Out of Control (Untamed #2)

one

“
M
a 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

D
are
.

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.