Taming the Wolf (21 page)

Marcus and Samara walked to his Bentley in silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she stole glances at his stony profile. Controlled rage rolled off his body like heat waves. He was holding his temper with an iron will, but Samara knew it was only a matter of time before he would unleash it.

It would not be pretty.
She waited until they were out of the parking lot and safely away from the hotel before she ventured to speak. “You didn’t have to drive me home.”
“I sure as hell wasn’t letting you go home with that drunken bastard.”
“Melissa and Gary could have taken me home.”
A solitary muscle ticked in his jaw. He said nothing.
Samara plucked a piece of imaginary lint from her gown. “You know, I could’ve handled Paul myself back there.”
“Before or after he succeeded in hitting you?”
“He wasn’t going to hit me. He was just blowing off steam.”
Marcus’s mouth curved cynically. “Where I come from, Samara, that’s called abuse.”
She sighed heavily. She couldn’t deny that Paul’s volatile behavior had alarmed her. For a moment she’d had flashbacks of Paris. She saw André Leclerc’s face contorted with rage as he beat her.
She shuddered at the memory and rubbed her sore arm.
“So is that what you want, Samara?” Marcus growled. “A man like Borden?”
“Of course not. Anyway, what do you care? You were there with Antoinette.”
Marcus shook his head in disgust. “Still jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Did you see me arrive with Antoinette?”
“Well…no.”
“Because I didn’t. She was there with her parents. When you saw us, she’d just walked over to say hello.”
“Oh.” Samara felt foolish—for the second time that evening. She dropped her eyes to her lap. “I’m sorry.”
Marcus’s tone was cynical. “So am I, Samara. So am I.”
They rode the rest of the way in strained silence. Samara’s nerves were stretched perilously thin. Nausea burned at the base of her throat. All she wanted to do was go home and bury her head beneath the pillow. And forget about this nightmare that had become her life.
When they arrived at her house, Marcus parked at the curb. He climbed out of the car and came around to open her door.
“For what it’s worth,” Samara said as she stepped out, “I do thank you for not making a scene at the hotel. I’m not sure the Institute could handle the negative publicity if word got out that its executive director was indirectly responsible for a brawl at the mayor’s fund-raiser banquet.”
Marcus didn’t even crack a smile. He skirted the fender and climbed back into the Bentley, prepared to leave.
Samara thanked him for the ride and started up the walk. Suddenly she was struck by a wave of nausea so violent that she gasped. She clamped a hand over her mouth and ran to the shrubbery that lined the driveway. She almost didn’t make it in time.
With a muffled curse, Marcus got out of the car and strode to where she knelt on the ground, vomiting into the bushes. He crouched beside her and held her hair back.
When she had finished, he helped her gently to her feet. “Are you all right?” he demanded gruffly.
She bobbed her head quickly, embarrassed beyond belief. “I don’t think my gardener will be too pleased in the morning though.”
Marcus frowned. Without another word, he swept her into his arms and strode purposefully toward the house. Samara was too weak to protest.
Once inside, he carried her into the bedroom and set her down gingerly on the bed, then knelt in front of her. Silvery moonlight from the window illuminated his worried expression as he peered into her face. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick again?”
“Not yet. Marcus, what’re you doing?”
He ignored her startled tone as he began to undress her. He removed her gown and high heels before reaching for her sheer pantyhose. She stopped him. “I think I can manage from here.”
Guided by moonlight, he stood and crossed to the dresser, opening drawers until he located a nightgown for her. If Samara weren’t so weak, she would have been mortified at having a man rummage through her lingerie. Of course, Marcus wasn’t just any man. He was the only man she’d ever loved. If she hadn’t messed things up so badly, he would have been her future husband.
Marcus returned to the bed and helped her into a cotton nightshirt, then drew back the covers and made her lie down. He left the room and returned moments later with a glass of cold water. She sat up and forced herself to take a few sips.
“Thank you, Marcus,” she mumbled.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel?”
“A little better. I think I’m coming down with the flu. I felt kind of feverish at the banquet.”
Marcus reached over and felt her forehead.
“I always catch a bad cold whenever I’m under a lot of stress. Let’s face it, the past two weeks haven’t exactly been a picnic.” She hesitated, then reached over and switched on the bedside lamp. She wanted Marcus to see her face for what she was about to say.
“I owe you another apology, Marcus. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you and Antoinette when I saw the two of you…Well, when I saw what appeared to be the two of you kissing. I should have given you a chance to explain the situation. I owed you that much.”
Marcus stared down at his hands clasped between his legs. He didn’t utter a word.
Samara’s heart sank. “You have every right to be angry with me, and I’ll understand if you choose not to forgive me. I hope that…” Her voice hitched. She turned her head on the pillow, averting her face from his as she blinked away tears. “I hope that, in time, we can be friends.”
Marcus got slowly to his feet. His expression was impenetrable as he gazed down at her. “I’m going to stay for a while in case you get sick again,” he said without inflection. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
Samara nodded mutely. She turned onto her side and closed her eyes. She jumped a little when she felt Marcus’s warm fingers on her arm followed by a low, savage oath.
She looked up at him and watched the cold fury return to his eyes as he examined her arm. Her skin bore an ugly purplish bruise where Paul’s fingers had gripped her. Slowly, carefully, Marcus lifted her hand and noted the same discoloration on her wrist.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Samara tried to assure him. “I just bruise easily, that’s all.”
Marcus said nothing. He didn’t have to. The lethal expression on his face spoke volumes. He leaned over and switched off the lamp.
“Get some sleep, Samara,” he said brusquely.
He turned and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Samara sighed heavily into the darkness. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

