Taming the Wolf (3 page)

Forcing his mouth from hers, he whispered huskily, “I want to be inside you.”
Her knees almost buckled. She responded by grabbing his face in her hands and pulling his head down to hers for another hot, openmouthed kiss, leaving no doubt in his mind that she wanted the same thing.
He gave a low growl that she felt all the way down to her toes. His hands went to her buttocks, cupping both cheeks and lifting her from the floor. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he backed her against the wall, then reached for his belt buckle.
“Miss? That’ll be $13.80.”
Samara’s eyes flew open, and for a moment she stared at the cab driver in a dazed confusion. As her surroundings slowly came back into focus, she realized her duffel bag was clutched tightly between her thighs. An embarrassed flush heated her face. She’d been fantasizing about Marcus Wolf, and had been on the verge of having sex with him. Her breasts throbbed, and the crotch of her panties was wet.
The cabbie was watching her with interest. “Ma’am?”
Samara fumbled out a twenty from her jeans pocket and passed it to him. “Keep the change.”
He flashed a toothy grin as she quickly climbed out of the cab. “Enjoy the rest of your visit to New York!”
Samara scowled as she hurried toward the entrance to the hotel where she was staying. I’ll enjoy it even more, she thought darkly, once I get my hands on a damn vibrator.

y seven o’clock Monday morning, Samara was settled in her northeast D.C. office, tending to the myriad tasks that were neglected during her absence.
The Fannie Yorkin Institute for Community Outreach and

Development—or FYI as it was commonly called—was a nonprofit organization created to serve the educational and socioeconomic needs of the community. Although FYI had flourished for nearly two decades, a combination of recent extenuating circumstances had severely crippled the organization’s finances. Samara had been brought on board following the sudden retirement of the Institute’s founder and president. And she was charged with the Herculean mission of rescuing FYI from bankruptcy. It was an undertaking she’d wholeheartedly embraced. Despite FYI’s severe financial problems, she knew what good the Institute could do: the educational opportunities it had afforded kids who might not otherwise have stepped foot on a college campus, the financial aid provided to struggling families who simply needed a helping hand to get through tough times, and the counseling given to at-risk teenagers.

In many ways, Samara was as indebted to the Fannie Yorkin Institute as well as the countless community members who’d benefited from the organization’s generosity over the years. The opportunity to work at FYI had come at a low point in her life, when she’d found herself stuck at a marketing job she hated and uncertain about the future. She’d jumped at the chance to start a new career, and had never looked back.

Samara spent the first part of her morning listening to voice mail messages and returning as many phone calls as possible. She’d been working tirelessly to reestablish connections with many of their

former investors and corporate sponsors, relationships that had suffered as a result of instability within FYI. Although she’d made great strides in her second year as executive director—facilitating partnerships with other groups and businesses that shared common objectives, creating new community-based programs as well as breathing life into existing ones—the reality was that her efforts would mean nothing without significant financial contributions.

They needed money desperately. And they needed it yesterday. In the midst of making phone calls, Samara found her thoughts straying to Marcus Wolf. After returning to her hotel room on Saturday night, she’d ordered a bottle of sparkling cider from the menu and filled the Jacuzzi with steaming hot water. While soaking in the marble tub and sipping her chilled drink, she’d allowed her mind to wander back to the fantasy that had been interrupted earlier in the cab. By the time Marcus thrust inside her, she was so caught up in the daydream that she hardly noticed as her wineglass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor. The sound was drowned out by her rapturous moans as she masturbated to the rhythm of Marcus’s imaginary strokes.

Samara groaned softly at the memory, even as her body throbbed in response. Not for the first time since Saturday night, she called herself all kinds of a damn fool for not accepting Marcus’s dinner invitation. At the very least, she would have gotten a good fuck out of it.

