Taming the Wolf

Published by Parker Publishing, LLC 12523 Limonite Avenue, Suite #440-245 Mira Loma, California 91752
www.parker-publishing.com

All rights reserved. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, events and incidents (in either a contemporary and/or historical setting) are products of the author's imagination and are being used in an imaginative manner as a part of this work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, settings, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

If not for the fact that she was a recovering alcoholic, she would’ve thrown off the costume she wore and made a beeline for the first wet bar she could find. She already felt practically naked beneath the golden brocade robe draped across her shoulders, concealing the flimsy gown she wore.

One of the stage assistants bustled past her clutching a clipboard, a nondescript girl with dark brown hair shoved haphazardly into a ponytail. “Two minutes!”

Samara nodded, scarcely acknowledging the reminder. Her head throbbed unmercifully with the onset of a migraine that intensified with each blink. She couldn’t believe she’d actually agreed to participate in tonight’s fashion show. No, that wasn’t right. She hadn’t agreed. She’d been bullied, bullied in a way that would make even the most ruthless mobster cringe.

An assistant hairstylist appeared beside her and paused before lifting a hand to Samara’s coifed black hair. Samara shook her head once, a terse warning to be left alone.

“You know Asha expects me to check everyone’s hair before show time,” Marianne protested.
“My hair has been spritzed, teased and sprayed more in one night than in my entire life,” Samara said through gritted teeth. “If my mother values your life half as much as she does her own, she would’ve ordered you to cross my name off the list of models to be messed with.”
Heeding the lethal warning in Samara’s narrowed dark eyes; Marianne hurried away, muttering under her breath about pampered divas.
Samara’s full lips curved wryly at the girl’s departing tirade. Diva. Anyone who knew Samara Layton would know diva was the last word on earth that could describe her. But as for these females around her…well, they were a different story.
She shuddered, recalling the scene backstage that had been nothing short of chaotic, a few minutes ago. In the main dressing room to the rear of the Kenneth Cole showroom, the models huddled around mirrors, hastily applying absurd layers of makeup. Some were still in their robes while others rushed around naked, searching for their costumes. The hairdresser and makeup artists responsible for doing final touch-ups scurried about like mad scientists, racing after anyone who got away without the proper lipstick color or a loosened coif.
It had been sheer madness.
Behind Samara stood a line of the models that would precede her onto the stage following the opening. The girls’ muted conversations filled her ears. The ripple of their nervous laughter reminded Samara of a time when she, too, had greeted each fashion show with unbridled enthusiasm. Her stomach was a vicious tangle of nerves and anticipation as she prepared to take the runway. When she had dreamed of following in her mother’s footsteps by becoming the toast of haute couture.
A lifetime ago.
“Look alive, girls. It’s show time!”
The staccato clap next to her ear jarred Samara from her grim musings. Before she could regain her bearings, she was unceremoniously nudged forward.
It’s show time, she mentally repeated the mantra, recognizing the familiar cynicism that clutched painfully in her chest.
Time to razzle-dazzle ’em.

Marcus Wolf shifted restlessly in his front row seat of the crowded showroom. For the umpteenth time that evening, he resisted the urge to check his wristwatch.

He didn’t need to see the late hour to know an entire night had been wasted, a night he could have used to catch up on paperwork he’d brought with him to New York. Even if he’d simply returned to his hotel room at the Waldorf-Astoria, freed himself of the Armani monkey suit he wore and plunked down in front of the television for hours of mindless cable programming—anything would’ve been preferable to the torture he would endure once the fashion started.

Of all the things he’d planned to do while on his business trip to New York, attending the spring fashion premiere of some celebrated fashion designer, he knew nothing about was definitely not on the list.

His companion leaned toward him, his gravelly voice an amused murmur as he inquired, “Restless already? The show hasn’t even started yet.”

This drew an appreciative chuckle from his longtime friend and mentor, Walter Floyd. “You need to broaden your horizons, son. There’s more to life than depositions and poring through those legal books you always bury your nose in.”

Marcus scowled. “If this is your way of encouraging a better social life for me, Walt,” he groused, “you’re going to be sorely disappointed. A drink at a local bar would have sufficed.”

“We did that the last time you were in town,” Walter said, unfazed by Marcus’s rancor. “I thought we’d try something a little different. Like I told you before, Asha Dubois is an old friend of mine. I promised her I wouldn’t miss this year’s premiere, and I had no intention of going back on my word—not even for you, son.”

