Taming the Wolf Read Free Page B

Those with a genuine interest in the fashion industry, or those like Walter Floyd who comes to support a friend or family member.” She paused. “And then there’s your type, Mr. Wolf.”
Marcus lifted a brow. “And what type would that be?” he inquired, a soft challenge in his voice.
“Men who’d rather spend their time anywhere but at a fashion show, but once there, they decide to make the best of the situation by going home with the first decent-looking female they encounter. If it happens to be one of the models, all the better.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Do you deny that Walter probably had to drag you out to tonight’s premiere?”
“Kicking and screaming.”
Point made, she nodded coolly. She hitched the strap of her leather duffel bag more securely onto her shoulder. “It’s been a long week, Mr. Wolf, and I have a five-hour drive back home tomorrow morning. So if you’ll excuse me, I’d really like to get back to my hotel room and hit the sack. Alone.”
Marcus inclined his head in the barest hint of a nod. “As you wish. Good evening, Ms. Layton.” He stepped aside to let her pass, then stood watching as she headed from the building without a backward glance.
Turning away, he drew a deep, ragged breath and blinked several times, but it was no use. He couldn’t ease the image of her round curvy ass squeezed into electric blue denim from his mind. It was permanently stamped upon his brain, like the rest of her.

1
    Samara’s heart pounded as the taxicab she’d climbed into hurtled down the busy street, the bright lights of downtown Manhattan whizzing by. Although she automatically gripped the door handle for support, her runaway heartbeat had nothing to do with the cabbie’s haphazard driving.
    No, she could thank Marcus Wolf for that.
Lord have mercy, she silently breathed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the seat. No man has the right to be that fine.
She’d first noticed him at the conclusion of the fashion show, as she stood at the end of the illuminated runway surrounded by photographers vying for the best camera angles. Beyond the flurry of flashing bulbs, she’d seen Marcus seated in the front row reserved for VIP guests. Her pulse rate had accelerated almost immediately. He was already watching her—a silent, penetrating appraisal through dark, heavy-lidded eyes that gave new meaning to the term “bedroom eyes.” Rich mahogany skin stretched tight and smooth over chiseled cheekbones, a square jaw. And a firm, sensually molded mouth that made her fantasized about what they’d feel like against her own lips, on her breasts and between her trembling thighs.
As she’d watched from the runway, Marcus slowly stood, unfolding his powerful body from the seat with the fluid ease of a panther. She’d nearly gasped as she took in the sheer size of him, impossibly broad shoulders with a wide chest that tapered down to a trim waist. Samara had attended countless black-tie affairs before. But not once had she been so turned on by the sight of a man in a tuxedo. Marcus Wolf wore the hell out of that Armani tux, putting all the other men to shame. Samara wanted to climb him like an oak tree, all six-foot four-inches of him, and wrap her limbs around him.
Their eyes had held for several charged moments before Samara forced her gaze away, heeding the flirtatious coaxing of a photographer who’d wanted her to smile for the camera. She was sure her smile had been as wobbly as her knees.
Marcus Wolf was sexier than sin, and his deep, velvety voice laced with Southern heat had been as potent as the rest of the package. Although Samara knew better, she’d been sorely tempted to accept his dinner invitation. Almost at once, she’d imagined them dining by candlelight at a cozy, romantic restaurant, then returning to her hotel room for a nightcap. Or his room, whichever was closer.
“Dance with me,” he murmured, taking her half-empty wineglass from her hand and setting it down on the