Out in the living room, Marcus paced up and down like an enraged animal. He wanted blood.
Samara’s leather address book caught his eye. He walked over, picked it up from the sideboard table and flipped to the B section. Sure enough, Paul Borden’s address was scrawled across the page in Samara’s bold, feminine handwriting.
Marcus memorized the address and closed the book.
He left Samara’s house just before dawn and drove northwest to Wisconsin Avenue. He had stayed with Samara longer than he’d intended, but when she woke up at midnight spilling her guts— literally—he couldn’t bear to leave her alone.
He fed her ice, mopped her fevered brow and put her back to bed. At her softly spoken request, he remained at her bedside until she fell asleep. In the silence of the night, he’d watched her slumber as he’d done countless times before. But this time he had to force himself not to touch her, not to trace his fingers lightly over the delicate arch of her eyebrow or the lush fullness of her lips.
He had a lot of deliberating to do over the next several days. He couldn’t afford to succumb to his emotions or the lure of Samara’s vulnerability.
Nonetheless, he’d already decided that if her illness persisted through the weekend, she was going to see a doctor—even if Marcus had to drive her there himself.
It was probably for the best that he’d remained at her house all night. It had given him a chance to cool off.
But as he approached Paul Borden’s Wisconsin Avenue address, the simmering anger resurfaced, fueled by the memory of Samara’s bruised arm.
Marcus parked at a meter and crossed the street to the garden apartment building. There was no security guard posted at the front entrance, so he had no problem entering the building and riding the elevator to the third floor.
Paul Borden answered the door after several minutes, sounding annoyed at the early-morning intrusion. “It’s freakin’ Saturday morning,” he grumbled as he unlocked the deadbolt. He didn’t even ask who was at the door.
His bloodshot eyes widened in shock at the sight of Marcus. “What the—”
Marcus’s voice was chillingly soft. “You didn’t think this was over, did you, Borden?”
Paul staggered backward as Marcus casually stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. Paul’s frantic gaze swung around the cluttered living room in search of a crude weapon.
“How’re you feeling, Paul?” Marcus inquired in a mild tone. “Hung over?”
Paul swallowed hard and shook his head. “I wasn’t drunk last night.”
“Good. Because I want you clear-headed when I talk to you. Just so that there’s no misunderstanding.”
“Y-You shouldn’t be here. I could have you arrested for breaking and entering.”
“How’s that? I knocked, you opened the door and let me in. No B and E here.” At Paul’s dubious look, Marcus smiled mockingly. “Take my word for it. I’m a lawyer, remember?”
Paul reddened. “Look, Wolf, what happened last night was between me and Samara. You should’ve stayed out of it! It was nobody’s business but ours, man.”
Marcus’s jaw clenched. “I suppose if you’d started using her as a punching bag, that would be nobody’s business as well. Right?”
Paul looked uncertain. Again, he glanced quickly around the room for a blunt object to use to defend himself. Finding nothing, he planted his feet and faced Marcus squarely. “Samara needed a little sense talked into her. I considered it my duty as her friend to enlighten her.”
“Is that right? Well, allow me to enlighten you, Borden.” Marcus stopped just inches from the man’s face. Borden’s breath still reeked of alcohol.
Marcus said in a low, lethal tone, “If you ever lay a hand on Samara Layton again, I’ll kill you. If you even think about touching her, I will kill you. Do I make myself clear?”
Paul blanched. “I-I could see to it that you never practice law again. How do you like that, Mr. Hotshot Attorney?”
“Do your worst, Borden. I’ve made my fortune. I could retire today and not think twice about it. Don’t touch Samara again. You’ve been warned.” He turned and started for the door.
“I don’t want her anymore!” Paul called out scornfully. “As it turns out, I don’t particularly find pathetic women very attractive.”
At the door, Marcus turned to look at him. His expression was one of grim amusement. “From the way it looked to me, Borden, you were the only pathetic one on that terrace last night. The fact that you’re so pathetic is probably one of the many reasons Samara has never wanted you.”
Paul flushed with anger and humiliation. “She’s nothing more than a pretty face and body! Women like her are a dime a dozen— a flavor of the month. And I bet she’s not even good in bed. Frigid as damn January snow!”
The fury that hardened Marcus’s eyes was as lethal as the slice of a well-honed sword. “Do you really want to continue down this road, Borden?”
But Paul was too far gone to heed the deadly warning in Marcus’s eyes. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on her. If you think I feel bad about last night, think again, Wolf. I should’ve done it a long time ago. She’s lucky I didn’t really knock some sense into her like she deserved. Now that—”
In a heartbeat Marcus crossed the room and landed a vicious right hook that sent Paul’s head snapping backward. Paul cried out sharply and grabbed at his face. When his fingers encountered blood, he slid weakly to the floor on his knees.
Swiftly, Marcus knelt over him. He grabbed Paul’s face with one hand and gave a ruthless squeeze. “You punk-ass bastard,” he said through gritted teeth. “You ain’t a man. You handle rejection like a spoiled little brat who didn’t get his way. She doesn’t want you—get the hell over it.”
Paul’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped. “M-My nose. I-I think you broke my nose.”
Marcus sneered contemptuously. “Send me the bill.” He stood, towering over Paul’s huddled form. His smile was narrow, a blade turned to the sharpest edge. “As for Samara’s performance in bed. Well…a gentleman should never kiss and tell. I will tell you that she’s got me whipped, and you know that doesn’t happen very often with ‘guys like me.’ A shame you’ll never know for yourself though.”
Paul didn’t utter another word as Marcus turned and strode out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

