by V Vee
***
2 Days Later
How many years would I get for murder if I can prove it’s justified? Joi Young’s skinny, expensive, black stilettos with the black and red swirled heels and red bottoms tapped angrily down the streets of Manhattan as she made her way towards Woodland Pack Incorporated. She tried desperately to keep a smile on her face. Not only because of the fact that she’d spent over an hour making sure her face looked properly “beat” or flawlessly prepared with makeup—foundation, blush, mascara, lipstick, eyebrows, eyelashes, eyeliner, lipliner, eyeshadow, concealer, etc.—but also because of the fact that while she knew she turned heads even without the makeup with her good looks and her perfectly curled Remi lace-front wig, which had loose curls that hung down to just below her shoulders, but also because she knew if she didn’t keep the smile on her face, she would be perceived as the stereotypical angry black woman. And while she was indeed angry—no, scratch that, she was pissed, incensed… livid—she didn’t need anyone whispering, gossiping, or treating her as if she was going to be snapping her fingers, smacking her teeth, and rolling her neck as if she were just two steps out of the ghetto.
She was actually five steps out of it, and she’d struggled damn hard to get out of them, and she wouldn’t let anyone turn her around or treat her as if she was the stereotypical “Boomquisha” from the local projects. She was Joi Young. She’d graduated from high school as the valedictorian, beating out not only every other minority, but also the white students for the title, many of whom thought they deserved it more than she, a scholarship student, did. She’d gone on to attend New York University with a full-ride, four-year, all expenses paid, scholarship, where she’d double majored in business management, and fashion design, with a minor in computer science. Joi’d had the dream to own her own online fashion and makeup makeover business since she was a child. The idea had come to her while watching the movie Clueless ™ as a kid and had grown from there.
While the rest of her classmates and friends had been outside playing, or going off on dates on the weekends, Joi had applied herself to her studies. Reading, studying, interning with different businesses and designers. She had written her first business model at the age of fourteen. Drafted her company’s mission statement at the age of sixteen. And obtained her first investor at the age of eighteen, while simultaneously designing an entire line of clothes for business women and men, and cosmetics for women of color made of all-natural products that weren’t harmful to their skin.
And now here she was, four years after getting her MBA and starting JY’s F&M Online Makeover, LLC. at the tender age of twenty-eight, and she was at the cusp of achieving everything she’d ever wanted. She was a self-made millionaire, an educated black woman, she owned her own home out in Connecticut, owned a condo in New York City, three cars, two dogs, a cat, and had bought her parents: Kevin and Jackie Young, and her older sister, Kim, a home, offering the three of them the opportunity to retire, though none of them took it. She was on the verge of achieving the ultimate greatness. Everything anyone in the business world currently wanted.
A partnership with Angelo Marconi: The Growling Wolf CEO.
Angelo Marconi was a multi-billionaire. Actually, while people said he was a multi-billionaire, Joi was pretty sure the man had more money than that. Were there actual trillionaires in the world? If so, Angelo was one of them. Every businessperson in the world wanted to partner with Angelo. Wanted a meeting with him. Wanted to talk to him, shake his hand. Hell, they even wanted the man to breathe on them. Word had it that everyone from Kanye West to Mark Zuckerberg even to the current president had appealed to “Growl”, as he was known in his inner circle and to his partners, for a donation or a partnership. It was said that everything he touched turned to gold. The only problem, no one in the business world had actually seen him.
Ever.
He was pretty much a ghost. Pictures had been published of his fingers waving from limousines, the back of his head as he entered his forty-seven story tall corporate office skyscraper, however, no pictures of his face had ever been published or seen, and none of his business partners had ever worked with him face-to-face, and while his sexual exploits were legendary, every woman who’d been rumored to have been with him, was sworn to secrecy. Sure, plenty of people had talked to him. Seen his powerful, long, elegant, patient scrawl of strength written across the bottom of checks, contracts, or letters of rejection, in notes of apology, or congratulations, or even in welcome. But no one had ever been worthy of meeting the man. Of seeing his face. Sitting in the same room with him. Breathing his scent. Every single business dealing was done with his associates. From interns, to junior interns, to senior interns, to associates, to junior associates, to senior associates, to executives, to junior executives, then finally senior executives, who then put the call in to Angelo who listened to the pitch himself, or the plea, and after it was over, he would say “Okay, thank you for your time.” There was a wait, a rather extensive one, and the senior executives would wait for a text message from him on whether it was a “yay” or a “nay.”
