The many styles of love

Model Bailey Hamilton made headlines when she was kidnapped and then rescued. Now, TV documentary producer Micah Jones has made her an offer she wants to refuse: a candid interview to stop wild rumors that threaten her career. Micah’s tempting Bailey to let down her barriers and give in to passion.

The last person to interview Bailey before she was taken, Micah blames himself for what happened. Determined to make amends, he’s blindsided by his desire for the exotic Manhattan model. Speculation about her disappearance thrusts Bailey into the eye of the storm again, and their affair could be over before it begins. Will Micah uncover the truth and avoid the media circus that could cost him his future with the woman he loves?

After several more moments of indulging in their intensely erotic kiss, Micah pulled back. His chest heaved with labored breaths. His eyes were wide with surprise, as if he couldn’t yet fully comprehend what had just passed between them.

“Uh, I should…” He pointed toward the elevator.

Bailey nodded. She couldn’t speak in coherent sentences either.

Micah gestured to the door of her apartment. “I won’t leave until you’re safely inside.”

Her heart pinched at his compassion. He was such a gentleman.

She took out her key and unlocked the door, then turned back and gave him a wave. It seemed woefully inappropriate after the explosive kiss they’d just shared.

“Good night,” she said. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

Micah nodded. “Good night.”

Bailey looked over her shoulder one last time before she entered the apartment. She closed and locked the door behind her, shutting her eyes tight as she banged her head against the wood.

“Should I even ask?”

Her eyes flew open at the sound of her sister’s voice. Brianna sat on the couch, her feet tucked underneath her, a sketch pad in her lap.

“I’m in so much trouble,” Bailey said.

And it had nothing to do with a crazed kidnapper. This time, she knew exactly what the danger looked like…and how it tasted.

FARRAH ROCHON

had dreams of becoming a fashion designer as a teenager, until she discovered she would be expected to wear something other than jeans to work every day. Thankfully, the coffee shop where she writes does not have a dress code.

When Farrah is not penning stories, the avid sports fan feeds her addiction to football by attending New Orleans Saints games.

Runaway

Attraction

Farrah Rochon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Lauryn and Brandon,

Auntie Farrah loves you!

Every time I think of you, I give thanks to my God.

—Philippians 1:3

Dear Reader,

If you take a look at my bio, you’ll see that as a teen I had my heart set on becoming a fashion designer. Well, things didn’t work out quite the way I planned. I was bitten by the writing bug in college and the rest, as they say, is history.

So you can imagine my elation when I was asked to participate in The Hamiltons: Fashioned with Love continuity series. Through my research for Bailey and Micah’s story, I was able to relive some of those long-ago dreams of working in the fashion industry. I discovered that while New York fashion is fun, fast-paced and exciting, I am much better suited to writing about the industry than actually working in it.

I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the thrilling world of New York fashion. Please let me know what you think. You can contact me on Facebook, Twitter or at my website: www.farrahrochon.com.

Happy Reading,

Farrah Rochon

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Bailey Hamilton sat in pensive silence in the backseat of the black Mercedes S600 as it rolled down Columbus Avenue. She practiced the deep-breathing techniques she’d seen a character in a movie use once as a means of calming her nerves. She had no idea if she was doing it correctly. If the butterflies fluttering in her stomach were any indication, that answer was a resounding no.

She clasped her hands together in her lap, trying her best to stop the anxious fidgeting that had plagued her all morning. That wasn’t working, either.

The car stopped at a traffic light and a sea of pedestrians flowed past it, all of them going about their day as if this was a normal Tuesday afternoon. For most of them, it probably was. She, on the other hand, had to think long and hard to remember what normal felt like. Her biggest fear over these past few months was that normal was destined to become nothing more than a memory.

I will not let that happen.

Bailey had made that promise to herself before leaving her family-mandated exile in the Virgin Islands last week. She’d existed in a bubble of uncertainty for the past two months. She would not allow another day of her life to be dictated by the actions of the lunatic who’d robbed her of so much already. Today was the first step on the road to normal, and she was more than ready to get there.

