Taming the Wolf (11 page)

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.

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.”

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.”

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 and 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?”
“Nope. Everything’s ready.”
“Good, ’cause I’m starving,” Sterling announced. “You know I can’t eat that mess they serve on planes. Rubber coated with food coloring, that’s all it is.”
“I thought we could eat out on the deck,” Michael suggested. “The weather’s great.”
“Sounds good to me.” Sterling winked at Samara. “Why don’t we go on ahead, let the boys bring out the food while we get better acquainted?”
His charm was infectious. Samara grinned at him. “Lead the way.”
She followed him to a pair of French doors leading onto an enormous veranda facing the rear of the house. At one end of the deck was a gazebo painted white with a red brick roof to match the exterior of the main house. A one-level guesthouse graced the opposite end of the deck. Winding flagstone walkways served as connecting paths between the gazebo and guesthouse, and centered on a small pool that shimmered sapphire blue in the dappled sunlight. A series of lush garden beds framed the terraced walkways, adding brilliant splashes of color to the landscape. The surrounding canopy of trees formed a leafy backdrop and provided an enchanting sense of seclusion.
The overall effect was nothing short of breathtaking.
“You like it out here?” Sterling asked, observing her rapt expression with a pleased smile.
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Samara said. “You must spend a lot of time out here.”
“It’s hard not to.” He swept an appreciative look around the scenic environment. “The boys and I didn’t have anything like this back in the old neighborhood. I guess we were long overdue. Marcus will have to give you a tour of the garden. It was featured in one of those magazines last year—Better Homes and Gardens, I think it was.” He cleared his throat, adding gruffly, “Not that I pay attention to that kinda stuff, mind you.”
Samara suppressed a knowing grin. “I’d love a tour of the garden. Especially now that I know how famous it is.”
Sterling’s smile deepened as he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Samara slipped her arm companionably through his as they walked to the gazebo. Four wrought-iron chairs were arranged around a matching white table draped with linen.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” Samara said as Sterling pushed in her chair.
He took a seat beside her. “Is this your first trip to Georgia?”
She shook her head. “First time in Stone Mountain though. It’s lovely out here. So peaceful.”
“It’s a far cry from where we came from, that’s for sure.”
She arched an inquisitive brow. “And you don’t think that’s a good thing?”
“To hear my sons tell it, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And maybe they’re right. But you know how it is with human nature. When we get accustomed to one way of life, we often find it hard to adjust to something new, something different.” He grinned ruefully. “I suppose it’s true you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, eh?”
“I suppose,” Samara agreed, making an exaggerated show of looking around the yard and under the table. “But I don’t see any old dogs around here.”
Sterling laughed, a deep, pleasant rumble. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, Samara Layton. Just fine.”
Marcus and Michael emerged from the house to serve lunch. Over the next hour, conversation flowed freely as the foursome discussed everything from politics to sports. As Samara bantered easily with the Wolf men, she couldn’t help envying the closeness they shared. She’d always wanted a sibling, perhaps even more than she’d craved a good relationship with her mother. Marcus had the best of both worlds.
But throughout the meal, she never felt like an outsider. If anything, Sterling and Michael embraced her as if she were a member of the family. And on several occasions, she’d glanced up and caught Marcus watching her, studying her. The heat he sent through his dark eyes surrounded her, leaving her with a liquid rush in unspeakable parts of her body.
When he left for his meeting, she walked him outside to the Navigator. She was telling him how much she’d enjoyed lunch when, without warning, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her senseless.
When he finally released her, his dark eyes smoldered with an intensity that shook her to the core. She could only stare at him, stunned and breathless, as he climbed into the truck and drove away.
She watched until the Navigator was out of sight before turning and slowly heading back toward the house, wondering what was up with Marcus.
On her way to the kitchen to help Michael finish clearing the dishes, she passed Sterling and a group of his friends seated around a table in the den. After lunch, he’d called and invited them over for their weekly poker game, previously postponed in lieu of the fishing trip.
Their raucous male laughter reverberated around the room as they regaled one another with ribald jokes and anecdotes of wayward grandchildren.
“Well, you know I would trade places with you any day,” Sterling was saying. “I’m gonna have one foot in the grave by the time my sons decide to give me any grandchildren.”
“Sterl, I hate to break it to you,” came the sage reply, “but you’ve already got one foot in the grave!”
Samara couldn’t help but grin as more laughter and guffaws rumbled around the room.
Sterling wasn’t amused. “Ha ha, that’s real clever, George. How long did it take you to come up with that one? Now if we don’t get this game started soon, I’m gonna start tossing you fellas out of my house—starting with you, Mr. Wise Guy.”
“Where’s Charlie’s replacement?” another voice piped up.
“What do you mean?” Sterling asked. “Isn’t Charlie coming? He seemed like he was feeling better on the plane.”
“Nah, didn’t George tell you? Charlie’s still sick. George spoke to him before he left the house. He said his wife was putting him to bed.”
Out of the ensuing mutters, Sterling demanded, “And when were you going to share this information with the rest of us, George?”
“Sorry,” came George’s sheepish response. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Yeah, like your brain,” Sterling retorted.
More scattered chortles. “Why don’t you ask one of your boys to fill in for Charlie?” George asked. “They’re both still here, aren’t they?”
Sterling grunted in disbelief. “My boys? Have you lost your mind? Marcus and Michael would wipe the floor with you fellas. I taught ’em everything I know about poker.”
“Which ain’t much,” George snickered.
Ignoring the barb, Sterling continued, “Nah, we need to find someone else. I don’t feel much like losing today, not after we had to cut the fishing trip short.”
Samara, belatedly realizing she’d been standing in one spot as she enjoyed their bickering, now tried to tiptoe past the room without detection.
“Is that you out there, Samara?” Sterling called to her. “Come on in here. Let me introduce you to everyone.”
Silently cursing her own nosiness, Samara turned and retraced her steps to the den. Seven pairs of eyes lifted at her appearance.
Sterling beamed proudly as he made the introductions. Samara struggled not to cringe when he presented her as Marcus’s “special lady friend.”
She nodded at each man in turn. “Nice to meet you, gentlemen.”
“Say, can you play poker, Samara?” the one nicknamed Bubba asked.
Samara opened her mouth to respond when a derisive snicker from George forestalled her. “Everyone knows poker is a man’s game,” he scoffed.
“Is that right?” Samara said, unable to resist the challenge. Injecting saccharine into her voice, she drawled, “Well, I suppose that’s probably true. I haven’t met too many female champion poker players.”
“And you never will,” George declared emphatically.
“So how about it, Samara?” Sterling prompted. “Can you play well enough to be our eighth man? I’ll even spot you the money so you don’t have to spend your own. We don’t play for high stakes here. All of us are either living on a fixed income and/or the generosity of our children.”
“Well…” With an exaggerated display of reluctance, Samara said, “I suppose I could give it a try. But I don’t want you gentlemen going easy on me simply because I’m a woman.”
George’s dark eyes gleamed with anticipation as she sat in the chair opposite him. He looked like the proverbial cat that had cornered the mouse. “Don’t you worry, Ms. Layton. We’ll beat—I mean, treat—you fair and square.”
Samara smiled sweetly at him. She saw no point in telling George that as a bartender in college, her favorite pastime had been playing poker with her coworkers during downtime. Maybe after the game she would let him know about the trophy proudly displayed in her curio cabinet at home, a trophy crowning her the champion in a national poker tournament.