Joi could still remember sitting in the plush, black leather chair, surrounded by her two assistants, her VP, her best friend Elisabeth, her CFO, Talia, and her web-designer, Elisabeth’s twin sister Lizzie, waiting to hear back from the big man in charge. When the “yes,” had come back that Angelo had wanted to partner with her, that he had in fact wanted to take on the “unique, creative, fresh, innovative, exciting, business venture” that she’d created, Joi had been stunned into disbelief. Then she’d been so relieved all she could do was silently weep.
Her tears were apparently not a shock to the senior executives, they’d merely slid a box of tissues towards her and told her that a contract would be messengered to her, with the terms of negotiation and once she signed it, they could get started. Joi had merely nodded, and that evening, her, her best friends, her sister, and the rest of her staff had gone out, drank and celebrated. Hard.
But that very morning, when the contract had shown up at her office, Joi had thankfully and wisely read over every line, item, sub-item, term, etc. with her lawyer, and it was the most generous contract she’d ever read or been given in her life. Which instantly put her on her guard. Joi didn’t trust people who were too generous. Especially not in terms of business. In her experience when someone was trying to give you too much it was because they were secretly taking or were going to demand more than you would be comfortable with. While her lawyer told her to “just sign the damn thing,” Joi was going to go with her gut, and her gut told her to not go into business with anyone she hadn’t met face-to-face, that she hadn’t talked to, hadn’t shaken hands with.
Someone she hadn’t even had a chance to stare in the face and see if they were trying to rip her off.
No. Joi wasn’t going to sign shit until she met Angelo Marconi face-to-face. And while she knew no one had ever seen the man’s face outside of his immediate staff and probably his closest friends, Joi was determined to be the exception to the rule. She would meet with “The Wolf” before she signed one blasted thing. Which was why she was currently marching toward his office building, which she knew he was at right now. And heaven help anyone who tried to prevent her from seeing him. Her feet were killing her in these shoes, and she was just looking for a reason to take them off.
* * *
Angelo Marconi leaned back in his chair and ran his hands down his face, blowing out a breath of frustration and boredom. Romulus, his life had become tedious and boring. Swiveling his chair around to face his open window, he inhaled deeply trying to calm the tension that had suddenly taken hold of his body. He had everything he could ever want. He’d proven his former Alpha wrong and had made something of himself. He’d more than made something of himself. He was now the most respected, sought after businessman in the world. He had more money than God Himself, women who not only threw themselves at him when he took a step off pack lands—hell, there were even women who threw
themselves at him on pack lands—but there were also women who mailed him their panties, along with pictures and phone numbers.
Angelo rolled his eyes. The mystery surrounding his identity had originally been a decision he’d made in an attempt to preserve his shifter status. However, as the years had passed it had become more about trying to preserve his sanity and his privacy. He knew he was an attractive man, the scores of past lovers he’d had was testament to that, but adding onto that his wealth, his reputation, and his social status, and well… he’d had more than one stalker in his life.
Angelo didn’t mind it so much. He was more than able to take care of himself. And if matters ever got to the point where he needed backup he had his younger brothers, his younger sisters, best friends, and his pack members to back him up. Though his younger brother Harold, aka Howl, was currently serving in the Army, Angelo knew he could count on the younger man to have his back if he needed him.
Angelo sighed again, lifting his hand to his hair, which was tamed and gelled back to within an inch of its life in an effort to restrain the long, wild strands. He closed his eyes again—the eyes he hadn’t even been aware he’d opened—and let his mind drift. He thought about his businesses, his brothers, his sisters, and his pack. They would be having a pack run that weekend and Angelo couldn’t wait to run with the rest of his extended pack family. His wolf panted and clawed within his mind, desperate to be free and Angelo lifted a hand to rub it against his chest, followed by his temple.
