Runaway Attraction

That was not going to happen.

The best way to reclaim her old life was to get back to doing the things she used to do. She decided to broach an idea she had been mulling over since she’d returned from St. Thomas last week. She waited until the conversation died down before speaking.

“Before you all leave, there’s something else I wanted to discuss.” Bailey picked up the throw pillow and started fingering the corded edge in an attempt to hide her nerves. “It seems as if the media isn’t about to let up any time soon. So I think we should use the publicity to our advantage.”

She was faced with a roomful of curious looks.

She set the pillow aside and folded her hands in her lap. Taking a deep breath, Bailey announced, “I think RHD should put on a second fashion show.”

There was a beat of silence before Brianna said, “But Fashion Week was just a couple of months ago.”

“So? Is there a law that states that we can only hold a show during Fashion Week?” Bailey shrugged. “I know it’s one of only a few times a year when all eyes are on the fashion industry, but the downside is that we’re competing with every other design house for press. Even though it’s not under ideal circumstances, the fact remains that the spotlight is on RHD right now. Why not take advantage of it?”

Her father shook his head. “You’ve been through enough, Bailey. You need to take it easy.”

“I’ve been taking it easy for two months. If I took it any easier I would be comatose.”

Her father frowned and Bailey instantly felt like a petulant child. Considering she had been discovered unconscious and feared dead, she felt even worse. She may have been the one kidnapped, but she wasn’t her abductor’s only victim. This ordeal had taken a toll on her entire family.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just ready to get back to work.” She turned to her sister, whom she could usually count on as an ally. “Think about it, Brianna. This would be the perfect opportunity to reveal the new resort-wear collection.” She held her hands out in a plea. “All I ask is that you all at least consider my idea.”

She could feel the tension radiating from everyone in the room, but Bailey refused to back down. She needed this. She needed to regain the power she’d relinquished to the bastard who’d turned her life upside down. Getting back on the runway was a surefire way to do that.

“Are you sure about this, Bailey?” Kyle asked. “You saw what happened today.”

“I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for some of the reporters’ questions, but a fashion show is my comfort zone. I can handle it.” Noncommittal murmurs sounded throughout the room. “Please, just consider it,” she practically begged.

With reluctance lacing his words, her father said, “A special event may not be such a bad idea, but the bodyguard stays,” he added.

“Dad—”

“It’s nonnegotiable, Bailey.”

“Dad’s right,” Daniel said. “You need to have someone with you.”

Once again that urge to scream overwhelmed her. She knew her family meant well, but Bailey had never felt more smothered in her entire life, and as the baby of the family, she’d experienced her fair share of smothering. Maybe if she talked to her parents alone, without her siblings offering their two cents, she could get them to budge on their rigid stance.

The conversation soon turned to Kyle and Zoe’s wedding, which would be held Thanksgiving weekend. Bailey feigned enthusiasm but her heart wasn’t in it. How could she talk about wedding favors and flowers while the rest of her life was mired in uncertainty?

An hour later, back in the apartment she shared with her sister, Bailey grabbed a bottle of Italian spring water from the refrigerator and walked over to her favorite spot in the apartment—the window seat next to a gorgeous view of Central Park.

“Hey,” Brianna said from behind her. Bailey jumped so high that water spilled from the bottle. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Bailey could lie and say that she had not been startled, but what would be the point? She’d spent the past week doing everything she could to conceal her anxiety from her sister, but Bailey knew Brianna could see right through her.

Mercifully, her sister just put an arm around Bailey and gave her a comforting squeeze. Bailey leaned into the hug, resting her head against Brianna’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of what you did today,” Brianna said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Bailey blew out a tired breath. “But it was necessary.”

“I guess you’re right,” Brianna said with another reassuring squeeze. “The media isn’t going to stop hounding you until they’re satisfied that they have the full story.”

“Which, if we follow the advice of the detective assigned to my case, they will not get until this creep is caught.”

