working up the courage to face the day. Weariness weighed her down. She let her eyes drift shut and her mind float into that never-never land between real sleep and a groggy kind of wakefulness.
She was at the bar, last night but not really last night. She’d laughed, cried, gone over her entire, dreary history with men, and then, just when things seemed their bleakest, she’d looked to the end of the bar, and he’d been there.
Not Bryce.
James.
Chloe groaned, half in pain and half in longing, knowing she was crazy even for dreaming of him.
He looked so good. But then, James always had.
He could have been a model himself, although he hated to hear it. In fact, they’d met when Chloe had mistaken him for a model late for one of her shows. He had that rare quality of being an absolutely beautiful man, but still looking unmistakably masculine, as so few models did.
In the bar, he walked over to her, looking at her with the kind of understanding and concern that made her ache. Then he reached out with one of those perfect hands of his and wiped away her tears. And in the kindest move of all, put his beautiful body between her and the rest of the room, creating a tiny, safe space for her when she was so miserable she just wanted to curl up into a little ball and disappear.
He smelled so good, the way he always did. He’d admitted with a reluctance that bordered on pain that he still thought about her, that he missed her and that he just had to come see for himself that she was all right.
It was ridiculous.
Even in her dream, she realized that.
James Elliott was too proud, too stubborn and too independent to ever admit he missed anyone. But it was a lovely dream, bittersweet and achingly real.
Then she woke up once again, not twenty minutes later, in her bed, yet still very much inside her very own nightmare as fashion runway roadkill.
James fought the impulse all day, but nightfall found him standing on the corner across the street from the big, old Victorian near Prospect Park in Brooklyn that Chloe shared with her various relatives, who all worked for her in the first-floor showroom.
He stared up at the window of the small attic she’d turned into a tiny apartment for herself, where she had some measure of privacy. This after fighting with himself all day about coming anywhere near here.
It felt weirdly stalkerish to be there, just looking up at her window, and he was a man who did not stalk women. He just needed to know she was okay.
Which he couldn’t tell from simply staring at her house.
Still, he felt a little better, just being this close to her.
He waited until the last light went out in her little attic, saw the slightest impression of her, he thought, ghostlike against the sheer curtains, as she walked across the room. He imagined her climbing into bed, her toes cold, letting her warm them on his, his hands hot against her cool, pale skin, tangling in her glorious hair.
So many nights they’d spent that way, together in that room.
He couldn’t have her back, he told himself.
He’d made her crazy, and she’d done the same to him. He was as logical a man as there was on earth, and he knew without a doubt that no one needed to be hurt like that a second time.
So once the light was out, and he knew she was safe in her bed, at least for the night, he turned around and went home, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t be back.
The next morning, James faced the newsstand, hoping to see the usual mix of tabloid headlines screaming about drunken celebrities, corrupt politicians, alien sightings and baseball players on steroids.
No such luck.
That crazy model, Eloise, was back on the covers, in handcuffs, still wearing the wedding dress, her hair going every which way, mascara-streaked tears on her cheek, maybe a few drops of blood on the gown? The bridezilla label had been picked up by every tabloid he saw, now in this humongous font with letters the color of blood.
James winced as he stood there. Bridezilla? Had someone climbed a skyscraper in a bloody wedding gown and swatted at things? He didn’t think so.
What about Chloe? He scanned the news. Supposedly in a fit of rage, she’d destroyed every gown in her showroom with a huge pair of scissors. No way James believed that. She loved the clothes she made too much to ever destroy them, and Chloe didn’t do fits of rage. She just didn’t.
James got to the front of the line to hand over his money for his Wall Street Journal, and Vince said, “Your girl is back.”
“Yeah, I see that.”
“One of my customers just told me about this great video of the whole runway brawl,” Vince confided. “YouTube, that thing the kids like on the computer? Type in ‘Runway Brawl,’ and it’s supposed to come right up.”
James nodded. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. “I’ll do that, Vince.”
When he got to the office, he glared at Marcy, then gave a curt nod for her to follow him into his office. “People are online watching a video of the brawl at Chloe’s show?”
“More than a hundred thousand people so far,” Marcy said.
James grimaced. A hundred thousand? “Someone’s keeping a count?”
“Of course. At the rate the video’s being downloaded, it could go viral at any time.”
Which would be bad for Chloe. “We need to stop that from happening.”
“You can’t stop it. It’s already out there. It has a life of its own now.”
“There has to be a way,” he argued.
Marcy shrugged. “Maybe if Angelina Jolie actually left Brad Pitt or something equally earth-shattering.”
James sighed. “I guess we can’t make that happen.”
“I can’t. Unless you know how to find them, and you want to make a play for Angelina. I guess if you wanted me to do my best to seduce Brad … I mean, if you ordered me to, I’d have to do it for you.”
James considered. “You’re telling me you’d seduce Brad Pitt for me?”
“I’m a team player, sir,” she claimed.
“Well, it’s good to know you’re willing, Marcy, if it ever comes to that.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcy made a face. “I’m afraid there’s something else you need to know. Adam Landrey called. He said to tell you Chloe’s company needs another infusion of cash.”
James tried
