Untamed (Untamed #1)

by Green, Victoria

  It was breathtaking. And I had to know more. More about who created her.

  I snapped a few photos in hopes that Sabine would know where to find the artist. Maybe he or she had a collection that could be a good fit for the gallery’s upcoming showcase. Not to mention I wanted to own one.

  The thrill rushing through my body and igniting all my senses was similar to what I’d experienced at the club last week with Dare. Kind of like falling in lust at first sight. I needed more paintings. I wanted to own all of them. I searched the canvases for a signature, finally locating one in the bottom right corner.

  WILDE.

  Go figure. Wilde was untamed.

  And I was in art lust.

  fourteen

  “When are you going to come work for me full time, chérie?” Sabine said, the lilt of French coloring her words.

  I looked around the gallery and sighed. “Un jour.” That was my response every time.

  One day.

  “Bientôt?” And that was what she always said. Soon?

  “Soon.” I hoped. Though if my parents had their way it would be never.

  “Did you have a chance to attend the exhibit on Thursday night?” Sabine asked.

  Guilt wound through me. “No. I had to go to a seminar.”

  Dark eyebrows lifted gracefully. “Art seminar?”

  “I wish,” I said. “Boring seminar.”

  “Oh, chérie. There isn’t enough time in life for boring.” She tsked her disappointment, but quickly followed up with a bright smile. “Next time, don’t be the one who says ‘I wish.’ Be the one saying ‘Oui, bien sûr!’ Say yes to anything and everything that makes you smile. Oui à la vie. Oui à l’amour. Oui à l’art.”

  If anyone could get away with throwing her hands up in the air while reciting made-up mottos, it was Sabine Rochard. With her raven-black hair pulled into a bun and held in place with two green chopsticks, a bright kimono, and luminous skin the most beautiful shade of deep, dark brown, she often reminded me of a living, breathing piece of art. “Sing it with me, chérie!” she cried and repeated her chant.

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

  I groaned. “That sounds like a very tall order, Sabine. How about just a ‘hell yes to art’ for now?” Pulling out my phone, I scrolled to the photos I’d taken earlier. “I may not have gone to the seminar, but this morning I did hunt down something I know you’ll really like.”

  “Something I’ll really like?” She leaned over my shoulder to peek at my screen. “I’ve never seen you so sure of yourself, Reagan. There is hope, after all! We shall make an art buyer of you yet, no matter what your parents say.”

  “Vive la résistance!” I pumped my fist in the air, and then flipped through the pictures I’d taken at Dare’s apartment. “Have you heard of this artist by any chance? Wilde?”

  “Wilde?” She frowned. “Non.”

  “But his work looks familiar, doesn’t it?”

  She squinted, proceeding to hmm and hah her way through all of the images. “Very good. Like Vogel’s work, no?”

  “That’s what I thought at first, but it’s quite different if you study it carefully.” I zoomed in on the image of the Japanese woman. “Look at his style. The muted colors on these nudes are so unique. Vogel loves his vibrant skin tones and is known for the bright colors he uses on the eyes. In these images, there’s always a feature that vividly stands out, but each time it’s something else. Here, it’s the dark hair. In this other one, the high cheekbones. Oh, and here—the nipples.”

  “It’s like the artist is highlighting the women’s most unique features.”

  “Their best features,” I whispered, completely mesmerized by the paintings.

  “Every one of those models is in love with him,” Sabine said matter-of-factly. “Or her.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Look at the way they’re gazing at us. Or, rather, at the artist. It’s clearly unrequited love. Sad and bittersweet. So beautiful. You’re looking for someone striking. And powerful. And talented. Man or woman, this person has something special.”

  “Oh, god! I could spend all day discussing their work, Sabine.”

  She nodded. “You shall find me the artist, yes? Then we’ll discuss it together.”

  But how? Wait. Dare had to know who the artist was if he had multiple paintings in his apartment.

  “I’ll find them, Sabine,” I promised.

  Which meant I would have to see Dare again.

  Thank you, mysterious painter!

  Dare called a little before nine that night. I’d just returned from getting coffee down the street—it was going to be a long night of studying.

  “Reagan,” he said. No polite niceties, no sweet nickname. “I just got home from work and there is a red Mercedes parked in front of my apartment. Also a set of car keys on my counter. I’m not sure how else to word this, so…what the fuck?”

  “Let me guess, you hate the color?”

  “Reagan.” My name was a growl on his lips. “This isn’t funny. I didn’t ask for this. The last thing I want from anyone—especially you—is fucking charity.”

  “But your work. Dalia said you can’t—”

  “That’s my business.” He was breathing so hard I could practically feel his anger vibrating through my phone. “I said we were even. I’m not going to get you in trouble with the law or your insurance, so—”

  “It’s not about that.”

  “You can’t just give me a car!”

  “I can. And I did,” I said. “Dare, I broke yours. You need a car way more than I do. I like to walk whenever I can. And my parents have so many vehicles they can’t even keep track of them all. Their driver is going to bring another one over for me tomorrow. I bet you any money they won’t even know it’s gone from the garage. And if they do, they won’t care.”