Yet with each inch of asphalt the tires traveled, her stomach knotted with growing nerves. She shut her eyes tight behind oversize sunglasses and rested her head against the seat back, apprehension rushing through her despite her efforts to curb it.

She was the one who had insisted on this press conference, which would bring her face-to-face with the media after nearly two months of seclusion. At this point, it was a necessity.

She was fed up with the wild speculations being tossed about by the press, rumors that were becoming more outlandish by the day. The more her family tried to shield her from the outside world, the more rabid the media became. It was time she faced them.

The car pulled into the parking garage on 65th Street underneath Lincoln Center. Bailey’s chest grew tight as her heart started the emphatic pounding that signaled a panic attack. She’d learned to recognize the signs over the past couple of months.

Bailey willed herself to calm down, focusing on filling her lungs with deep gulps of air.

“You can do this,” she quietly declared.

It had taken a full-fledged campaign to convince her family that she was emotionally strong enough to confront the media. She refused to show even an ounce of weakness. She’d even insisted that the press conference be held at the very site where she had been abducted two months ago, just hours before she was to take to the runway during Fashion Week as the lead model for her family’s fashion label, Roger Hamilton Designs.

But as she remained rooted in the backseat of her brother’s car, mere yards from that stark basement where she had been found unconscious, Bailey questioned her previous bravado. She should have taken her sister, Brianna’s, advice and held the press conference at RHD’s studio in SoHo. Maybe facing the press—and her demons at the scene of the crime—was taking on too much, too soon.

“No, you can do this,” Bailey reiterated.

“Yes, you can,” her brother Daniel said from the front seat.

Bailey’s eyes connected with his in the rearview mirror and she smiled. Thank goodness for her family. As much as she begrudged their zealous overprotectiveness, she would not have survived this ordeal without their support.

Bailey sucked in one last cleansing breath as Daniel got out of the car and opened the back door. She clasped the hand he held out to her.

“Look, Bailey.” Daniel hesitated, his eyes darting to the garage’s exit. “I meant what I said. You can do this. But remember that you don’t have to. Just say the word and we’re out of here.”

“Backing out is not an option.” She gave her brother a firm nod. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She squeezed his hand. “I need to do this, Daniel. I’m done hiding. I want to show the world that I’m not broken.”

Especially the person who attacked me...who is still out there.

Bailey couldn’t ignore the streak of alarm that raced through her body at the thought that her attacker was still at large—and possibly even among the reporters gathered.

Calling on the resilience she used in the cutthroat world of modeling, Bailey put her fear in check and took a moment to check her appearance in the car’s gleaming exterior. The pleated chocolate slacks and cream-colored turtleneck underneath her favorite belted, rust-colored peacoat from RHD’s fall collection suited her personality much more than the glammed-up fashions she wore when strutting across a runway.

Satisfied with the image reflecting back at her, she turned to her brother.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” she said with an overly bright smile. She could tell by the tension bracketing Daniel’s mouth that he saw right through her false optimism.

They started for the plaza at Lincoln Center, where a collection of reporters and cameramen waited. A podium had been set up in front of the fountain, with the Metropolitan Opera House as the backdrop. There was a hum of excited energy buzzing around the courtyard, which only served to ratchet up Bailey’s nerves.

Before the incident back in September, she’d thrived on dealing with the press, always ready to flash them a smile as they covered her rise to stardom. But now trepidation pebbled her skin at the sight of them gathered there. She resented the vulnerability the press exposed within her, the outright terror she felt at having to face their questions.

Her entire family stood just to the right of the podium. A lump formed in Bailey’s throat at their show of support, ready to act as a wall of defense between her and the media.

Her mother, former fashion model Lila Hamilton, broke away from the pack, striding across the plaza in her signature six-inch heels and a chic cashmere sheath.

