Taming the Wolf (23 page)

Samara felt like a prisoner in her own home. Nausea kept her confined to her bedroom for the rest of the day.
On Sunday morning she managed to drag herself out of bed and take a shower. Feeling a little stronger, she ventured out to the kitchen and poured herself a small glass of fruit juice. She nibbled on a piece of dry toast while she listened to her voice mail messages.
Melissa had called twice. “Samara, it’s me. Just wanted to check up on you and make sure everything was all right. Gary and I are supposed to be going furniture shopping for the nursery today, but if you need me to come over, I will. Call me.”
Her next message was laced with urgency. “Samara, you are not going to believe what happened! This morning Gary went over to Paul’s apartment to check up on him—you know, just to make sure he wasn’t too hung over from last night. When Gary got there, he found Paul with a black eye! Apparently Marcus went over there first thing this morning to take care of some unfinished business. Girl, what happened out on that terrace last night? Anyway, you’ll be relieved to know that Paul doesn’t plan to press charges. He was too humiliated. Gary said he looked real bad though. Call me as soon as you get this message—please!”
While Samara was still reeling from shock and confusion, the next message rolled on. “Hey, Samara, it’s me.” Her heart thudded at the sound of Marcus’s deep timbre. “Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Hope you’re feeling better.” He paused, and Samara thought she detected a hint of quiet uncertainty in his voice. But then he continued more briskly, “You’re probably sleeping, so I won’t disturb you again by calling. If you need anything, give me a call. If you can’t reach me at home, you have my cell.”
Tears filled her eyes as she hung up the phone. Oh, Marcus. I don’t want your pity or protection. I want your love.
As soon as the toast hit her stomach, the nausea returned. She bolted for the bathroom.
She had just finished brushing her teeth for the second time when the doorbell rang. She groaned. It was probably Melissa. Samara wasn’t in the mood for company, not even her best friend’s. And she feared that Melissa would take one look at her and know her secret. Pregnant women had an uncanny knack of detecting pregnancy in other women, or so she’d always heard.
Samara scraped her wild hair into a ponytail and splashed cold water on her face before going to answer the door. She groaned inwardly at the sight of her mother standing on the doorstep. She would have preferred Melissa.
“This really isn’t a good time for me, Mother.”
Asha arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Is it ever?”
Samara left her mother standing in the doorway and stalked into the living room. She was too sick and miserable to practice good manners. She flopped down on the sofa and hugged a throw pillow to her chest.
Asha closed the door and crossed the room to her. As usual, she looked effortlessly sleek in a cream silk blouse and cashmere slacks. Samara felt like a ragamuffin in the black sweatshirt and leggings she’d worn the day before.
She eyed Asha warily. “What’re you doing in town, Mother? Checking on one of your boutiques?”
“I came to see you. I heard about you and Marcus Wolf.”
Samara stiffened. “There is no me and Marcus Wolf. We broke up, or didn’t your informant tell you?”
Asha’s mouth tightened. “What are you talking about?”
“Which part do you need clarified? My busted love affair or the fact that you’ve been having me followed for the last ten years, ever since I left you in Paris and went to college? Don’t look so shocked, Mother. I’ve known for quite some time now. At first I dismissed the ‘photographer’ as paparazzi, which made sense given my mother’s fame. But then you always seemed to know what was happening in my life before I had a chance to tell you. I’ve even seen your informant on a few occasions—an older guy, short graying hair, a bit overweight. Who is he, Mother? Another one of your discarded lovers? He doesn’t seem like your type. And he’s not very good at being covert.”
“All right. I won’t deny it.” Asha sighed. “After what happened in Paris, I wanted to make sure you were always safe. So I hired an old friend of mine to keep tabs on you. He runs his own security company and offered to do the surveillance himself as a personal favor to me. And I trusted him not to leak anything potentially sensitive to the tabloids. He knew I would destroy him if he did.” She frowned. “I’m firing him first thing in the morning.”
Samara stared up at her. “Why would you do something like that?”
“What on earth do you mean? I’m firing him because—”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Samara sat up straighter. “Why would you hire a security professional to keep an eye on me when you did nothing to André? You let him get away with what he did to me. Did you think I forgot, Mother?”