  “I’m glad to hear you have cars to spare and money to bet, Princess, but I don’t want any part of it,” he shot back.

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re not being fair.” Princess irked me. That’s not who I was. “Look, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I felt bad and tried to redeem my stupid actions. Maybe I didn’t go about it the best way, but I did the only thing I knew how. Leaving the car for you wasn’t meant to be some malicious act or fucking charity. I didn’t do it because I wanted to save my ass or even because I pitied you, Dare. I just thought it was the right thing to do. If that makes me a princess or a selfish bitch then I’ll take it back.”

  Dare was quiet for a moment. “Shit, Ree.”

  “Forget it.” I shut my eyes and tried to will away the tightness in my chest. Stop caring, Reagan.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I just can’t use your Mercedes,” he said, his voice softening. “Not just because it feels wrong, but have you seen my place? That car is worth more than the entire building.”

  “Just borrow it until yours is fixed,” I said. “It’s a week, Dare. Only a fucking week.”

  He was quiet again and then said, “I guess so.” A few seconds later, he added. “Thank you. I’ll make sure—”

  “Now about that color,” I jumped in before he could finish.

  “Ha-ha. You’re hilarious,” His voice warmed. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Aside from rejoicing about escaping your wrath?”

  He laughed. “Naturally.”

  “Homework.” I groaned. “Oh, and trying to find the most creative way to get out of a meeting with my father’s political advisors.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It is.” Too serious. Already I was sick of it and they hadn’t even gotten started. “What do you think about the tried and true I-got-abducted-by-aliens excuse?”

  He thought for a moment. “Too cliché.”

  “A mugging in Central Park?”

  “Too brutal. But believable,” he said. “How about going for something simpler. Like telling them you’re too busy having dinner with an incredibly talented cook?”


  I laughed. “They’d never buy it. I don’t know any of those.”

  “Well, you only currently know him as an incredibly talented something else.” I could hear the mischievous smirk in Dare’s voice.

  “Oh, THAT guy.” He was so incredibly talented I could feel my cheeks heat at the mere thought of the things we’d done last night.

  “Yeah, that guy would like to thank you for lending him your car.”

  I frowned. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” It wasn’t just the political meeting. It was Dare. I’d already spent more time with him than any other guy in years. What was worse, I liked it. I hadn’t wanted to leave his apartment this morning.

  Dinner. It just wasn’t a smart move.

  “Well, if you change your mind, I’m making my famous mac and cheese,” he said. “It sounds simple, but it’s a secret recipe that I promise will be worth your time.”

  “You’re really cooking? By yourself? With your own hands?”

  “Yeah, I gave my chef the week off.” He laughed. “Don’t worry, Princess. My gardener and maid are still here. So if your driver—”

  “Once again, that’s not what I meant!” Still, I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s just that no one has ever offered to cook for me.” I’d been on countless dates to fancy restaurants with world famous chefs, but cooking at home? Never. “Honestly, I’ve never even had mac and cheese.”

  “What?” he said. “Never?”

  “Nope.” My parents had fed me foie gras when most kids got mac and cheese.

  “Then it’s decided. You’re coming over. I’m going to change your life.”

  He already had. A thrill ran through me.

  Fuck.

  “I’ll try to make it,” I said, even though I knew I shouldn’t. I needed to run while I still could. “Dare, I have to—oh, wait! I have a quick question about some artwork in your apartment.”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “There are a couple of nudes by someone named Wilde.”

  “Oh, those.”

  “I’d really like to find out more about the artist.”

  Dare was quiet for a moment. “Tell you what, if you find a way to make it to dinner, I’ll ensure he comes by.”

  “You’d really do that?”

  “Sure. It’s a deal. I’ll even push the dinner to nine o’clock, so you have some time to go to your important political meeting, Princess.” He cleared his throat, then said, “See you tomorrow, Ree.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said. Tomorrow I would be one step closer to Wilde.

  And Dare.

  Again.

  fifteen

  Sunday evening was abnormally hot for September—the kind of night that inspired bad decisions. I finished my homework, but as soon as I put on my Mother-Approved Oscar de la Renta pencil dress, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. The wool was too itchy and hot against my skin, my Jimmy Choos made me feel like I wasn’t standing on solid ground, and the red lipstick my mother had insisted I wear was too dark, too much.

  I looked like I was going to a funeral.

  I felt like it, too.

  Without really thinking it through, I made the decision right then. I washed my face and ripped off the dress, then put on jean shorts, a cropped, sleeveless top, and flats. SO much better. I pulled out my phone, thanked the gods my mother’s voicemail picked up, and begged off, claiming I’d pulled an all-nighter and had been up for thirty-six hours straight. I told her I’d be turning off my phone and just sleeping so I’d be in good shape for class tomorrow morning, and that I knew she’d understand because of how important my classes were to my future.

  By the time my cab pulled up in front of Dare’s apartment complex, I felt more like myself than I had in a long time, and didn’t feel even remotely bad for ducking out on my parents. Screw mayoral debates and codes of conduct and video trackers. Screw perfect, little Reagan.

  Wait. I did want to get screwed.

  Just not by Marcus and Eleanor.