“How are you feeling?” her mother asked, rubbing a soothing hand along Bailey’s arm. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she added, not giving Bailey the chance to answer her question.

“I already tried that,” Daniel said. “She’s determined.”

The concern on her mother’s face nearly did Bailey in, but she couldn’t allow it to deter her. She gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be okay,” she reassured both her mother and herself.

Still holding hands, they continued the last few yards to where the others were gathered. Bailey nodded to her father, patriarch of the family and head of Roger Hamilton Designs, who they’d all agreed would be the one to read the prepared statement to the press. He stepped up to the podium, which had at least a dozen microphones attached to it.

“Thank you all for coming,” her father began. “The purpose of this press conference is to clear up the misinformation that has flooded the media since Fashion Week. As you all know, my daughter Bailey was meant to be the lead model for Roger Hamilton Designs this year. Due to unforeseen circumstances, she was unable to model during RHD’s show. There has been much speculation over the cause of her absence, but I want to assure—”

“Bailey, have you been in rehab?” one reporter called out.

Instant rage flashed across her father’s face. Bailey put her hand on his shoulder, halting his retort. “Let me answer them.”

“Absolutely not,” he said with a firm shake of his head.

“Bailey,” her eldest brother, Kyle, warned. She turned to her family, noting the concern on the faces of her mother and her sister, Brianna. Daniel and Kyle both looked as if they would relish doing bodily harm to the reporters.

Bailey turned back to her father. “Remaining silent won’t do me any favors. They won’t be satisfied until they hear directly from me.”

It was more than evident that her father would rather face a den of hungry lions than let her face these reporters, but he reluctantly stepped aside.

Bailey surreptitiously dried her clammy palms on her wool coat before gripping the sides of the podium. Cameras flashed in rapid succession, making her happy that she had kept her sunglasses on. But Bailey refused to hide behind them any longer. She refused to hide behind anything.

She took off the sunglasses and placed them on the podium.

“First, I would like to thank you all for coming.” Her voice was strong and didn’t waver, a mark in the plus column. “When I suggested this press conference, the original plan was to have my father read a prepared statement. But you all are not here to listen to a prepared statement—you’re here to ask questions.”

The reporters started, but she held both hands up.

“However, let me first say this. I have heard a number of theories about my ‘sudden disappearance—’” she made air quotes with her fingers “—during Fashion Week. Everything from entering rehab for drug and alcohol addiction to going to South America for plastic surgery. Let me assure you that I have never used an illegal substance in my life, and the one time I tried to drink anything stronger than champagne I became sick to my stomach.”

“What about the plastic surgery?” asked Nathan Porter, a columnist who had covered RHD’s fashion shows for years.

It stung that a man she’d known since she was a teenager hanging around the RHD studios had the audacity to ask such a question. She pasted on her most flattering smile as she directed her answer to him.

“Forgive my conceit, Nathan, but there is nothing a plastic surgeon could do to improve this face.”

She knew her self-important rejoinder would garner laughs. Bailey had a reputation of being one of the most unpretentious models in the industry. That praise had been delivered by some of the same fashion writers, bloggers and photographers standing before her. These people knew her; they’d helped her get to the brink of superstardom, where she felt herself teetering precariously. She wouldn’t go as far as to call them friends, but when you saw the same faces at every fashion event, you couldn’t help but form an amiable kinship.

The camaraderie Bailey was feeling dried up with the very next question from a contributor to New York’s most popular fashion and beauty blog.

“What about the bag of cocaine that was reportedly found on you the night you disappeared?” the man asked.

“Yes, what about the cocaine, Bailey?”

“How long have you been using?”

“Is it true that you almost overdosed?”

“Why did you stay away for so long?”

“Have you been in rehab?”

The barrage of hostile questions smacked her in the face, causing her to take a step back. Fingers of panic clawed up Bailey’s throat with every ugly inquiry hurled her way.

