Taming the Wolf (10 page)

Taming the Wolf

 

no interest in becoming someone’s trophy wife or brokenhearted exlover. She was too smart for that.

Life had taught her the dangers of surrendering her heart to anyone. The first man who’d betrayed her had been her very own father. From all accounts, Nathaniel Layton was a kind, decent man who’d done the right thing by marrying the girl he’d accidentally impregnated. Yet he hadn’t even stuck around for Samara’s birth. He’d packed his belongings and stole away like a thief in the night, never looking back. Not caring that he left two shattered lives in his wake, that his departure would set a course in motion of heartache and disillusionment.

Samara would not make the same mistake her mother had. She wouldn’t leave herself vulnerable to any man, no matter how generous, compelling and sexy he was.

She’d enjoy this little fling with Marcus, and when it was over, she’d walk away with her dignity—and her heart—intact.
Her very survival depended on it.

Chapter Eight
B

 

y nine o’clock Saturday morning, Marcus and Samara were aboard his private jet bound for Atlanta.

Samara looked incredibly sexy in an orange tube top and a pair of low-rise blue jeans that fit her like a glove and had Marcus itching to peel it off her body and eat her like a Dove bar. Her healthy black hair was neatly braided and hung in a thick plait between her shoulder blades. Marcus thought she looked as delicious as the soft shade of raisin lip-gloss she wore, the moist sheen making her lips appear even juicier than usual.

A vision of her mouth wrapped around his penis gave him an instant erection. He shifted slightly in the cushioned seat, wondering if he’d be able to keep his hands off her until they reached their destination. It was only a two-hour flight. But he was so horny, even that seemed too long to wait.

Oblivious to his predicament, Samara was staring out the window at tufts of white clouds interspersed with patches of pale blue sky. “No matter how many times I traveled as a child,” she murmured, “I never got quite used to being on a plane.”

Marcus leaned toward her. “But you’re all right now?” he said, both question and gentle assurance.
Samara turned to look at him. “I’m fine. But you should probably get the Dramamine from my carry-on, just in case.” At his slightly alarmed expression, she laughed and covered his hand with hers, warm satin sliding over his skin and into his bones. “Relax, Marcus. It was a joke.”
His mouth curved in a slow grin. “Very funny.”
“I thought so.”

94

“Just for that, I should keep the little gift I brought for you.” She looked at him in surprise. “You brought me a gift?” He nodded. “Close your eyes.” As she did, he reached under his

seat and withdrew a rectangular box containing the beaded African necklace she’d been admiring yesterday. “Don’t peek,” he reminded her, then smiled as she squeezed her eyelids tightly shut. He reached around her, clasping the necklace around her throat.

“There,” he murmured. “Now you can look.”

She opened her eyes, then squealed in shock when she saw the necklace around her throat. “Oh, Marcus! It’s beautiful! I was admiring it yesterday at the bazaar. How did you—”

He chuckled softly. “I was there, remember?”
She smiled, gently fingering the exotic beads circling her slender throat. The necklace looked even better nestled against her beautiful brown skin. “You shouldn’t have bought this. It was ridiculously expensive, and God knows you’ve already given me enough money.”
“I gave the Institute money,” Marcus corrected her. “And don’t tell me how to spend my money, woman.”
The look she gave him was so tender, his throat went dry. Man, she’s low maintenance, he silently marveled. He’d heard of women who didn’t bat an eyelash at receiving $20,000 diamond earrings.
“Thank you, Marcus,” Samara said softly. “This was incredibly sweet of you. I’ll never forget it.”
“You’re welcome,” he said huskily. “You look like a Nubian goddess. That’s what I thought of you when you first appeared onstage at the fashion show.”
She chuckled grimly. “I don’t even want to know what you thought of me after you met me.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t tell you anyway,” he said with a mischievous wink. “Too X-rated.”
She laughed, her cheeks flushing as she settled back against her seat.
Marcus stretched out his long legs in the spacious cabin. “So you traveled a lot as a child. With your mother?”
Samara nodded. “She often took me with her on photo shoots. We went everywhere. From Versailles to Tokyo to Sydney, you name it.”
“That must have been exciting.”
She shrugged, gazing out the window. “It had its moments. After a while though, I simply craved the stability of my grandmother’s house. I got homesick a lot.”
“That’s understandable.” Marcus studied her rigid posture, reading the nonverbal language. It was a topic she didn’t discuss often and probably with good reason. Although he knew very little about the fashion industry, he could only imagine how overwhelming the lifestyle must be—especially to a kid forced to keep up with the frenetic pace.
“Did you ever want to follow your mother into the fashion business?”
“Once. A long, long time ago.” She turned to look at him, surprising him with the frankness of her next words. “You’ve probably already figured out that my mother and I aren’t close, not even remotely. She thinks I should take more of an active role in her company; I disagree. When I say this to people, they think I’m insane. After all, what sane individual would turn down the opportunity to call their own shots at a multimillion-dollar empire? What sane individual wouldn’t leap at the chance to live in the spotlight, to enjoy a jet-setting lifestyle?”
Marcus met her heated gaze calmly. “I don’t think you’re insane.”
Her eyes grew soft, her smile warm with gratitude. The combination hit him squarely in the chest. “That’s why you’re different, Marcus.”
“So are you, baby girl. And that’s what makes you special. Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”
Damn, why had he said that? The more she looked at him like that, with those mesmerizing dark eyes and bewitching smile, the more he felt himself falling under her spell.
Clearing his throat, he continued, “Walter Floyd tells me your mother used to work for him. That’s how he met you.”
Samara nodded. “My mother was working as a maid for a family in Philadelphia when Walt hired her to manage his store part-time. She’d been married and divorced at a very young age. She did what she could to keep a roof over our heads, but she had her pride too. When her employer made a sexual advance one day, my mother told him off—and we got thrown out of their house. For about two weeks, we’d sneak into Walt’s shop after closing time and sleep in the storeroom. And then one day he arrived earlier than usual and caught us fast asleep on the floor. He and his wife were kind enough to take us in for a while, until my mother finally worked up the courage to return home to D.C. to accept help from her mother.”
Her low chuckle was mirthless. “You can imagine how shocked my grandmother was to discover that the daughter she’d sent off to college had not only gotten married and divorced, but was now herself a mother.”
“Your mother kept your existence a secret?” Marcus asked, unable to mask his surprise. “How’d she pull that off?”
“By telling her mother that she really liked Philadelphia and planned to remain there after college. By inventing stories of study abroad internships whenever my grandmother wanted to visit her at school. Their relationship had been strained to begin anyway because they could never see eye to eye on anything. Once my mother left home for college, it was that much easier for them to grow further apart.” Samara gazed out the window, absently fingering her necklace. “I guess my mother and I are repeating the same vicious cycle.”
Marcus fell silent, wanting to offer her some measure of comfort but not knowing how. While her story saddened him, it also strengthened his conviction that a relationship between them could never work. Samara had suffered enough hardship in her life. She didn’t need the added burden of being involved with a man who could never love her as completely as she deserved, who would bring his own set of emotional baggage to the table.
They were both damaged goods. Nothing could ever come of their attraction to each other, no matter how intense it was.
But that’s okay, Marcus told himself. He and Samara were two mature, consenting adults enjoying a mutually satisfying relationship. As long as they kept their expectations simple, there was no reason they couldn’t continue seeing, and satisfying each other, for a long time.
A very long time, he amended, watching Samara’s round, curvy bottom as she excused herself to use the restroom. He felt a straining at his zipper and realized that at the rate he was going, it would take twice as long as usual to get this particular woman out of his system.

