Taming the Wolf

by Maureen Smith

  Samara grew very still against him, understanding the import of his announcement. “Where did you see her?”

  “She showed up at my office late this afternoon. She and her husband are in town for a medical convention at Johns Hopkins.”

  “Your mother remarried?”

  Marcus flinched in the darkness. “Yeah, she did.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen her?” Samara asked gently.

  Marcus drew a long, deep breath. “Ten years. I’ve stopped counting the days and months,” he added, a shadow of cynicism twisting his mouth.

  “It must have been very hard for you to see her again, after all this time,” Samara murmured.

  He nodded, then surprised himself by quietly admitting, “I didn’t know whether to ask her to leave, or beg her to stay.”

  He could feel Samara’s compassionate gaze on his face. “What did you do?”

  “Neither. She left her card for me to call her at the hotel where she’s staying.”

  “And will you?”

  Marcus stared up at the darkened ceiling, his gaze unfocused. “I honestly don’t know, Samara. A part of me knows I should forgive her for cheating on my father and causing the divorce. I’m thirtyfive years old, too damn old to be holding grudges from childhood. But any time I see her, or just think about her, all I see is her betrayal. And for the life of me, I can’t get past it. Know what I mean?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Samara murmured, and Marcus remembered she did understand where he was coming from. Understood it better than anyone he’d ever known.

  He couldn’t remember whether that was a good or bad thing.

  Shoving aside the unsettling thought, Marcus rolled her onto her back and pinned her beneath his body.

  “I have just one question for you,” he said, smiling down at her, wishing he could see her beautiful face better.

  Lazily she rubbed the sole of her foot along the length of his calf. “What’s that?”

  “Do we have a game of strip poker in our future?”

  Samara threw back her head and laughed.

  Chapter Twelve

  When Marcus strode through the door of the conference room the next morning—fifteen minutes late to a meeting with his senior associates—three pairs of eyes regarded

  him in surprise.

  “Sorry for being late,” he said as he took the seat that had been

  left vacant for him at the head of the conference table. Someday

  he’d like to shake things up a bit and see what would happen if he

  sat somewhere else.

  “How’s everyone doing this morning?” he asked, opening a thick

  manila folder crammed with notes and filings he’d brought to discuss

  during the meeting.

  When his query was met with silence, he glanced up from the

  table. Donovan, Timothy and Helen Whitlaw were staring at him as

  if they’d never seen him before.

  Marcus frowned. “What?”

  Donovan spoke first, hitching his chin toward Marcus’s open

  collar. “You forgot something.”

  Marcus glanced down and saw that, in his haste to get dressed

  that morning after leaving Samara’s house, he’d forgotten to put on

  a tie. It was an uncharacteristic oversight, but he didn’t think it

  warranted the strange looks he was getting from his colleagues. “I’ve got some extra ties in my office,” he said briskly. “I’ll grab

  one after our meeting. Now—”

  Timothy discreetly cleared his throat. “Uh, boss?” When Marcus

  looked at him, he pointed to his jaw. “You’ve got a little shaving

  cream…No, right there.”

  Maureen SmithMarcus wiped the dab of foam from his face and reached inside his breast pocket for a handkerchief. When he didn’t find one, he swore softly under his breath.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Timothy said, an amused note in his voice. “You got all of it.”

  “Anything else?” Marcus demanded, looking around the table. “Do I have toothpaste on my chin? Is my fly open?”

  Donovan, Timothy and Helen exchanged startled glances. And then, without warning, they burst into laughter.

  Even Marcus felt a smile tugging at his lips.

  The conference room door opened, and Laura stuck her head inside. “Sorry to interrupt—” She broke off, staring at the three laughing attorneys.

  “What’s up, Laura?” Marcus asked, since he seemed to be the only one capable of speech at the moment.

  “There’s a phone call for Ms. Whitlaw,” Laura said. “I wouldn’t have interrupted, but the caller said it was very important.”

  “Who is it, Laura?” Helen asked, sobering.

  “It’s your realtor. She said she tried to reach you on your cell phone, but—”

  Helen jumped up from the table. “I’ll take it in my office. We’re engaged in an intense bidding war over my house in Atlanta,” she explained to Marcus as she hurried to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Take your time.” As Marcus poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table, Donovan and Timothy continued grinning at him.

  “That must have been one helluva night you had, boss,” Timothy remarked.

  “Uh huh,” Donovan chimed in. “Coming in here all disheveled. No tie, shaving cream on your face…”

  “How is that such a big deal?” Marcus muttered.

  Donovan laughed. “If we were talking about anyone else, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But we’re talking about you, man, so that changes the whole conversation. Marcus Wolf doesn’t show up

  145fifteen minutes late to meetings not wearing a tie, with shaving cream still on his face. It just doesn’t happen. I knew him in college,” Donovan explained to Timothy, “And even on the days when he was slumming, he still managed to be Mr. Smooth. Those Spelman chicks loved it.”