“I...I was suffering from exhaustion,” she stammered, using the excuse her family had decided upon while she was hidden away in the Virgin Islands.

“Who’s your supplier, Bailey?”

“I don’t have a supplier,” she said. “I have never used drugs in my life!”

“Then what about the cocaine?” asked the reporter who had initially brought up the drugs. “Where did it come from?”

Her father stepped up to the podium. “We understand that there are still many unanswered questions, but because there is still an ongoing police investigation, we cannot share anything specific about the case. However, I want to stress that Bailey was not involved in any type of criminal activity.”

“Do you use the drugs to help you stay so thin?” asked a writer from a major paper, completely ignoring her father’s statement.

“Are you being treated for anorexia, Bailey?” another called.

“This press conference is over,” her father stated, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and guiding her away from the podium, into the fold of her family, who quickly surrounded her.

Bailey couldn’t control the tremors coursing through her body. She knew she should stay and finish the press conference. Walking away now would only feed the frenzy.

But Bailey was too shell-shocked to care, too disoriented by the deluge of antagonistic questions to give a damn that she looked as if she was making a quick escape.

The past ten minutes had served as a reminder that the media was not her friend. It didn’t matter that some of those writers had been reporting on her family’s fashion empire since Bailey was in pigtails. They would turn on her in a hot minute if it meant a juicy headline.

Flanked by her two brothers, Bailey retreated to the parking garage, the sound of the reporters’ questions still ringing in her ears as the brisk November air stung her face.

Her entire family had cautioned her against making a public statement so soon after returning to New York. In fact, they’d wanted her to remain in St. Thomas until the person who’d abducted her had been apprehended. After what had just transpired, Bailey was starting to think that maybe she should have listened to them.

* * *

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Kyle repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time as he paced back and forth, resembling a caged panther.

“Yes, you have.” Bailey kneaded the bridge of her nose. “Several times.”

Sitting with her legs tucked underneath her on the sofa, she clutched a bronze-colored throw pillow to her chest. The entire family was assembled in the living room of her parents’ Central Park West penthouse, in a building her parents co-owned. She and her sister, Brianna, shared an apartment on the tenth floor, and both of her brothers also lived on the premises. However, it was her parents’ home that served as the central meeting place when the family got together.

Every person in this room had witnessed her near meltdown after her father had abruptly ended today’s ill-advised press conference. The abject shame at not being able to handle the situation caused Bailey to squirm with embarrassment.

For the past hour, her main objective had been figuring out ways to hide just how adversely she’d been affected by today’s events. If her family sensed even the slightest indication that her claims of being over the attack were all an act, Bailey knew she would be on a plane back to the Virgin Islands, or to the Swiss Alps or a monastery in Rome. Anywhere but New York, where her abductor was still lurking.

Bailey pulled the pillow tighter to her stomach.

“It was too early for you to put yourself out there like that.” Kyle pointed an accusing finger at her. “Those vultures are ruthless.”

“Those vultures have been good to RHD in the past,” Bailey reminded him. “How many magazine spreads have your designs been featured in?”

“Whatever,” her brother said with a derisive snort.

Kyle’s fiancée, Zoe Sinclair, caught him by his shirt’s hem. Tugging him toward her, Zoe waited until Kyle had seated himself on the arm of her chair before turning to Bailey.

“What’s important is whether or not the press conference accomplished what it was intended to accomplish,” Zoe said. “Do you think it did that, Bailey?”

“I wanted to show them that I’m not a drug addict strung out on cocaine. Maybe I should have passed out photocopies of my medical records. That’s probably the only way they will believe anything I say.”

Brianna came into the room carrying the mug of hot tea Bailey had requested, and took the seat next to her.

“Unfortunately, I think today’s press conference piqued the media’s curiosity more than anything else,” Brianna said. “They’re going to be more intrusive than ever.”

“Should we get a bigger security detail?” Daniel asked.

“No!” Bailey set her tea on the coffee table and stood. “No additional bodyguards. In fact, I don’t want any bodyguards at all.”