“Oh, Samara.” Asha joined her on the sofa. Samara recoiled from her mother’s attempt to touch her. Lips pursed, Asha folded her elegant hands in her lap. “I see.”
“Do you, Mother?” Samara hissed. “Do you really see? Do you have any idea how devastated I was when you showed up at the hospital in Paris and asked me what I had done to deserve André’s brutality? You didn’t care that your ex-lover had beaten me to within an inch of my life! All you wanted to know was what I had done to bring it upon myself. My own mother. How could you?”
“I cared, Samara,” Asha cried. “Believe me when I say that I cared!”
“I don’t believe you! Why didn’t you do something?”
“Because I panicked! I thought the same thing had happened to you that—” She broke off abruptly and clapped a trembling hand to her mouth. She rose unsteadily and walked to the window.
Samara stared at her in wild-eyed silence. Her heartbeat was a deafening roar in her ears. “You thought what, Mother?” she asked faintly. “What did you think had happened to me?”
Asha kept her back turned to her, her arms folded tightly around herself. “I thought he raped you. And in that moment it felt like history was repeating itself.”
Samara felt dangerously lightheaded as comprehension slowly dawned. “You…were raped?”
“It was a long time ago, Samara. I didn’t come over here to rehash ancient history.”
“Who raped you?” Samara demanded. When Asha remained silent, she snapped. “For God’s sake, Mother, stop shutting me out! For once in your life, talk to me! I want to know who raped you.”
Asha whirled around. “It was your father!”
Stunned, Samara could only stare at her. Asha’s beautiful face was ravaged with grief and outrage. A thick, tense silence hung between both women for several moments.
“My…father?” Samara finally managed in a choked whisper. “He raped you?”
“We met during my freshman year in college. He was in med school at the university. I was pre-med, so we often saw each other on campus or in the laboratory. Nathaniel was smart, handsome and so sure of himself and what he wanted out of life. I was young and glad to be away from my domineering mother for the first time in my life. Nathaniel seemed so wise and mature. I was in awe of him, and he immediately discerned that. One night he invited me to dinner, then back to his off-campus apartment to help me study for an upcoming physics exam. I detested physics and needed all the help I could get.”
She stopped and shook her head ruefully. Her eyes grew luminous with the sheen of tears. “He raped me, Samara. You don’t need to know the gory details. I got pregnant and he told me to get an abortion. I couldn’t go through with it. My mother had always drilled into me that life was precious and not to be taken for granted. We didn’t see eye to eye on many things, and that was one of them. When I refused to have an abortion and threatened to go to the dean about being raped, Nathaniel panicked and proposed to me. I married him knowing that he didn’t want me or my child. That was a mistake. Once I realized how miserable we would both be in the long run, I asked for an annulment. He didn’t put up a fight.” Asha’s laugh was low and brittle. “He was so eager to escape, in fact, that he packed his bags in the middle of the night and left without saying goodbye.”
Samara shook her head slowly. “But I don’t understand. You’ve always told me what a kind, decent man my father was.”
“I didn’t want you to grow up knowing what a complete bastard he was. His absence was indictment enough.”
Samara swallowed a hard lump in her throat. “It all makes so much sense now,” she whispered. “You were thrust into motherhood before you were ready. And that’s why you jumped at the first opportunity to get away from it all. To get away from me.”
Asha’s expression softened, but she offered no denial. “It doesn’t mean that I never loved you, Samara. I was young and terribly immature. I went to school in Pennsylvania to escape from my mother, to chart my own territory. I never knew how drastically my plans would be altered. I wasn’t prepared for that.”
Tears blurred Samara’s vision. “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m so sorry about what happened to you.”
“Oh, darling. No more sorry than I am for what André did to you.” Asha sat down on the sofa and drew a comforting arm around Samara’s shoulder. Samara didn’t pull away this time. “I thought you were a little infatuated with André. He was a virile, worldly man who seemed to take a genuine interest in your welfare. I trusted him, and he betrayed that trust.” Her voice hardened. “When your father raped me, I was so ashamed. I blamed myself for a long time, asking myself over and over again what I could have done to invite such a violation. In time I learned to stop blaming myself, learned to stop asking what I should have done differently. But a small part of me still held on to those old insecurities. When I saw you in that hospital room looking so battered and helpless, I lost it. I felt that I had failed you. I hadn’t protected you like I should have. So I lashed out at you, although I know it was horribly unfair of me.” Her voice caught, tears filling her eyes. “I am sorrier than you will ever know, Samara.”