  Timothy laughed. “Well, he’s not hurting with the ladies, that’s for sure. We heard you brought a beautiful one to your brother’s club on Saturday night. They said her name was Samara. Would she happen to be the same Samara you met at Georgetown last week?”

  “So what if she is?” Marcus said. A knowing gleam filled Donovan’s eyes. “Things must be getting mighty serious if you’re taking her home to meet the family.”

  “Maybe.” Marcus took a sip of coffee, idly wondering if he’d made a mistake in handpicking Donovan and Timothy to help him establish the D.C. office. The two men weren’t just employees; he considered them good friends, especially Donovan, with whom he shared a long history. But that was part of the problem. Friends were too damn nosy, and Marcus wasn’t ready to share his news yet.

  He was still getting used to the idea of being in love himself.

  1

  A white Rolls Royce limousine was staked out in front of the office building when Samara emerged that evening. It sat in the No Parking zone as if daring anyone to enforce the law. Samara’s heart plummeted as soon as she spied the luxury vehicle.

  She knew who was inside.

  And she was struck by the irony of the timing. First Marcus’s long-lost mother had paid him a visit yesterday at his office. Now it was Samara’s turn.

  As she walked past the Rolls, the tinted window in the rear of the limousine rolled halfway down. Her mother’s face appeared, her eyes concealed behind an expensive pair of sunglasses. “Samara.”

  For a moment Samara considered walking on, pretending she hadn’t seen her mother or heard her voice. She stood stiffly with her back facing the limo.

  “I called your office earlier,” Asha spoke calmly, “But the receptionist said you were out for lunch. I didn’t leave a message because I knew you wouldn’t return my call.”

  Samara turned slowly around. “Why are you here, Mother?”

  “I’m in town for the grand opening of my Georgetown boutique.” She paused. “I was hoping we could talk.”


  “I believe we covered everything the last time we spoke.”

  “Samara…”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Mother. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day, and I’d really like to get home.”

  She turned and strode purposefully toward her car, furious with her mother for showing up unannounced and expecting Samara to drop everything to accommodate her.

  So what else is new? She fumed as she tossed her briefcase across the passenger seat. Some things just never changed.

  The good mood she’d enjoyed all day had evaporated when Asha appeared. This too, was nothing new. Whenever things began to improve in Samara’s life, her mother had always shown up out of the clear blue, sending her world tilting on its axis, demolishing what bit of progress she’d made.

  A tap on the window startled her. She looked up in surprise to find her mother’s longtime personal assistant, Pierre Jacques, standing outside the car.

  Samara hesitated, then rolled down the window. Folding her arms across her chest, she regarded Pierre with one cynical brow arched. “Please don’t tell me she sent you over here to get me.”

  “No, dearest, that was completely my doing.” Pierre Jacques was medium height and slender, with spiky mousse-sculpted blond hair. He also had delicate, almost effeminate features to include long eyelashes, high cheekbones and a generous poet’s mouth. He wore tight black leather pants under a flowing white shirt.

  Hands planted on narrow hips, he cast an appraising look over the Avalon through critical blue-gray eyes. “Interesting transportation you have here. Very ‘working girl.’ ”

  “Pierre, you didn’t come over here to talk about my car.”

  He issued a dramatic sigh. “Dearest, you must come over at once and speak to your mother. I implore you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she has been an absolute nightmare to work with over the last two weeks! You would think after having such a successful spring collection and being the toast of town she would finally be happy, but alas, such is not the case. She’s been screaming at everyone, issuing unreasonable demands and making life a living hell for the rest of us. Two of the wardrobe assistants have already quit, and I fear that if your mother’s impossible behavior continues much longer, she won’t have anyone left in her employment.”

  Samara couldn’t help but grin. Pierre’s predilection for melodrama could always extract a smile from her. “She’ll always have you, Pierre. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “That’s because I am a glutton for punishment, chère. Why do you think I pop Prozac like candy? Listen, I don’t know what you and your mother argued about after the premiere, but she hasn’t been the same since you left New York.”

  “Why would this time be any different from any of our many other arguments?” Samara asked wryly.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. Perhaps she’s getting sentimental in her old age—although you didn’t hear that from me. Merde! Asha would kill me if she ever heard me utter such a thing. Anyway, the point is, she came here hoping to speak with you. It may be that she feels bad about the last argument and wants to kiss and make up.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “At least hear what she has to say!” Pierre cried, waving his elegant hands in consternation. Leaning through the window, he gently but firmly grasped her upper arms. His expression was beseeching. “If you have an ounce of compassion left in that big heart of yours, Samara, you will go over there and talk to your mother, even if it’s just for a few minutes.”

  “Pierre, I’d really rather not.”

  “Please, chère, I beg of you.” He paused. “If not for yourself or Asha, then do it for me.”

  Samara hesitated, torn between warring loyalties. On one hand, she owed it to herself to finally be happy, a feat that could only be achieved through little or no interaction with her mother. If she climbed into that limousine and they argued again, Samara knew she would be back to square one, an emotional wreck.

