Out of Control (Untamed #2) Read online

  one

  “Ma chérie, it would have been much quicker to take the metro, no?” Lucien huffed from behind me, most likely sweating to death in his tailored suit coat. And rightfully so. The walk to Montmartre—and my true destination, the artists in the square—was a hike.

  “I told you I could meet you here,” I said, my irritation rising. The metro was not an option for reasons I was not willing to share with him no matter how many times he whined. “You didn’t have to walk with me. You didn’t even have to come at all. I know where Place du Tertre is, Lucien. I told you that.”

  “I am a gentleman,” he said. “And you are new to Paris. It is my duty—and great pleasure—to show you around.”

  I could hear the slick smile on his face without even turning around, and fought the urge to shudder. It didn’t matter how many times I told him I’d spent plenty of summers in Paris and that I knew the city well, or the fact that I spoke French fluently, he insisted on treating me like a helpless foreigner. As some damsel in distress for him to save.

  Ugh.

  I picked up my pace, suddenly regretting the tiny pink shorts I had on. They hugged my slender curves too perfectly, showed too much leg. Lucien had been way too appreciative.

  Gentleman, my ass.

  I made a mental note to be more careful about what I wore around him, though that was going to be a complete pain. Especially considering his disregard for personal boundaries.

  Sharing an apartment with a man you didn’t know—and an older one at that—was less than easy. But I hadn’t had much choice. My decision to come to Paris had been a last-minute one, and Sabine had set me up in her friend’s apartment while he was on an extended business trip to the States.

  I’d known there would be a roommate—someone I’d be working with at the gallery—I just hadn’t expected Lucien.

  But life was never what you expected. Or what you wanted. It just stomped on your heart until you broke.

  Or took pills.

  Or drank yourself into oblivion.

  Or fucked your brains out to stop yourself from thinking about—

  NO. I was not going there. I couldn’t think about him. Not without a lightning bolt of pain, not without the too-familiar vice tightening around my chest.

  It had been three long years since I’d screwed everything up with Dare. Three years of trying to forget, and a single thought still hurt like a son of a bitch.

  Fuck.

  Paris HAD to get him out of my head. Out of my heart. Out of my freaking soul.

  Paris and art—they had to be enough to obliterate his ghost.

  Three years under my parents’ thumbs hadn’t done it. Three years of smiles forced through the haze of numbness. Three years of living someone else’s life.

  I couldn’t do it anymore, and I’d finally realized I needed to do something about that.

  “Why don’t you go find some new artists for our Paris gallery?” Sabine had said six months ago when I’d started panicking about graduation and my impending incarceration in law school. “Get out of the country, be on your own, and find out if this is the life you really want, chérie.”

  My future had always been planned out with precision by my parents—political science at Columbia, straight to Harvard Law, and right into McKinley Enterprises. I’d gone along with it for as long as I could. Then something snapped.

  “Trade in Harvard for art? Full time?”

  The idea was shocking. Scary.

  Exhilarating.

  Paris. On my own. Discovering new up-and-coming artists. Maybe even gathering some for my future gallery.

  Losing myself in the art world.

  And maybe finding myself there, too.

  “Do you really think I can do it?” I whispered, searching her intelligent hazel eyes.

  Sabine cupped my chin in her hand and smiled. “I know you can. You have the eye—you always have. But you need to know that you can do it. And the only way for you to know is to try.” She brushed my cheek with her thumb. “Take the summer. You have nothing to lose.”

  Nothing to lose? I had everything to lose. My whole life. The world I’d grown up in. My family, who would never understand. For the first time in three long, agonizing years, my heart was beating wildly as my mind and body hummed with excitement.

  “You have to fly, chérie,” Sabine said. “You have the wings, now it’s time for you to use them. Remember…vive la résistance?”

  I nodded. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  Oui à la vie. Oui à l’amour. Oui à l’art.

  Yes to life. Yes to love. Yes to art.

  I could at least say yes to life and art.

  But love? No. Been there, done that. Not ever doing it again.

  After my talk with Sabine, I’d ripped up my acceptance letter to Harvard and bought a plane ticket to Paris. All on my own dime from the money I’d earned working at the gallery.

  All without even telling my parents. At least not until I was up in the air and safely on my way. I couldn’t risk them finding a way to stop me.

  I needed this.

  Like air.

  And I knew I needed to have a blossoming career already in place when I finally revealed my plan for the future. Though I knew there was no chance of them approving, I had to make sure they couldn’t fight me. Or, worse, sabotage my dreams.

  So this was it. Paris. Art. The road to freedom. My one chance at life.

  I deserved it. I’d fucking earned it with years of blood, sweat, and tears.

  Now, I paused at the base of Sacre Coeur, waiting for Lucien to catch up. The basilica’s domes stretched up majestically toward the gorgeous blue sky above. It was breathtaking, and if I hadn’t been so intent on getting started on my quest for new talent, I would have explored it right then and there.

  But there was no time for that now. The first step toward my new life was waiting for me, and I could already feel the pull of the artists from where I stood.