“That’s out of the question.” Her father, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout most of the discussion, stood before the marble fireplace, his arms folded over his chest. “We’ve had this discussion already, Bailey. The bodyguards remain until whoever assaulted you is taken into custody.”

“I can’t continue to live like this.” She held her hands out, pleading for understanding. “Do any of you know how annoying it is to have someone following your every move? No, you don’t. Because all of you are free to go wherever you want without a shadow trailing behind.”

“That’s because none of us were knocked unconscious by some madman and left for dead,” her mother reminded her.

“If whoever attacked me wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Her mother flinched, and Bailey instantly regretted her words, even though she knew she spoke the truth. The reason behind her abduction was as unknown today as it had been when it occurred two months ago, but Bailey was convinced that her attacker had not wanted her dead.

At least that was what she told herself. The alternative—that her attacker had intended for her to be found not hours but days later—was too upsetting to contemplate.

Bailey covered her face in her hands, pulling in a deep breath. She looked up to find her mother’s usually confident brown eyes filled with worry.

“I’m sorry,” Bailey said. “But I can’t do this anymore. Am I supposed to stay hidden away forever?”

“It’s not forever. Just until whoever attacked you is caught,” her mother said.

“What if they’re never caught?”

A heavy silence fell over the room as her words hung in the air. Bailey’s entire being recoiled at the thought of her attacker remaining at large, but it was a real possibility, and every one of them knew it. She forced herself to continue.

“We have to face facts.” She took in the stern scowls on her brothers’ faces. “It’s been two months since the incident. The chances of the police finding the person who did this are slim to none.”

“Don’t say that.” The vehemence in her mother’s voice caused Bailey to flinch. But it was spurred by fear, not confidence. “The police are doing everything they can. They are going to arrest whoever did this to you, Bailey.”

“I’m sure they will,” she said, because that was what her mother needed to hear right now. “But I can’t remain in this prison until they’re found.”

“No one is holding you prisoner,” her father insisted. “You can come and go as you please.”

“Of course I can, as long as I have an entourage of muscle heads escorting me.”

“Hey!” Daniel’s brow creased with affront.

Bailey rolled her eyes. “Present company not included.”

“Has the media reported anything about the bodyguards?” her father asked, concerned. “We hired that security company because they assured us the bodyguards would be unobtrusive. We don’t want anyone knowing that you’re under special protection.”

“I know,” Bailey said. “That’s what matters.”

She could tell by the set of her father’s jaw that he wasn’t even close to relenting. And when he immediately changed the subject to a national retailer who had approached RHD about launching an affordable clothing line, she knew the matter of bodyguards was now closed.

Bailey refrained from screaming in frustration, but just barely.

She reclaimed her seat on the sofa, listening with half an ear as the rest of her family discussed the possibility of working with the national retailer. At any other time Bailey would have been right in the thick of it, but not today. She had more important things on her mind, namely getting back control of her life.

She’d surrendered the past two months to fear. But if she continued to hide, the person who kidnapped her would win.

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.

But Micah was not like the rest of them. Bailey had sensed that from the minute she’d sat across from him in September. He’d projected a genuineness that had put her at ease. And the documentary he’d suggested was entirely different from her dealings with the media thus far. She could call an end to it if she felt the need. She would be more in control.

She typed “Bailey Hamilton on Connect” into the search box on her iPad. Several clips of the interview popped up in the results.

Her chin in her hand, Bailey watched the interview for the first time. She was never comfortable in interviews, and it showed on her face. The tight lines around her mouth and that fake laugh she’d just given when Micah had asked her about her yoga ritual were both evidence of her nervousness.

She inwardly cringed as she watched herself prattle on about her very first fashion show, but it was Micah’s next question and her subsequent answer that caused her entire being to quake with dread. He’d asked about her prerunway ritual. Bailey gripped the iPad in both hands, in shock as she stared at herself talking about her routine of arriving to the show site early so she could perform a walk-through of her runway journey.