1

When Samara returned from using the restroom, Marcus was setting out breakfast on the small cherry table across the aisle from their seats.

She paused to admire the sight of him in a black T-shirt and faded jeans that clung to the corded muscles of his thighs and hugged an ass you could bounce quarters off. It was the first time she’d ever seen him out of a suit—except, of course, when he’d been gloriously naked and lying on top of her.

He turned at that moment and caught her drooling over his butt. The answering hunger in his dark eyes made a heat pool between her legs.

To hell with breakfast, she thought. The only thing she had an appetite for was the man standing before her.

She couldn’t remember who moved first. The next thing she knew, she and Marcus were kissing and frantically undressing each other. Clothes went flying across the cabin. Hard, urgent fingers bit into her flesh as Marcus knelt, gripping the waistband of her jeans and panties and dragging them off her body. With a ragged groan, he buried his face in her abdomen, his warm breath fanning the flames licking through her like wildfire.

When he stood, lifting her into his arms, she locked her legs around his waist and closed her eyes. She heard a condom package tear, then cried out as he impaled her with one deep, powerful stroke.

They tumbled backward, Samara landing on top of him as they fell into one of the seats. She straddled him, bracing her hands on his big, muscled shoulders as he grasped her buttocks. He thrust rhythmically inside her, hot and huge, whispering erotic promises that singed her cheeks and left her quivering.

Up and down she slid on him, riding him, their bodies making wet slapping sounds as sweat gathered on their skin. Their coupling was rough, elemental, purely carnal. With each desperate thrust, the burning ache between her legs intensified, driving her toward a shattering climax.

She leaned down letting strands of her loosened hair brush his nipples, then moaning as he reached up, flicked his wet tongue over her distended nipples. She threw back her head and arched backward as he feasted on her breasts, setting her whole body on fire. It was too much. She never wanted their lovemaking to end.

Marcus reached up, cradling the back of her head and bringing their mouths together for a hot, mind-numbing kiss that left her panting for more.

“Look at us.” His voice was a rough, husky command. “Then look at me. I want to see your face when you cum.”
She shivered at his words, then let her eyes wander downward to where their bodies joined. She watched in breathless fascination as his thick, dark penis slid in and out of her. Aroused by what she saw, she began to move faster and faster, gliding up and slamming down the rigid length of his shaft until her inner muscles began to clench spasmodically around him. Their gazes locked. She called his name hoarsely as they exploded in unison, soaring higher than any airplane could take them.

1

Wolf’s Soul was located in the hub of downtown Atlanta, just a few blocks from the famed Fox Theater. Marcus and Samara had barely entered the restaurant that evening before people started greeting them. Stylishly dressed men approached to exchange vigorous handshakes with Marcus while beautiful women slid coy smiles at him. Marcus moved easily through the crowd as he greeted old friends from Morehouse, clients of the Atlanta firm and former business associates, keeping one hand at the small of Samara’s back the entire time.

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 she 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…”