“True, but at least you proved to them that you’re not going to cave under their pressure. That’s one good thing that came out of it.” Brianna tilted Bailey’s face up to her. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” Bailey said, grateful that she didn’t choke on the lie.

She was a lot of things lately, but okay was not one of them. Flashbacks of being kidnapped assailed her with increasing frequency, stealing the breath from her lungs and causing her to break out into cold sweats. It was not a good look for a fashion model.

She had been trying so hard to reclaim her old life, but how was that even possible when the person who’d wreaked such havoc was still out there? How would she ever feel normal again if she was forced to live under the protection of bodyguards?

Of all the fears her kidnapper had caused, that was the worst of it—fearing that she would never feel normal again.

Chapter 2

“Hey, Chris, did you find that footage from the Preachers for Prosperity scandal?” Micah Jones focused on his computer screen as he talked to his colleague on speakerphone. “I also need clips of Ezra Singleton’s most recent film for tonight’s interview.”

He lifted the papers scattered around his desk with one hand while he used the other to scroll through the online archives of The New York Times as he scanned the results of his most recent search. Micah wanted to double-check the source that would be cited on Connect, the hour-long entertainment news program he hosted and produced on New York’s WLNY cable channel.

Finding the preproduction checklist he’d been searching for, Micah tore his eyes away from the screen long enough to mark off the tasks he’d already completed. Scanning the list, he groaned at the amount that still remained. He could forget taking a lunch today.

Despite the mountain of work he faced, he still couldn’t shake off his biggest distraction.

His eyes traveled to the second computer monitor that sat at a right angle to his main screen, where Bailey Hamilton’s stunning brown eyes stared back at him from yesterday’s press conference at Lincoln Center, striking him in the chest with their staggering beauty.

Micah endured the now-familiar response his body produced whenever he saw her, his gut tensing with want. He leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward the ceiling, his eyes closed tight against the current of desire that charged through his veins. He didn’t even try to fight it anymore. It took all he had just to survive the onslaught of need mere thoughts of this woman created within him.

It was probably a good thing he hadn’t been among the press conference’s invited media. If his body reacted this way to seeing a picture of Bailey, he wasn’t sure he trusted himself to be around her in the flesh.

At first, Micah had been upset about having to watch the press conference on TV like the rest of the masses. He understood that he wasn’t a member of the press corps that routinely covered New York’s fashion scene, but he had been the last person to interview Bailey Hamilton before the shit had hit the proverbial fan in September.

And there, no doubt, lay his answer.

Life had not been kind to Roger Hamilton Designs, and to Bailey in particular, since the evening she had been found passed out in a basement in Lincoln Center, allegedly clutching a bag of cocaine. Her family was probably trying to distance her from anything associated with that time period. Unfortunately, that included him.

Micah could only imagine how much it had hurt her not to participate in Fashion Week. He recalled Bailey’s excitement during their interview as she’d shared the story of being a little girl in the audience at her very first RHD fashion show, dreaming of one day strolling down the catwalk herself.

She’d brought those dreams to fruition in stunning fashion, becoming one of the most talked about up-and-coming models in the industry. That was why he and the rest of the press had been floored when Bailey had missed RHD’s show.

And hours later, when she’d been found with those drugs on her?

Call him a sucker, but Micah refused to believe the rumors running rampant throughout the media and blogosphere. The woman he’d interviewed a few months ago was not a drug addict. He’d seen enough of them in his day to know what a drug addict looked like, even one skilled at hiding their addiction. Something else was going on.

And, like everyone else, Micah wanted to be the one who uncovered the secrets one of New York’s biggest names in fashion was hiding.

Shortly after Bailey had been rushed to the hospital, Micah had made a quick visit to his friend Logan Smith, an NYPD detective. He’d tried to get the inside scoop on the Hamilton story, but Logan, as expected, had refused to release specific details. But Micah had been able to tell that there was more to the story. He needed to find out exactly what that more was.