Samara told herself she was a fool for being disappointed. She couldn’t have expected him to crawl into bed with her and remain the entire day. They no longer had that kind of relationship. Last night she’d apologized for not trusting him, but it was too late. Marcus wasn’t going to forgive her. His dead silence had made that abundantly clear. It was time for her to stop feeling sorry for herself and get on with her life.

Grim with determination, Samara climbed out of bed and stood. So far, so good. She walked gingerly to the bathroom and flipped on the light switch, then nearly bolted from the room when she caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked like death. Disheveled hair everywhere, deep bags underneath her eyes, a sickly pallor to her skin.

Shaking her head, Samara bent over the sink to splash cold water on her face and brushed her teeth.
She was heading to the kitchen for a glass of water when the nausea returned, sending her right back to the bathroom.
After emptying what little remained in her stomach, she flushed the toilet and sank down weakly onto the cool tiled floor. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. She could no longer dismiss the suspicion that had whispered through her mind during the night. Her illness had nothing to do with the flu virus.
She was pregnant.
Pregnant.
Samara groaned as the word hammered through her brain. No, this couldn’t be happening to her. She couldn’t be pregnant. Not now, and not by a man who no longer wanted her.
But even as her mind rebelled against the notion, Samara knew better. Her period was two days late. Although her cycle was sometimes erratic, she instinctively knew this wouldn’t be one of those months when her period arrived unexpectedly after a brief delay. She and Marcus had made love more than a few times without protection. They’d known the risks and had taken them anyway. And now she was pregnant.
Pregnant.
She was a walking cliché—a woman who’d risked it all for love, only to lose everything in the end. God, what was she going to do?
Samara’s eyes snapped open. First, she needed to confirm her suspicion before deciding on her next course of action. If there was even a remote possibility that she wasn’t pregnant, she had to know.
Pushing herself to her feet, Samara undressed and took a quick shower. Praying for a reprieve from the nausea, she threw on clothes and rushed out to the nearest drugstore.
Half an hour later, she had her answer.
Three different home pregnancy tests confirmed that she was pregnant.
Numb with shock, Samara stared back and forth between each plastic applicator. Different brands, same results.
She was going to have a baby.
She, who’d always prided herself on being too smart to let such a thing happen. She, who mentored teen mothers like Brianna Lynch and taught other girls to practice safe sex. She, who had vowed not to become a single parent like her mother.
Samara would have laughed at the sheer irony of the situation—if there were anything even remotely humorous about it. She was pregnant, alone and scared.
Her gaze dropped to her flat waistline. A tiny life was growing inside her. A life she and Marcus had unknowingly created together. Did she dare tell him? How would he react to the news? Would he be angry or elated?
Samara scraped her hand through her hair. She didn’t have to tell him. If they never saw each other again, he’d be none the wiser. Just like her parents. Samara’s child would be raised as she herself had been raised—without a father.
She shook her head as tears burned her eyelids. She didn’t want to raise her child alone. Not because she wasn’t capable, but because she knew the emotional toll it would take on both of them. She had only to look at her own life to know how painfully true this was.