Samara was silent, trying to absorb the enormity of her mother’s horrendous revelations. Asha had been raped. Nathaniel Layton, whose name Samara bore, was a rapist. As a child Samara had daydreamed about her father, wondering what he looked like, where he lived, what he did for a living. Of all the things she’d imagined about him, being a rapist was not one of them. She felt betrayed all over again.
But more than anything, she ached for her mother. No wonder Asha had always found it difficult to forge a relationship with her daughter. Samara must have served as a constant reminder of the violent act that led to her conception.
“Have you ever seen my father again?” she whispered.
“No.” Asha hesitated. “He contacted me a long time ago to congratulate me on my successful modeling career.”
“Did he…ask about me?”
Asha’s prolonged silence gave Samara her answer even before she spoke. “No, baby. He wanted to know if we could have dinner together. I told him to go to hell.” She looked at Samara with a solemn expression. “Perhaps I should have told you at the time. You were old enough. I should have given you an opportunity to meet him and decide for yourself whether or not you wanted him in your life.”
Samara shook her head firmly. “I don’t. I never really did, to be honest with you. I was more curious about him than anything. And now that curiosity has been satisfied.” She took a deep, decisive breath. “I think I’m going to change my last name. You and Mama Tess always told me that I’m a Dubois at heart. Maybe it’s time to make it legal.”
“You could do that. But something tells me your last name will be changing soon anyway.” Asha stroked errant strands of black hair from Samara’s face and kissed her forehead. “Darling, I know what happened between you and Marcus Wolf.”
Samara winced. “Your informant is good, I have to give him that.”
“He isn’t the one who told me. I spoke with Antoinette Toussaint myself. She called me several weeks ago when she returned from overseas. She wanted to know if I needed another haute couture model.”
Samara angled her head to look at her mother in surprise. “She wanted a job?”
“Oui. It seems that she lost her modeling contract with her agency in New York. Antoinette always did have a horrible attitude. A rather warped sense of entitlement. It was the reason I stopped working with her years ago. Physically she makes a fabulous couture model, but I simply cannot tolerate her nasty disposition.” Asha chuckled. “There’s only room for one diva at the House of Dubois, and you’re looking at her.”
Samara smiled. “So what happened when you talked to her?”
“She must have ‘conveniently’ forgotten the fact that I terminated our relationship years ago. I suppose she was too desperate to care at that point. She’d probably been rejected by every other couturier in the business before she came crawling back to me. It’s a small circle, Samara, and designers talk. No one can afford to burn bridges. Needless to say Antoinette was not pleased when I turned her down, but she politely thanked me for my time and asked me to keep her in mind for future assignments. I thought I’d heard the last of her until she called me out of the blue last week, presumably to ask my ‘advice.’ She was thinking about getting out of the modeling business altogether. Seems she met a man she’d fallen madly in love with and had set her sights on settling down with. She was only too happy to provide his name and specific details about him, perhaps assuming I would pass along the information to you. But here’s the frightening part: That silly girl actually fancies herself in love with your Marcus.”
“That’s not hard to imagine,” Samara mumbled dispiritedly. “Marcus has that effect on women.”
“Present company included?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I see. And what are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. I blew it. I accused him of cheating on me and wouldn’t listen when he tried to explain what really happened. By the time I realized I’d made a terrible mistake, it was too late. He didn’t accept my apology.”
“I see.” Asha pursed her lips thoughtfully. “He’s an attorney. Surely he can understand your rush to judgment was based on extenuating circumstances and therefore not your fault.”
Samara frowned. “What I walked in on looked bad,” she agreed, “But if I really trusted Marcus, I would have given him the benefit of the doubt. If I had stumbled upon him leaning over a dead body, I would’ve given him a chance to explain the situation before accusing him of murder. Why should this have been any different?”
“You misunderstood what I meant by ‘extenuating circumstances.’ You have a family history of trust issues, darling. By virtue of your birth, you were born with a predisposition not to trust members of the opposite sex. Throughout your life, I painted a portrait of men as the big bad wolves. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. It was only natural that you inherited my cynicism, my flawed inability to separate the good ones from the bad ones.”