Runaway Attraction

“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.”