And he needed to see her again.

That was what this was really about. He wanted—no, he needed—to see Bailey Hamilton again. Like he needed his next damn breath.

Despite her efforts to avoid the paparazzi, she had been photographed and videotaped at least a hundred times since she’d returned to New York last week. But random shots of her getting into cabs or entering RHD wouldn’t cut it. Micah needed to see her in the flesh.

He blew out a frustrated sigh as he forced himself to tear his eyes away from her picture. Just then, an instant message popped up on his screen, reminding him that he had a show to produce.

More important, he had an executive producer of local programming job to land.

That was what he should be concentrating on, instead of the fashion model who took up way too much of his mental energy. The moment their current EP had announced that he was taking a job at a station in San Francisco, Micah had decided to make his move. Was executive producer a bit lofty for a thirty-year-old? Maybe. But Micah sure as hell wouldn’t let that stop him from going for it.

He clicked on the link Chris had provided and downloaded the video, filing it with the rest of the materials for Connect. His show was the highest-rated program in WLNY’s prime-time lineup. It was a running joke among his colleagues that the only reason Connect pulled such high numbers was because viewers wanted to see Micah’s pretty face, but he knew it was all about his guests. He’d been lucky enough to land interviews with some of New York’s most popular celebrities.

Tonight he was interviewing Brooklyn-born-and-bred actor Ezra Singleton, who’d made it out of the same housing development where Micah had grown up. Micah sent his production assistant a reminder to have a montage of clips from Ezra’s past films ready for the lead-in, and then he printed out the list of questions he’d prepared for tonight’s show.

He read the first question three times without comprehending it before tossing the paper aside and pushing away from his desk. How could he concentrate on tonight’s interview when the best idea he’d had in his entire career had just popped into his head?

If he wanted to separate himself from his two colleagues who were vying for the executive producer position, he had to stand out from the pack. And he knew just how to do it.

There was one person in New York that everyone was trying to land for an exclusive, and he’d had the privilege of being the last person to interview her.

Could he convince Bailey Hamilton to sit down for another interview?

“You can damn sure try,” Micah said.

He pulled up Bailey’s number, his thumb hovering over it for a few seconds before he tapped the touch screen. Micah attempted to count the loud beat of his pulse pounding in his ears, but it was too rapid to keep up.

After four rings a smooth, feminine “Hello,” came across the line.

That voice.

His body reacted just as he’d expected it would.

“Hello, Ms. Hamilton. Bailey,” he quickly corrected. She’d given him permission to use her first name during the September interview. He wanted to remind her of that past camaraderie. “This is Micah Jones from WLNY.”

“Oh, yes. Hi,” she answered.

“Hello,” he said again, then winced. For a man who asked questions professionally, his communication skills had plummeted to junior-high-school levels. Micah cleared his throat and tried again.

“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I saw yesterday’s press conference. I’m happy to see that you’re back in New York and doing well.”

“Thank you,” she said, then with a humorless laugh added, “Although there are a few people who may argue the point about me doing well. According to some of the comments I’ve read online, I kept my coat on at yesterday’s press conference to hide the track marks on my arms. Never mind the fact that it was thirty degrees out.”

“Don’t pay attention to that crap. It’s garbage.”

“And this from a reporter,” she said.

“I’m not really a reporter,” he reminded her. “At least not in the traditional sense. I produce, direct and interview.”

“Mr. Jones, was there something you needed, or did you call to give me your résumé?”

Ouch. Okay, so idle-chitchat time was over.

Her voice hadn’t held that edge in September. Micah had no doubts the sharpness in her tone was a direct result of the negative attention that had been heaped upon her and her family these past few months.

“Please, call me Micah,” he said. “And, yes, there was a reason behind my call. As a follow-up to the interview we did—”

“I’m not interested in doing one-on-one interviews at this time.”

