Chapter 1

      Brianna Hamilton had a love-hate relationship with the paparazzi. Always had, likely always would. And because today her feelings for the aggressive, money-hungry jerks verged on the latter, she strode briskly past the legions of photographers jockeying for position in front of the red carpet outside the world-famous Carrousel du Louvre in Paris. Her hands were so slick with sweat she struggled to hold on to her satin evening bag, and each step she took increased her fear, her anxiety. Keep smiling and no one will ever know that you’re an emotional wreck. Or that you cried yourself to sleep last night.

      The brisk, early October breeze whipped her lush, shoulder-length curls around her face, and the hem of her strapless burgundy dress flapped so high in the air Brianna feared she’d just flashed the French paparazzi an eyeful of her booty. The scene on Rue de Rivoli was insane, more frenzied than a Twilight premiere and twice as loud. Cameras flashed, screaming fans waved signs, helicopters buzzed overhead and paramedics were on hand in case someone went into cardiac arrest after seeing their favorite globe-trotting star.

      “Brianna, where’s your sister?”

      “What rehab clinic is Bailey hiding in?”

      “Do you have a problem with drugs and alcohol, too?”

      Questions swirled around her, fast and furious. They came from every direction, every angle. The voices taunted her, teased her, conjured up painful, gut-wrenching memories Brianna couldn’t escape. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, but she waved at the crowd and then rushed inside the lobby as fast as her six-inch high heels could take her.

      Sucking in a quick breath—which did little to calm her nerves—Brianna touched a hand to her stomach, terrified she was going to hurl. But she wouldn’t.

      Inside the auditorium, the lights were low, the atmosphere was festive and the air was filled with the heady scent of wine, perfume and fresh flowers. Everyone who was anyone was in Paris for Fashion Week, and the room was full of entertainers, socialites and A-list stars from around the globe.

      Studly male waiters sporting bow ties marched briskly around the room offering champagne, hors d’oeuvres and toothy smiles. Everywhere Brianna looked people were mingling, schmoozing and posing for pictures. High-pitched laughter bounced off the ceilings and ricocheted around the room, but the loud, cheerful sound didn’t brighten her mood.

      Sitting down in her satin-draped front row seat, she crossed her legs and waited impatiently for the Fendi fashion show to begin. Brianna loved the sights and sounds of Paris and had been to the city dozens of times over the years, but this year her heart just wasn’t in Fashion Week. She wanted to be with her sister, Bailey, somewhere far away from the crowds, the pushy photographers and the prying eyes of the media.

      But her parents, Roger and Lila Hamilton, wouldn’t hear of her going to St. Thomas, where they’d sent Bailey for some much-needed rest. Not even to comfort her kid sister, the person she loved more than anything. They didn’t want anyone to tip off the press about Bailey’s location, so Brianna had no choice but to stay away. After much prodding from her mother, Brianna reluctantly packed her bags for Paris and boarded the family jet first thing Monday morning. The week had been a blur of last-minute fittings, tension-filled meetings and mistake-riddled rehearsals that dragged on for hours, but now that the Roger Hamilton Designs fashion show was over, Brianna realized all the stress and drama had been worth it. The fashion show had been an enormous success, and now she could finally sit back and relax.

      Her gaze swept through the fashionably dressed crowd. Women in fitted designer dresses with perfectly coiffed hair snapped pictures with bejeweled cell phones, while the steely-eyed editor of Vogue spoke quietly to her assistant, who jotted notes in a leather-bound notebook. The excitement in the auditorium was palpable, almost suffocating. Brianna wished someone would crack open a window or jack up the air-conditioning.

      But not everyone was watching the show.

      A burly photographer in dark sunglasses was leering at her as he swung his high-powered camera lens in her direction.

      Brianna snatched the program off her lap and shielded her face. Take that, stupid! What she really wanted to do was whack the photographer upside the head with it, but she inhaled a deep, calming breath instead.

      He was supposed to be taking pictures of the glamorous models gliding down the runway, and the rows upon rows of celebrities seated along the stage, not of her—a quiet, low-key fashion designer who preferred being behind the scenes. But ever since her sister’s disappearance at Lincoln Center in New York last month, the paparazzi had been chomping at the bit for pictures of her family. And the constant scrutiny was getting to her. For as long as Brianna could remember, the media had always had a rabid fascination with her family, but these days the public’s curiosity was insatiable and completely out of control.

      Brianna told herself not to go there, not to think about what had happened to Bailey weeks earlier, but she couldn’t stop the questions that rose in her mind. Why would someone kidnap Bailey, knock her out and plant drugs on her? Someone was out to destroy her sister’s flourishing modeling career and ruin the Hamilton family name—but why? What had Bailey ever done to deserve being attacked?

      Brianna blinked back the tears in her eyes. It had been almost a month since the frightening, horrific attack, and she still couldn’t make sense of why it had happened. Bailey was the life-of-the-party, a beauty who lit up every room she entered and, although the modeling industry was as cutthroat as the Mafia, her sister didn’t have any enemies. Not one.

      Bailey was the face of Roger Hamilton Designs and a statuesque, exotic-looking beauty who was outgoing, passionate about life and outrageously funny. Or at least she used to be. Every time Brianna spoke to Bailey at the resort her parents had shipped her off to in St. Thomas, her sister sounded stressed, on edge. She refused to leave her hotel suite and spent hours on end lying in bed, reliving every second of her brutal attack.

      Lights flashed in Brianna’s face, causing her to return to the present. Dropping the catalog on her lap, she cheered along with the audience. Putting all thoughts of the attack out of her mind, she watched as the models commanded the stage

      Brianna sat in her chair, marveling at the response of the crowd, at how everyone in the room seemed to be on the edge of their seat. It shouldn’t have surprised her. The vibrant, cutting-edge gowns were eye-catching, the models were stunning and the techno music was so lively Brianna temporarily forgot all about the drama surrounding her family—and the devastating secret that kept her up at night. She loved this world, loved how fashion united people from different cultures and backgrounds, and was aware how fortunate she was to be a Hamilton.

      Brianna heard the buzz in the crowd and knew another A-list star had just entered the auditorium. Curious to see who the new arrival was, she tore her gaze away from the stage and searched the international crowd for the fashionably late celebrity.

      That’s when Brianna saw him.

      A man so fine she felt her eyes widen and her mouth fall open.

      The drop-dead sexy heartthrob was a full head taller than every other man in the room and moved with pride and confidence. Sporting a camel-brown coat, a white turtleneck sweater and black dress pants, he radiated a cool, casual vibe. Brianna gave him the once-over, and she liked what she saw so much that she did it again. The second time, her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she undressed him with her eyes. Her body was suddenly humming with need, so inflamed with desire that R-rated thoughts filled her mind. Brianna hadn’t been intimate with anyone since her divorce and, up until now, hadn’t given much thought to ending her twelve-month sexual drought.

      Why would I? she thought, her