Marcus grunted and fell silent once again. To his right sat a heavily perfumed woman in a sequined evening gown. From her animated conversation with her coifed companion, Marcus learned all of the important members of the press had been invited to the premiere. The editors of Vogue, Mademoiselle, Essence, Harper’s Bazaar, even some international reporters had consented to grace the event with their presence. Buyers from Neiman-Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue and Barney’s were also supposed to be there.

Apparently, Asha Dubois was even important enough to draw the attendance of her rival fashion designers, although Marcus wouldn’t know Manolo Blahnik from Ralph Lauren. At this gathering, everyone swept into the fancy showroom with an air of importance, whether they were decked out in glittering evening wear or dressed casually in jeans.

Suppressing a heavy sigh, Marcus flicked his wrist with an impatient gesture and frowned at the Rolex watch peeking from beneath the starched white cuff of his tuxedo shirt.

An air of hushed expectancy fell over the audience as the theater darkened. A plume of smoke drifted from the center of the stage, and then a feral roar erupted from the darkness. A spotlight suddenly illuminated a tiger, huge and magnificent, locked in a metal cage. As the audience gasped, a thunderous roll of drums shattered the air. And then came the percussions, pulsing and almost sensual in their rhythm.

Marcus shifted in his chair once again, settling in for the long haul. A moment later he straightened, his stomach muscles tightening.

At center stage, carried upon the shoulders of two very darkskinned male models whose muscled chests glistened with oil, was the most exotically beautiful woman Marcus had ever seen.

She sat upon the raised platform, as sublimely regal as Queen Nefertiti being transported by her loyal servants, even right down to the jeweled crown perched atop her head. Halfway down the runway, the models stopped and lowered her gently to the floor. When she glided to her feet, her body was covered in a golden floorlength robe. When the footmen reached to help her, she dismissed them with an elegant sweep of her slender arm. They immediately withdrew, bowing to her in submission. With a look of haughty defiance on her exquisite face, the woman moved to the center of the runway and stopped.

For a moment she was completely still, her head tilted at an angle as if she were listening for something in the distance. Then suddenly she pulled the tiara from her head and shook her hair free, and the silken black tresses spilled over her shoulders and down her back. The footmen started after her as if in protest, and she tossed the crown back at them before continuing down the runway. Before they could reach her, she slid the robe from her shoulders. And there was an audible intake of breath across the theater as the audience beheld what was beneath. The model was glorious in a shimmering pearl-gray goddess gown that clung to every shapely curve of her body. The outfit gave the illusion that she was nude but she really wasn’t.

Marcus experienced a sharp punch in his lower abdomen that felt suspiciously like lust.
From overhead, rays of an ancient sun god showered down on the goddess as she stood in all her glory at the end of the runway. The percussions swelled to a crescendo, making heartbeats quicken throughout the theater—Marcus’s not excluded. The woman pivoted and started back up the runway, gliding in a turn as she showcased the gown, her sleek brown body gleaming like a heavenly creature’s beneath the sheer folds. Then suddenly she stopped, for the tiger had been released from its cage. It stalked toward her, its movements fluid and powerful. The audience held a collective breath, and Marcus found his muscles instinctively primed for the unpredictable.
But he needn’t have worried. At the last minute, the animal halted before the woman and sat on its hind legs.
With a look of triumph, she reached out to stroke the tiger, which stretched its neck contentedly. At the center curtain, the footmen lowered their heads and parted as the goddess wafted toward the archway with the docile beast trailing on her heels. In a puff of smoke they all disappeared, and the stage went completely black. From the projection booth high at the back of the theater appeared the words reflected on the translucent screen above the stage: Defy Convention. Nubian Expressions by House of Dubois.
Marcus did not move as the theater exploded into thunderous applause. He didn’t notice as, one by one, a procession of obscenely thin models strutted down the runway, giving the audience a preview of their costumes. He spent the next hour hoping vainly for the return of the goddess. Even as he waited, he reminded himself that he’d never been one to fall for a pretty face, and this particular one was probably nothing more than that.
So it was with extreme self-loathing that he found himself casually asking Walter about the identity of the mystery woman during intermission.
“That’s Samara, Asha Dubois’s daughter,” Walt told him cheerfully. His craggy face glowed with pride. “Last time I saw her she was just starting college. She sure has grown up, though. Just as beautiful as her mother. Yes, indeed.”
Samara. Marcus mentally rolled the name around his tongue, thinking how fitting it was for the sexy, exotic beauty.
Walt sent him a sidelong glance. “I’d be happy to introduce you to her after the show.”
Marcus lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug and said in a neutral voice, “Don’t go out of your way on my account.”
He deliberately ignored Walt’s knowing chuckle.