“I take it things didn’t go too well in New York?” said an amused voice from the doorway.
Samara glanced up and managed a wan smile for the attractive woman who leaned on the doorjamb. “Good morning,” Samara greeted her warmly. “Didn’t hear you get in.”
“Obviously.” Melissa Matthews crossed the short distance and put a steaming mug of coffee on Samara’s desk, shoving aside a pile of paperwork to make room. “I know you haven’t even stopped to breathe, let alone allow yourself some caffeine. And I’m willing to bet you’ve probably been here since the crack of dawn.”
Samara shot the woman a grateful look as she reached for the coffee. “Not quite. Mmm, this is heavenly,” she murmured after an appreciative sip of the creamy brew. “Thanks, Melissa.”
Melissa waved off her gratitude with a manicured hand, settling her petite frame into the chair opposite Samara’s desk. “Did that scowl on your face have anything to do with your week-long excursion to New York?” she asked without preamble.
“What scowl?”
Melissa ignored her, all too familiar with Samara’s tendency to answer a question with a question. Particularly questions she wanted to avoid. “How’d the premiere go?”
“It was a smashing success,” Samara said dryly. “But, of course, I never expected otherwise. My mother is a very talented designer who knows what people want and, perhaps more importantly, knows how to make them want what they normally might not.”
Frowning, Melissa shook her head as if to clear it. Her neat auburn dreadlocks bounced with the gesture. “It’s too early in the morning for riddles, Samara. Is that a clever way of telling me that you and your mother had another one of your ‘civilized’ arguments?”
Samara shrugged, feigning nonchalance as she picked up an engraved silver ballpoint pen that had been a gift to her from the Institute’s retiring founder. “Things were business as usual between me and my mother.”
But Melissa knew better. Her expression softened. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” Samara took a long sip of coffee, then leaned back in her swivel chair and crossed her legs. She told herself the sudden churning in her stomach had more to do with ingesting coffee on an empty stomach than the inner turmoil that always accompanied discussions of her mother. “Thanks for holding down the fort. How’d things go?”
“Not too bad. If you don’t count the fact that the heater decided to break during the coldest week we’ve had since the start of spring, and we all had to wear fur coats in the office for three days until the repair guys could work us into their busy schedule. Guess they’re still holding it against us for paying our bill late three months in a row.”
Samara winced, rolling the ballpoint between her fingers and wishing their financial woes could be simply solved with the sale of the expensive pen. “I’ll call Fred personally; see if we can set up some sort of payment plan.”
Melissa snorted. “You do that, because all of my efforts to date have been miserable failures. He likes you better, anyway—as do most red-blooded males.”
An image of Marcus’s piercing dark eyes and sensuous lips filled Samara’s mind. She ruthlessly shoved the image away. Enough was enough.
“What else?” she demanded, her tone more impatient than she’d intended.
Melissa looked momentarily bewildered. “Nothing,” she answered carefully, “except that Brianna missed you terribly, and wants a full report of everyone you saw at the premiere. Namely celebrities.”
Samara smiled softly, thinking of the shy nineteen-year-old single mother she’d mentored for the past year, helping her work toward obtaining her G.E.D. “I’ll be sure to scour my brain trying to recall as many celebrities as possible. For both of you.”
Melissa grinned sheepishly. “Well, only if you insist. And since we’re back on the subject,” she leaned forward expectantly in the chair, “did you get the check?”
It was the question Samara had dreaded the most, the question she’d hoped to avoid for as long as possible. But she should have known better.
Apart from her husband of three years, nothing excited Melissa Matthews more than the prospect of receiving money for the Institute. A CPA who could’ve had her pick of any Fortune 500 company, she’d served faithfully as the organization’s accountant for over a decade—and enjoyed every minute of it.
Samara became suddenly absorbed in the inspection of a scratch on the scarred surface of her desk. “About that check…” she hedged.
Melissa’s hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What about the check?”
Samara frowned. “I don’t exactly have it…in my possession.”
“Well, where is it?” When Samara hesitated, Melissa lunged to her feet. “Don’t tell me your mother didn’t give it to you!”
“All right, I won’t tell you.”
“Samara!”
Samara cringed. “If you’re going to yell at me, could you at least close the door so everyone won’t hear you?”
Melissa strode to the door and slammed it before rounding on Samara once again, her eyes flashing. “What happened?”
Samara rubbed the ache creeping into her temples. “There’s something you have to understand about my mother,” she began tiredly. “Her generosity is…conditional.”
“And you met those conditions!” Melissa flared, indignant hands thrust onto dainty hips. “You took an entire week off from work— time that could have been spent enjoying a badly needed vacation, I might add. You traveled to New York to be there to rehearse for her spring premiere, which she specifically requested your participation in. And the only reason on earth that you agreed to do it was because she promised to give FYI a large donation. That was the deal.”
“Keeping deals isn’t really my mother’s style,” Samara muttered.
Melissa opened her mouth with another heated retort, decided against it and snapped her lips shut. She sat back down again. “The organization needs a sizeable donation, Samara, or we’ll have to close shop. As it is, we’re just barely maintaining our operating expenses in an effort to keep most of our programs going. Soon that won’t be possible.”
“I know,” Samara said on a heavy sigh. “I’ll think of something, Melissa, don’t worry.”
“That is easier said than done. Between the fluctuating economy and increased competition for charitable donations, it’s harder than ever for small nonprofits like ours to get proper funding. And as you well know, the District’s limited resources are allocated to public sector organizations that fall under the Office of Community Outreach.” Melissa slumped back against the chair, her expression bleak. “I don’t know what else we can do, Samara. We’ve held fundraisers, sponsored everything from bake sales to book fairs, and coldcalled every business in our database. The contributions we’re receiving simply aren’t enough anymore.”
Before Samara could open her mouth, Melissa stabbed a warning finger at her. “And you can’t keep outsourcing your services in exchange for donations. Not only are you burning yourself out that way, but that’s not what you got your MBA for.”
“I don’t mind,” Samara countered. “I enjoy using my marketing background as often as possible. God knows my mother thinks I’m totally wasting the degree,” she added cynically.
“Is that what you two argued about in New York?”
“If only it were that simple.” Samara stared unseeingly into her coffee cup. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “My mother assumed that once the premiere was over, I would change my mind about talking to reporters. But with her, it’s never as simple as just doing interviews. With Asha Dubois, the more you give, the more she demands—until she completely usurps your will. Then you find yourself bending to her every whim, acting out a reality not of your own choosing.”
Melissa was silent, watching her with a mixture of sympathy and concern. “Don’t worry about the check,” she said gently. “We’ll get the funds somehow, and just chalk up this experience to a loss.”
“No.” Samara shook her head, her jaw set determinedly. “I kept my end of the bargain. It’s time for my mother to be held accountable for keeping hers. I’ll call her this afternoon during my lunch break.”
“Samara—”
“This is too important, Melissa. We both know that.”
With a sigh of resignation, Melissa stood and crossed to the door. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “You know where to find me if you need to vent afterward.”
Samara’s smile was warm with gratitude. “I know,” she said quietly. “And thanks.”