“This wouldn’t be an interview,” he quickly interjected.

There was a pause. “What are you suggesting exactly?”

What was he suggesting? He did want a one-on-one. He wanted an exclusive.

“I...I was hoping we could go a step beyond the traditional interview. How do you feel about an hour-long documentary on your life as a model on the cusp of superstardom and a member of New York’s first African-American family of fashion?”

Micah had no idea where that had come from, but he had to admit it was pretty good.

“A documentary?” Skepticism practically seeped through the phone line. “I don’t think so—”

“Hear me out.” He pulled in a fortifying breath and continued. “I understand what you were trying to do with that press conference yesterday.”

“I wanted to reconnect with the media after my short hiatus.”

“You wanted to quell some of the negative attention that Roger Hamilton Designs has received these past few months.” Micah wouldn’t let her lie to him or to herself. “I hate to break it to you, Bailey, but you didn’t accomplish your goal.”

“Oh, thanks.” Her flat tone was drenched in annoyance.

“You’re fighting an uphill battle. The press doesn’t want to hear that you’re fine and that everything is business as usual at RHD. The press wants drama.”

“What the press wants is to catch me snorting cocaine in some seedy back alley.”

“Unfortunately, yes, that’s the type of drama many in the press would love.”

“And you expect me to agree to give you a full hour of it?”

“No,” he stressed. “Look, Bailey, I’m not looking to exploit your situation. And, for the record, I don’t believe those drugs were yours.”

The line grew so quiet that Micah was afraid the call had dropped.

“What makes you so sure the drugs weren’t mine?” she asked. The bite in her tone had lessened.

“Let’s just say that I consider myself a good judge of character, and I don’t see you as someone who would put your body at risk that way. Give me the chance to show the public the Bailey Hamilton I saw back in September.”

“And just who did you see in September?” Not only was there less bite in her tone, but now Bailey actually sounded curious. Micah’s heart started to beat a bit faster.

“I saw someone who was driven and motivated and on top of her game,” he answered. “Someone who was considerate, yet commanded the respect of everyone around her. But that’s not the person I saw at yesterday’s press conference. The person I saw yesterday seemed unsure and completely intimidated.”

Micah caught her frustrated groan.

“Take it from someone who’s been in the media for a while,” he continued. “The more you cower, the less respect they’ll give you and the more vicious they’ll become. Don’t hide from the press anymore, Bailey. I can help you show them that you’re back and better than ever.”

There was another stretch of silence before she asked, “What’s in it for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on. Do you expect me to believe that you want to produce this documentary out of the kindness of your heart, without getting anything in return? Take it from someone who’s been in the modeling industry for a while,” she said, hurling his words back at him. “The stereotypes are a myth. Fashion model does not equal clueless airhead.”

“I don’t think you’re—”

“Do you know how many requests I’ve received for interviews since I returned to New York? How much money I’ve been offered for an exclusive?”

“This isn’t just about getting a story out of you, Bailey. Sure, it would be mutually beneficial, but would that be such a bad thing? I’m giving you a chance to tell your story without the media putting some type of salacious spin on it.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust that you wouldn’t twist the story around to suit your own agenda?”

“That’s not the way I operate. You should know that from our previous interview.”

“I’ve learned a lot about how you reporters operate since our previous interview.”

Having her systematically lump him in with all other reporters left a bitter taste in Micah’s mouth.

“Give me an hour,” he said. “One hour. Let me share my vision, and what I believe I can do for both you and RHD.”

“I’ve already witnessed what the media can do for me, and for my family’s business. It isn’t pretty. Goodbye, Mr. Jones.”

Micah met dead air on the other end of the line. He stared at the phone for several moments, disappointment and disbelief ricocheting in his head. He blew out a frustrated breath as he dropped the phone on the desk, trying to think of a way that talking to Bailey Hamilton could have gone any worse.