  When Lucien reached the top of the hill, he nodded at a little bench.

  “Let’s slow down and enjoy the view, chérie.” He waved at the expanded vista of Paris below us—it was truly incredible—then lit a cigarette. Gross. “The artists can wait.”

  “But I can’t,” I said. “Take all the time you want, Lucien.” With those words, I started toward Place du Tertre by myself. I was only moments away and could barely stand the anticipation. My entire body buzzed with a thrill I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was like I’d needed to put an entire ocean between my parents and me in order to finally wake the fuck up.

  I hadn’t felt this good since—

  Nope. Still wasn’t going to think about him. About us.

  A few blocks over, the street opened to reveal the small artists’ square already teeming with tourists. I slowly walked along the cobblestone street, taking it all in.

  Color everywhere. The people. The languages. The art.

  I’d entered my own personal nirvana as I started wandering amongst the crowds, exploring the various artists’ displays. My heart pounded faster and louder with every new style and palette I encountered.

  For the first time in years, I felt like I could actually see color again. Every shade and tone called out to me, warmed my gaze, seeped through my pores and into my skin.

  It was so alive. And incredible. All of it. A beautiful chaos.

  Up ahead, a couple of paintings caught my eye. Nudes in muted tones. But it was the style that stood out. Something about it struck a chord inside me. It felt eerily familiar and so very right. And I got that feeling I always had whenever I was in the presence of great art.

  Hell, yes.

  Without a doubt, I had
found THE ONE.

  There was a magnetic pull between my body and the art. I walked closer, my gaze glued to those paintings, my excitement growing with each step. My first artist discovery in Paris! The closer I got, the harder I shook. Chills washed over my skin. My breathing quickened. Honestly, I was pretty certain I was having some sort of religious experience. I could feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes.

  Yes. I was in the right place. At the right time.

  This was my Mecca—the reason I’d come to Paris.

  Then I looked over to the artist, and froze.

  Standing right in the middle of it all…was Dare.

  two

  Dare.

  Oh, god. Dare.

  The sight of him made my heart shatter all over again.

  His eyes widened for just a moment, then he shut himself down, the hurt in them eclipsed by something far, far worse.

  Distance. And cold uncaring.

  I couldn’t breathe. Years of longing, dread, and grief filled me all at once. The ache in my chest that had started three years ago flared with new intensity. There was this gulf, this ocean of pain dividing us even though we stood mere feet apart. His jaw clenched as he looked at me, his deadblack gaze locked on mine.

  There was only Dare in my world at that moment.

  I wanted to run to him, throw my arms around his neck and crush my lips to his. I wanted to find out everything that had happened—where his family had gone, what he’d been doing…how he’d been doing. I wanted to say I was sorry, to demolish this distance and extinguish the hurt.

  But all I could do was stand frozen in place and stare.

  Someone bumped my shoulder, jostling me out of the trance. The smooth sound of French flowing between passersby pierced through. The artists’ market came back into my consciousness, invading my senses with sounds and color and smells.

  And the world began to move again.

  Dare turned away from me and stepped behind his display, then said something to the artist next to him that I couldn’t make out. I marveled at his paintings as I slowly walked toward him. Most of his work consisted of Paris landscapes, like so many of the other artists in this square. They were good—great even—though hardly a true demonstration of his incredible talent.

  But he also had a handful of standout pieces that had caught my eye in the first place—the nudes. The color range of his palette hadn’t changed much, but his style was more honed, more clearly his own. The light falling on the model’s skin was warm, reminding me of the way the late afternoon light shone in his Brooklyn apartment all those years ago. And the more I looked at the paintings, the more familiar they seemed.

  “What are you doing here?” His words were sharp, angry, and abrupt. I flinched in surprise. I hadn’t realized he’d turned to glare at me.

  My mouth felt dry and my brain sluggish as I struggled to come up with the right thing to say. Something that would smooth the harsh frown off his face, return the light to his eyes. Anything that would make him forgive me.

  I’d spent so much time dreaming of this moment, hoping to see him again, to get the chance to explain, to make him understand and give me another chance. But all of my well-rehearsed speeches disappeared into the ether of my mind. What was left was as blank as a new canvas.

  “I’m—” Shit. What was I? Anger rolled off him, crashing into me, rendering me stupid. “I’m so glad to see you, Dare.” It was the truth, but from the look on his face it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Really?” His eyes narrowed to dangerous, dark slits. I’d seen that look before. It was far from good. “Somehow I find that hard to believe. How can you be glad to see someone you don’t know? Someone you’ve never seen before in your life?”

  My words from three years ago were flung back at me. And they stung. Especially coming from Dare’s mouth. I shook my head, but they cut into me regardless. I deserved this. I deserved his scorn. I’d done this. And all I wanted to do now—all I’d wanted to do every single day since it happened—was undo it.

  Why didn’t life have a rewind button?

  I extended a hand out toward him, but he stepped back, keeping out of reach. Jesus. Was he really so disgusted by me that he flinched at the mere thought of my touch?