Settle down, I want to run too, he tried to soothe his beast, but the wolf refused to calm.
Suddenly the most delicious scent wafted up through Angelo’s open window. It was the smell of vanilla, shea butter, cocoa, and… was that nutmeg? Angelo’s favorite spice? Was someone delivering a cake? Before his mind could continue down that same path, Angelo’s cock hardened. He looked down at his groin in surprise. Since when had smelling something delicious caused him to become aroused?
As he inhaled again, another smell rose and mingled with the other.
Angelo shook his head, stupefied. It couldn’t be.
He inhaled again and the same scent was there, intertwined with the previous one. It was a woman. It was strength. Elegance. It was the scent of passion. Of… forever.
Mate, his wolf growled.
Before Angelo was even aware of it, he’d risen from his chair and rushed to the window to peer down. One lone woman, full-figured, with skin the color of burnt sienna, black hair blowing in the wind, heels click-clacking on the sidewalk, was marching with purpose into his building, and without question, Angelo knew she was the source of the smell. He had to get to her. He had to find her. He had to claim her.
Mine, his wolf growled again.
Angelo nodded to himself. Yes. He didn’t know who the woman was, but she’d just walked into her destiny. He would have her. Probably before she even left the building.
Angelo grinned wolfishly and turned to leave his office and head to the elevator.
Chapter 2
Joi tapped her foot impatiently as the receptionist called upstairs to Angelo Marconi’s secretary. The steam of her righteous indignation had been tempered somewhat when she’d been stopped in the lobby of the building by security before she could make her way upstairs to see Mr. Marconi. She sighed and folded her arms across her chest. She rolled her eyes at the cautious and wary gaze the receptionist shot her way as she spoke to the secretary at the other end.
No, I don’t have an appointment. I told you that already. And I am not being a nuisance or a distraction. I am not causing a problem. I’m just standing here, hoping to get upstairs and speak with your boss. No need to be afraid of the black lady. Calm down, Becky.
Joi sighed and reprimanded herself mentally. While the receptionist’s name was actually Becky Farsing, at least that’s what her nameplate said that sat on the semi- circle desk she currently stood behind, Joi knew she hadn’t been very nice to her. In her mind. And she was almost certain that her face expressed her displeasure and impatience. Taking a deep breath, Joi released a deep exhale and allowed her muscles to relax.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, she counted slowly. She thought of her employees, her sister, her best friends, her parents. She thought of her dogs: Bruce the Labrador and Isadora the corgi, and her cat: Duke the tabby. With each image that arose in her mind she felt herself getting more relaxed. More at peace.
When an image of her boyfriend, no, he was her ex-boyfriend as of two days ago, Perry, rose in her mind, Joi found herself scowling.
“Someone who is as beautiful as you should never have such an unpleasant look on your face. You should smile and really let that beauty shine,” a deep voice, so deep and smooth that it felt like silk on her bare skin and caused a shiver to race up her spine, said behind her.
Joi scoffed and turned to the man. “Are you seriously trying to tell me I need to smile? In this day and age? Who the hell do you think you are? I am—” her words trailed off as she found herself looking up, all the way up, into a startling pair of whiskey brown eyes. Eyes that whispered seductively of pleasure undiscovered, and not experienced by her… ever. Eyes that spoke of passion. Sweaty bodies intertwined, whispered, fevered words of lust and desire. Eyes that promised her every naughty wish, every unspoken fantasy, would be fulfilled. Brown eyes set in a face with angular cheekbones, a Roman nose, pink lips—the top one thinner than the bottom—a black goatee decorating the too handsome face. Black hair slicked back with hair product, the stranger’s gaze focused intently on her.