* * *

Bailey braced her hands against the kitchen counter and tried to fight the compulsion to check the window and door locks. She’d done so just a few hours ago. Everything was locked up tight. She was safe.

She squeezed her eyes closed, her arms shaking as she fisted her hands against the cold granite. Pinpricks of unease cascaded down her spine, making her skin crawl. She concentrated on taking deep, measured breaths.

“This is absurd,” she whispered.

Unable to fight it a second longer, Bailey pushed away from the counter and raced to the front door. She checked the lock on the knob and the dead bolt. She spent the next ten minutes doing the same on every window in the apartment. She looked in the closets and behind the doors, recognizing that she was being ridiculous, but continuing with her check all the same.

By the time she was done, tears were streaming down her cheeks. The fact that she could not fight the impulse to double-check all of the locks was as scary as the thought of finding one of them unlocked. Bailey knew she was sliding down a slippery slope. She’d told herself that she could handle it, but the more she’d tried to ignore the panic attacks and borderline obsessive behavior, the worse it had become. Maybe once she got back to work, back to normal, things would get better.

As she reclaimed her spot on the sofa and tucked her feet underneath her, she picked up her iPhone.

For the past hour she had been vacillating between calling Micah Jones back and apologizing for the curt way she’d ended their call, and just forgetting about him entirely.

That wouldn’t happen anytime soon. He wasn’t the easily forgotten type.

He also wasn’t to blame for the debacle at Lincoln Center, but she had projected her disgust from the fallout of yesterday’s press conference onto him. Bailey was beyond frustrated that the conference had done absolutely nothing to curb the relentless speculation by the media; however, the fact that Micah was a member of said media was no excuse for her rudeness. He hadn’t asked any of those abrasive questions.

She opened the screen that displayed the most recently received calls, but just as she was about to hit Micah’s number, she returned the phone to the coffee table and picked up her iPad instead. Calling him to apologize would only open herself up to more questions. Besides, in his line of work, he was likely on the receiving end of animosity-riddled phone calls on a daily basis.

Bailey returned her attention to the screen in her lap, flipping through the online images from Fashion Week in Paris. Brianna had attended on behalf of RHD, but her sister had been up to more than just representing the family business while visiting the City of Light. She had been falling in love. Bailey was ecstatic that Brianna had found Collin Childs. After the abrupt end of her first marriage, her sister deserved a boost in the romance department.

Brianna would probably say Bailey deserved a boost, too, but romance was the last thing on Bailey’s mind. She was far more concerned with getting her life back on track.

Oh, and making sure a crazed kidnapper didn’t snatch her again. Yeah, that was pretty important.

She ignored the shudder that ran through her. She was so tired of living in fear, so incredibly frustrated that she couldn’t get past it, no matter what methods she tried. The only thing she’d discovered to take her mind off her anxiety was losing herself in work.

Bailey observed the body language of the expressionless models as they towered above the seated audience, commanding the attention of every eye in the room. She had been modeling professionally for ten years now, since she was sixteen years old, but she was always looking for ways to improve her craft.

She tried to concentrate on the images on the screen, but her brain was having none of it. A sickening feeling settled in Bailey’s stomach as she set the iPad on the coffee table. What else could she do to convince people that she wasn’t some drugged-out fiend?

It wasn’t as if she could blame the media for their speculation. She’d been found unconscious with a bag of cocaine in her hands. On the surface it appeared to be the same old story that had been played out countless times before—a model who was caught up in the high life of hard partying. Why should they believe anything she said when she had that kind of evidence against her?

The police department’s insistence that her family not share the details of the attack had her hands tied. The only thing she could do was continue to insist that she was the same Bailey Hamilton. If only she could figure out a way to remind the public of the person she had been before her disappearance.

Bailey stopped short. Maybe Micah could help.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s not a good idea.”

She’d just learned firsthand what could happen when the media got too close. She would be crazy to deliberately invite a reporter into her personal space.