  Yeah, I guess deserved that too.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice shaking a little, tears threatening to spill. I forced them back and stepped closer. Lowering my voice, I said, “Just let me explain…”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Dare, please…I just…” The look on his face stopped me cold. Okay. Now was clearly not the time. He was too angry. Even if I got the words out, he wouldn’t be able to hear them. I knew this about him. But I didn’t want to lose him again. I needed to keep him talking. “How did you end up in Paris?” I said as I waved my hand at his paintings. “Are you studying with someone here?”

  He crossed his arms, the movement pulling his t-shirt taut against his hard chest. I knew the feel of those muscles so well, could feel the ghost of them under my fingers as I looked at him.

  He considered me for a moment, then said, “Yes.”

  It was one word, but it was a start. I’d take anything I could get.

  “That’s wonderful. I can tell you’ve been working hard.” I nodded toward the nudes. “Are those more recent?”

  His gaze followed mine, then he glanced back at me, almost like he was trying to see if my question was sincere.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. “But the landscapes are what sell best on the street.”

  “They’re good. Really good.” I looked at him again to find him staring back at me, an unreadable expression on his face. “Your work stood out to me, which is why I stopped. I had no idea the paintings were yours. But they’re the best I’ve seen in the square.”

  At those words, something changed in him. He didn’t exactly smile, but the intensity of his glare lessened, and his frown diminished. Thank god! Progress.

  “How long have you been in Paris?” I asked.

  “Almost a year.”

  I wanted to say Where did you go? I looked for you. I tried to find you. But the words lodged in my throat. All I could manage was, “Do you have an apartment here?”

  He nodded. “Latin Quarter.”

  “Really?” My place was in the same district. That meant…maybe…MAYBE I’d get to see him again. Maybe he’d forgive me. Maybe… “Do you have a studio?”

  “In my apartment.”

  “That’s just…I’m really happy for you, Dare.” I smiled at him. My real smile—not happy, but real. Pain still filled my chest, but there was something different about the sting this time. It was less sharp, more bittersweet.

  His lips lifted at the corners just a bit, but his mouth immediately hardened when his gaze landed on something behind me.

  “Ah, chérie!” Lucien said, coming up beside me and smelling like an ashtray. “I have found you.” He put his meaty hand on my ass.

  My entire body stiffened, stunned by the crude, abrupt gesture.

  By the time I recovered enough to smack Lucien’s hand away, Dare’s face had already become chiseled marble—cold and immobile. Hurt burned anew in his stony, dark eyes. He looked at me like he had no idea who I was, then turned and began to stalk away.

  “No, wait!” I called after him, pushing past Lucien. “It’s not what you think!”

  Dare turned and glared at me even as he kept walking.

  “Don’t, Reagan.” He raised his hands, his eyes glass-hard. “Just fucking don’t.”

  And then he disappeared into the crowd.

  three

  Just like that, Dare was gone. Again.

  I rushed around the square, searching for his tall frame, the black shirt he was wearing, the messy head of short hair…nothing.

  No-fucking-thing.

  Only laughing tourists, kissing lovers, and other people’s happiness.

  Mocking me.

  With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart,
I gave up. It was useless. He was already gone, and even if I managed to locate him in the sea of tourists, there was no way in hell he would talk to me now.

  I stormed away from Lucien, pushing my way through the people milling about. If I could’ve lost him in the crowd I would have. No such luck.

  “Reagan! What is the matter?” He grabbed at the sleeve of my cropped sweater and I jerked my arm forward, picking up my pace.

  “Go away!” I stopped short, and he slammed into me, wrapping his arms around me to keep us from falling. “Let go of me!” I pushed him away again and turned to glare at him.

  “Merde,” he said. Shit. His slicked-back hair was slightly disarrayed, and his dull gray eyes widened as he took in my face. “Mon dieu! You look like you breathe fire.”

  I shut my eyes and all I could see was Dare slipping out of my reach. Over and over again. And I fell apart, unable to hold on to my emotions any longer. Tears welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. A sob rose in my throat that I couldn’t force back down no matter how much I wanted to. That black hole in my chest grew to a gaping vortex of pain.

  For the first time in three years, I couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stuff the tears back down. The dam broke and overflowed right there on the street.

  Lucien’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and his eyes darted around the square like he didn’t know what to do. He managed to guide me over to a table at a café without touching me this time, then motioned for me to sit down as he ordered two coffees.

  Which would’ve been sweet if I didn’t hate coffee with a passion.

  “Why the tears, chérie?” he said.

  “That…was…Dare,” I choked out between sobs. “I…finally…found him…again…and now…he’s…GONE.”

  “Oh, I see. He was your lover.” Lucien smoothed back his hair in a well-practiced motion. He reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t worry. I will help you forget this man, no?”

  Um, NO. Not if he was thinking—

  “One summer in Paris will cure you. This, I know.” As he handed me a tissue, his smile seemed almost genuine. Like he was a concerned uncle. Well, one who wanted to get in my fucking pants.