Joi tried to resist, but she couldn’t prevent her gaze from traveling over the unknown man’s body. He was taller than her own 5’9” height by at least seven or eight inches which put him at around 6’4” or 6’5”. That coupled with his broad, barrel-chest, trim waist, trunk-like thighs which strained against the material of his suit pants, much as his thick muscles and broad chest did and Joi was having a hard time not drooling all over the lobby floor.
Holy. Shit. Who the fuck is this and where has he been my entire life? She wondered silently.
“Mr. Marconi, I-I didn’t expect you to come down,” Becky stammered breathlessly and Joi’s eyes widened as she turned to look at the receptionist. Becky’s face was flushed red, her eyes just as wide as Joi’s, her chest rising and falling rapidly as if she’d just ran a marathon, and her pupils blown with… yep, that was desire alright. Joi knew it… because she was suffering from it herself. “I was just going to take down Ms. Young’s information and have you call her back, as you don’t take walk-ins from anyone.”
Joi picked up on the subtle threat and not-so-subtle hint in Becky’s words, and had she not been: 1) So unbelievably turned on just from standing in the presence of Angelo “Growl” Marconi, and 2) Been determined to see that she got the best deal for her company and her staff, she just might have heeded the other woman’s words and excused herself politely. However, she’d come this far and now that she’d seen Mr. Marconi, sort of met him, there was absolutely no way she was going to leave without having a proper meeting with him.
You know, once she could move and talk again. She was a little frozen at the moment.
No wonder he doesn’t meet with people. He’s so goddamn hot he probably puts them all into a lust-coma just by being in the same room with them. Keeping himself out of the public eye is really for the good of all humanity. No one would get any work done if we all could see him in pictures or on a regular basis.
“No, no. No need, Becky, thank you. I will meet with Ms. Young,” Angelo’s voice washed over her, stroking her skin with its bass, inflection, and slight growl. She turned back to look up at him and swallowed thickly at the raging desire she saw reflected in his gaze. “Right this way, please, Ms. Young.”
Joi could only nod, her ability to speak still lost to her. She squeezed the handle of her purse and portfolio which hung from its shoulder strap. Just that small action was enough to remind her of why she was there. W
ith a snap of clarity, Joi remembered that she was not here to ogle Mr. Marconi, no matter how devastatingly handsome he was. She was there to talk to him about their deal. The contract negotiation. The business buy-out, instead of the merger or investment she’d been expecting.
Angelo Marconi was planning on acquiring her business, firing her entire staff, and herself, and rebranding it all as a Marconi company.
Over her dead body.
She didn’t care how hot he was. Angelo Marconi had met his match.
* * *
Angelo had met his match. He tried to keep the frown from his face as he led Joi to his private elevator that would take them directly to his office. It afforded him the ability to get in and out of the building without being seen by anyone. He’d never been more thankful for it than the moment the steel doors closed behind Joi, effectively closing her in the box with him.
Angelo cut his eyes over in her direction and his chest swelled as he took in her beauty.
Joi—and what a perfect name for someone who’d already brought so much joy into his life just by merely existing—stood next to him wearing a red business skirt set, with a silk black shirt on beneath it. The skirt’s hem had diagonal, black slashes around it, which drew Angelo’s eyes to Joi’s deliciously thick thighs that sat on top of a pair of sculpted calves. Joi’s long, thin fingers clutched the straps of her bags, tightening beneath Angelo’s scrutiny. When Joi shifted, Angelo sniffed subtly and caught the hint of Joi’s arousal. He smirked, before wiping his expression clear and letting his eyes continue their perusal. Over Joi’s black hair, which flowed down in loose, black curls to below her shoulders. The smell of her hair caused Angelo’s nose to twitch just slightly. It wasn’t a natural scent, smelling… synthetic blended with the natural. To Angelo’s nose it smelled as if Joi was wearing another woman’s hair on top of her own, along with some synthetic fibers. Realizing that she was wearing what his younger sisters—two of whom were adopted, and one of which was the product of his mother’s unfaithfulness—called a “weave” or a wig, Angelo moved on with his inventory and the categorizing of everything that made Joi an exceptional creature.