  On the other hand, Pierre had once come to her rescue against André Leclerc, her mother’s spurned ex-lover who’d decided to get revenge by seducing Asha’s sixteen-year-old daughter. When Samara rejected his advances, he’d become enraged and started beating her up. Pierre had, in all likelihood, saved her life by arriving when he did and driving her to the hospital.

  Samara shuddered at the horrific memory. Yeah, she owed Pierre big time. The least she could do for him was talk to her mother, especially if he felt that it would improve Asha’s disposition.

  “All right,” she reluctantly consented, “But I’m only doing this for you, Pierre.”

  “Merci beaucoup, chère.” Relieved, he kissed both of her cheeks. “I thank you, as will all of your mother’s employees when we return to New York.”

  “I’m not promising any miracles,” Samara grumbled as Pierre grabbed her hand and hastened her from the car.

  A uniformed chauffeur emerged from the limousine to open the back door for Samara. Giving her a thumbs-up sign, Pierre climbed quickly into the front seat and closed the door before she could change her mind.

  Asha was effortlessly sleek in a chic dark dress that subtly accentuated her voluptuous figure and the shapeliness of her crossed legs. Her black hair was swept back into an elegant chignon that accented her high cheekbones and slanted dark eyes and the sensuous fullness of her mouth.

  She was speaking tersely to someone on her cell phone and didn’t look up as Samara climbed into the limo. “I know we’ve been selling well in the Midwest markets, especially after our last fall collection. It was the most conservative line we’ve done to date.” She paused, drumming manicured fingertips against her knee. “René, we’re long past the days of giving department stores the maximum discount on the clothing while eating our own advertising and overhead expenses. You do realize this? Then please act like it. Now, on to the next item.” Another clipped pause. “Bien. We’ll discuss it at the next strategy meeting on Friday. If anything else comes up, you know where to reach me. Au revoir.”

  Asha disconnected and slid the phone inside the sleek black sachet at her feet. Smiling congenially, she leaned across the plush leather seat and kissed Samara on both cheeks. “Sorry about that shop talk, darling. That was the VP of Operations—my people never give me a moment’s peace, even when I’m out of town.”

  “You’ve always been in demand, Mother,” Samara said without inflection.

  Asha laughed humorlessly. “After months of conducting extensive market studies, we’re preparing to launch a perfume line. You know it’s always been part of my vision to enter the cosmetics and perfume industry, but I wanted to establish the clothing line first. Our marketing division is currently working on concepts for the ad campaign—the market study revealed the sheer importance of package design, both in the bottle containing the perfume as well as the package in which it is sold.” She paused, a whimsical smile teasing the corners of her mouth. “But then, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, with your marketing background. I wonder what kind of creative ideas you would come up with for the new perfume.”

  Samara stiffened. “Mother—”

  Asha held up a hand. “Relax, darling. I’m not trying to recruit you for the ad campaign. I think I’ve finally learned my lesson in that regard. Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I thought we could have dinner together.”

  “I’m not very hungry. I had a late lunch.”

  “All right, then. We’ll just take a scenic drive around town.” She pushed a button to roll down the tinted glass window separating the front and back seat. She gave instructions to the chauffeur before raising the glass partition again. As the limo glided forward, she gave her daughter an assessing look. “You’re looking rather well. Lavender—that’s a nice color on you. Not everyone can wear it. The cut of the suit is quite flattering, too.”

  “I’m glad to hear that my appearance passes inspection,” Samara murmured dryly. She found it ironic that while she wa
s irritated by her mother’s words, there were many who would kill for such a compliment from the esteemed Asha Dubois.

  After years on the modeling circuit, Asha had received a rare opportunity to study fashion design at the prestigious Académie de Couture in Paris—a dream come true. She’d trained under some of the best in the business, honing her raw talents while rubbing elbows with the world’s most prominent couturiers. Upon graduating from the Académie she’d gone to work for Givenchy. After years of paying her dues and establishing a name for herself as a promising up-andcoming designer, Asha had left Givenchy to launch her own couture house—a gamble that paid off major dividends. After building a base in Paris using her hard-earned connections, she’d returned to the States to expand operations, acquiring boutiques in principal money markets and buying interests in major department stores. Through hard work and persistence, she’d proven to be an astute businesswoman as well as a talented designer. Last month marked almost fifteen years to the day House of Dubois made its official U.S. debut at a spring collection in New York and was met with rave reviews. Her signature clothing line was selling exceptionally well across the country, aided by an aggressive marketing campaign. At the age of forty-seven, Asha Dubois was on the brink of making fashion history as one of the first African-American couturiers to cross international lines.

  Despite their estrangement, Samara never stopped being proud of her mother’s accomplishments. Asha had overcome tremendous hardships in order to see her dreams fulfilled, and the fact that minorities were still greatly underrepresented in the fashion industry made her success much more admirable.

  Samara turned her head to stare out the tinted window as the limousine followed Pennsylvania Avenue as it merged from the northeast to the northwest quadrant of the city, winding past such tourist favorites as the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building, the White House, the Blair House and the Old Executive Office Building.

  “I owe you an apology, Samara.”