Free Taming the Wolf by Maureen Smith

late. Against the wishes of his financial advisors, he still wanted to keep the Institute open for business. He and his wife Fannie—whom the Institute is named after—had established FYI together, and he knew she would want the work to continue with or without her. But the cost of her chemotherapy and related medical expenses over the years had taken a toll on their personal finances. Richard poured what little remained of their savings back into the Institute, then hired me to replace him as executive director when he decided to retire. He was confident my marketing background could help breathe new life into the place.”
Marcus nodded. “Does he remain active in the Institute?”
“Not really. Last year he moved to Cape Cod, where he and Fannie honeymooned. He said he feels closer to her there.” Samara stroked her spoon absently through the creamy bisque. “He calls every once in a while to check up on everyone. But I think he’s more concerned with our general morale than the financial status of the organization. That’s just the kind of person he is—caring and generous to a fault.”
Marcus took a sip of his wine, watching her over the rim. “You said you have a marketing background. What were you doing before coming to the Yorkin Institute?”
“I worked as a marketing manager at a top advertising firm after earning my MBA.”
“Impressive.”
She gave a dismissive shrug. “It had its perks, I guess. The signing bonus, six-figure salary, corner office with a view…”
“But it wasn’t what you wanted,” Marcus surmised.
Samara glanced up from her bowl, met his penetrating gaze and felt incredibly transparent. “No,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t what I wanted. There’s a huge difference between using my degree to improve the bottom line of some faceless corporation versus using those same marketing skills to come up with programs that members of the community can benefit from.” She paused, studying him. “Just as I’m sure you can appreciate the difference between practicing corporate law behind a desk versus defending real, everyday people whose basic civil rights have been violated.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Marcus agreed.
“That’s probably a first.”
“What?”
“You. A lawyer not arguing.”
Marcus laughed. “You got lawyer jokes, huh?”
Samara smiled across the table at him, enjoying their camaraderie. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist.”
As their meals arrived, she asked, “So what about you, Mr. King of Torts? Have you always felt a calling to save the world?”
His mouth curved ruefully. “I don’t know about all that. But I guess my father had other ideas. He named me after Marcus Garvey.”
Samara grinned. “Quite a legacy to fulfill.”
“I know. No pressure, right?”
As they dug into their meals, Marcus told Samara how he’d learned about Nelson Mandela and the African National Congress while he was a political science major at Morehouse, and how he’d returned home brimming with stories about Mandela’s imprisonment and his subsequent efforts to end apartheid in South Africa.
“That was all I talked about that summer, until my brother got sick and tired of hearing my fight-the-power lectures and told me to write Nelson Mandela a damn letter.”
Samara laughed. “And did you?” she asked, equally riveted by his tale and the deep, intoxicating timbre of his voice. His voice was so damn sexy, her legs would stay permanently crossed.
Marcus chuckled. “I had no choice. My brother threatened me with bodily harm if I didn’t. To my absolute surprise, I not only received a letter of response from Nelson Mandela, but an invitation to join him in South Africa the following summer. I felt like I’d won the lottery, Samara. Not only had I been given a rare opportunity to meet one of my heroes, but I also used the experience to learn a new language and conduct research on the inner workings of the African National Congress.”
“Wait a minute,” Samara said,