Читать книгу Runaway Attraction - Farrah Rochon - Страница 11

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.