dryly. “I’ve got some time. Who got food poisoning? You didn’t say on the phone.”

  Sterling grunted. “It was Charlie. He was sick as a dog all over the place. We decided to cut our losses and head back home on the first flight outta there.” He shrugged broad shoulders. “Fish weren’t biting much anyway.”

  Michael emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and smiling at Samara. “So my eyes weren’t deceiving me last night. You are as beautiful as I thought you were.”

  She smiled. “And you’re still as charming as I remember. Do you need help with anything in the kitchen?”