“I knew it wouldn’t take you long to come to your senses,” Asha drawled, making no attempt to hide her smugness. “As notoriously stubborn as you are, even you can admit when you’re wrong.”

On the other end of the phone, Samara fought to rein in her temper. “I didn’t call to apologize, Mother,” she said as calmly as possible. “I stand by my decision not to be interviewed after the premiere. I know very well your army of publicists was laying a trap for me, hoping the reporters would corner me into announcing my intention to join the House of Dubois. As if I’ve ever expressed any interest in becoming the mother-daughter design duo you so desperately want.”

“Your refusal to take an active role in my company makes no sense whatsoever,” Asha said heatedly. “Look at the Asian culture where the children embrace their parents’ businesses as their own. Drycleaners, restaurants, convenience stores—you name it. Every member of the family works together to ensure the success of the business. But not my daughter. My daughter would rather wither away at some failing nonprofit organization than put her natural talents to use. Even if you never wanted to model, Samara, the least you could have done was head our marketing division. You have an MBA from the Wharton School of Business, for goodness sake!”

“Which I utilize every day in my position as the Institute’s executive director,” Samara wearily reminded her. The debate was so familiar she could recite it in her sleep.

She was also prepared for her mother’s vitriolic rebuttal. “Obviously your ‘expertise’ isn’t working, or the organization wouldn’t be in such bad shape!”