  Although, as I walked up the three flights of stairs, I realized that I wasn’t coming here just for the sex. My heart pounded with excitement at seeing Dare. Yeah, just seeing him. I wanted to know everything about him. And I wanted to meet Wilde. The thought of getting my hands on some of his art made me giddy.

  This was so much better than politics.

  Dare didn’t answer right away, and I realized that I was way early. I tried calling his number and could hear the phone ring unanswered inside. It had been stupid of me to show up unannounced. He might still be at work or at the store. Or maybe he’d gone out for drinks.

  Just as I was about to turn around and go, the door swung open and my breath hitched as my gaze met his bare, wet torso.

  Helloooo, muscles. And tattoos.

  Dark, damp hair clung to his forehead, going in a mess of directions that made me want to run my fingers through it. His skin glistened as water droplets trailed down his chest and over the peaks and valleys of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his low-riding jeans. The top few buttons of his pants were undone as if he’d just stepped into them, revealing a sexy triangle of muscle and making it very clear he was going commando.

  Again.

  It took every ounce of self-control to keep from licking my lips.

  “You’re early,” he said, sounding pleased.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s only seven, but I…” I wanted to see you.

  “You were hungry?” His voice dropped to a teasing low.

  “For the mac and cheese? Totally.”

  His chest vibrated with a deep, husky laugh. “Of course. Come on in.” He turned to the side so I could slide past him.

  “Thanks.” I crossed my hands over my chest to keep myself from doing something stupid like reaching out and running my fingers across that sexy grin, then sliding them down his chest and stomach into—no. I stopped myself because if I thought about it much longer, I would lose all control.

  Dare did up his jeans and pulled out a stool from the breakfast bar. “Have a seat. I’m just going to finish toweling off, then get started on dinner.”

  “Can I help?” I said.

  His mouth quirked. “With the toweling off or the dinner?”

  And I actually thought about it because now that I was here all I wanted to do was get my hands on him again. And my lips.

  God. I was so fucked.

  “Sit tight, Princess,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

  The moment he disappeared into the bathroom, I walked over to Wilde’s paintings to look through them again, and confirmed what I’d known right away—the artist would be a perfect fit at La Période Bleue.

  “So you really like them?” I hadn’t heard him come back and startled at his voice. He stood leaning against the wall, a black t-shirt stretched across his chest.

  “Is the painter still coming? I’m dying to meet—” Something in his eyes stopped me. I looked down at the canvas. Up at Dare. Down to his long fingers and paint-speckled jeans. Back up to the spark in his eyes. “YOU? You told me you were a house painter.”

  He shrugged. Just freaking shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “You’re Wilde?!” I was in serious peril of fangirling.

  “Dare Wilde,” he said, extending his hand. “Nice to officially meet you.”

  “Dare, and never Daren, right?”

  The light in his eyes dimmed as his jaw tightened. “My mom is the only person in the world who can get away with Daren. It’s my father’s name. And she still clings to it because she can’t fully kick the habit.”

  “Well, Dare Wilde,” I said, placing my hand in his, “nice to officially meet you, too. Reagan McKinley.”

  “You look so uncomfortable saying that.”

  I looked down at the painting next to my legs so he wouldn’t see the blush on my face. “I don’t know what makes me more uncomfortable…my first name or my last.”

  His fingers nudged mine. “Then how about I stick to Ree?”

  “I’
d like that.” I waved my hand at the paintings. “You’re really good. Why are you painting houses when you can do THIS? Why aren’t you screaming it from the rooftops? If I was this talented, I’d want the entire world to know.”

  “Nobody cares,” he said, shrugging. “Being an artist in this city doesn’t put food on the table. Especially not when you have three other people relying on you.”

  “So what does?” I asked.

  “Very little. Right now, making sure I put the right shade of rich on my clients’ walls gets us by. No one gives a shit about art.”

  “I do.” I turned to face him. “I care.”

  “Do you want to stir the cheese sauce while I do the pasta?” Dare asked.

  I was watching him work from across the counter—a safe distance from the food, but close enough I could enjoy the view. Him cooking for me was so freaking sexy.

  “I don’t know how to cook,” I said. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

  He laughed. “There’s very little you can do to mess this up, Ree.”

  I shook my head and raised my arms in protest. “I really can’t.”

  Turning from the stove, he grabbed my hands and pulled me from the stool. He brought me around to stand in front of him, my back to his chest.

  “It’s easy.” He placed his hands over mine, interlocking our fingers. “And I’m a really good teacher,” he whispered in my ear as he guided my fingers around the handle of the wooden spoon. “Hold on and move it in circles.”

  There was a tattoo of a paintbrush on the inside of his forearm, the bristles pointing toward his palm, and it pressed against my skin as he began to move.

  “Nice and slow.” His voice caressed my ear and sent shivers through me. “Just like that.”

  Oh, god. I bit down on my lip. Was cooking always this hot? Or was it just my teacher who made it so erotic?

  “So you’ve really never cooked a single thing in your life?” He nipped my ear as he spoke and I couldn’t keep from moaning.

  I shook my head. “It’s embarrassing, I know. You don’t have to say anything.”