“Oh, my God,” she said, lifting a shaky hand to cover her mouth.

That was how her attacker had known where to find her. She had just given step-by-step instructions.

“What were you thinking?” she whispered.

She knew what she had not been thinking—that someone had been plotting something sinister against her. How could she have known that answering a perfectly innocent question would turn her world upside down?

That was just it—she could not have known. Just as Micah could not have known that asking such a question would lead to some madman abducting her. She didn’t know Micah very well, but Bailey knew he would never have intentionally put her in harm’s way.

As she studied his face on the screen, that odd warmth she’d experienced the first time she’d met him crawled its way across her skin. There was no denying that he was handsome, with his medium-brown complexion and those intelligent, intense eyes. She’d felt instantly at ease with him, as if it had been just the two of them enjoying an intimate chat.

It had been easy to let her guard down, and it could have very well been her downfall. She would be smarter the second time around.

Wait. Who said there would be a second time around? She had already decided against doing this documentary. She would be crazy to allow Micah Jones to dig into her life.

Of course, if she dictated what was covered in the documentary, it could be the perfect vehicle to do what she had been trying to do with the press conference yesterday. She could convince everyone that she was still the same Bailey. She could control what was said about her.

She could find a semblance of normal.

Bailey stared at the phone for a moment before picking it up.

“Micah Jones,” he answered after the first ring. His voice was solid. Professional. And very, very nice.

Bailey cleared her throat. “Hello again, Mr. Jones. This is Bailey Hamilton.”

There was a slight pause, then, “Uh, Bailey. Hi.”

She could tell she’d shocked him. A bit of that polish had left his voice.

“I may have been a bit rash during your earlier phone call. I’d like to hear more about this documentary you want to do,” she said before she could talk herself out of it. “Are you still interested?”

“Absolutely,” he said, the rest of his professionalism going out the window. He sounded as if he’d just won a sweepstakes. “What made you change your mind?”

“I considered what you said, that this would be my chance to tell my story.”

“There are a lot of people waiting to hear it,” he said. His voice had a soothing cadence—he could land a job as a late-night radio host with ease.

“Do you want to meet at RHD’s studio?” he asked.

Bailey opened her eyes with a start. She hadn’t realized they’d drifted closed.

“Uh, what was that?” she asked.

“I asked if you maybe wanted to meet at RHD. I figure I’ll have to sell the idea to your entire family before we can move forward.”

She snorted a laugh. “You understand how the Hamilton family operates.”

“It’s well-known that your family is a close unit, Bailey.”

“Yes, that closeness is both a blessing and a curse.”

“Really?” She could practically see his quizzical frown. “In what way?”

“Never mind that.” She was not in the mood for delving into her family issues, especially with someone she barely knew. “Does tomorrow work for you?”

“Tomorrow is perfect.” He paused for a moment. “I have a couple of hours in the afternoon. Can we set up something at one?”

“I can manage that.” It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do.

“Thanks for agreeing to this, Bailey.”

“The only thing I’ve agreed to do so far is to meet with you,” she reminded him.

“Thanks for even that much. This is going to be amazing. I promise you won’t regret it.”

But as soon as Bailey ended the call, doubts began to swarm her. The last time she’d sat across from Micah Jones for an interview, she’d inadvertently given some lunatic the means with which to abduct her. Was she setting herself up for something even more sinister?

She gripped the sofa’s armrest as panic cascaded through her. The all-too-frequent tightness in her chest seized the air in her lungs.

“Stop it,” Bailey ordered herself.

She slowly released her grip on the armrest, her chest heaving with her heavy breaths.

She refused to go down this road again today, and she was not backing out of this documentary. She needed to regain the power she’d lost—the power that had been stolen from her by a faceless assailant who continued to haunt her.

Not anymore. Micah Jones had just given her a way to take back control of her life. And she was going to use it.

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