by Ella James
And it finally clicks for me that this is James Harrington. The Ice King. My client.
“Yes, I’m Darcy. Very nice to meet you.” I extend my hand too fast and somehow manage to miss his. My fingers bump his in an awkward clash of knuckles, before he takes my hand firmly in his cool palm. They say a firm handshake can tell you a lot about a man, and the signals I’m getting from his touch are calm, professional, but undeniably strong. My hand nearly disappears in his grasp.
His eyes narrow, and my heart gives a little flutter of alarm when he frowns. I realize I’m not exactly finessing this first meeting, and I try to collect myself. Inwardly, I reflect that I was prepared for my client to be older, maybe even physically unattractive. Anything but this handsome man who looks like he just walked off the cover of a magazine.
James breaks the contact and steps back.
“You just arrived. Was the flight in comfortable?”
For a moment, his cordial question makes me feel a little lighter. My client, James Harrington, looks like the last man on the planet who would need to pay for a companion, but I can’t imagine a woman on the planet who would be sorry to keep him company for free. Including this one. I can feel a smile beginning as I contemplate some of the more intimate aspects of the week ahead. For a moment time stops, and I feel something stir. His eyes drop for the briefest second, maybe to my mouth, or the scarf at my neck, but both tingle in response, and when he looks back up I feel another small rush. Spark of attraction, spark of heat, something.
As I’m checking him out, he deliberately does the same. I have Rina’s confidence in me to thank for withstanding his blatant scrutiny, but I feel a telltale heat between my legs, and I struggle to keep from fidgeting in my leather pencil skirt.
But then something goes wrong. A wall comes down between us, and rather than charged, the moment between us fizzles like a light he’s just flipped off. In fact, the way he’s peering into my face, coldly assessing, leads me to believe that he may even be less than pleased with what he sees. Or at the very least, completely devoid of emotion one way or another.
He gestures for me to sit while he pulls off a few layers of snow gear. Expensive and sporty gear are just below the surface of the snow coverall, but it enhances rather than hides the wide chest and shoulders tapering neatly to a trim waist, and the toned, muscled arms and legs look chiseled under the activewear fabric. I note all of these things about him, still feeling a sting that he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating the attraction. And when he takes his place behind the desk, he gets right down to business.
“Darcy, did Rina explain the job to you this week?”
I nod. “I’ve been briefed.”
He sits back in a massive leather chair. The view of the mountains frames his dark head—a fitting crown for the Ice King, of course—and my guess is that if his thick hair ever grows long, it tends to curl.
He narrows his eyes. “I hope you have. But forgive me if I take a few extra moments to explain what might not have been in your brief. This week is the grand opening of the hotel and resort at Harrington Ridge. The guests have been invited for a full slate of activities each day, but these are very busy people, and they’ll be moving in and out at different times through the week. It’s very important that you be ready and treat each day as though it were new. New guests, new highlights. Small talk and conversation, even if you’ve had the same conversation six or seven times. And you are to be presentable and available to me at every function, without exception. There is nothing you skip, and you do not slip out for private time or calls. Take the ample free time you have been allotted to enjoy the facilities, but know that you are my representative twenty-four hours, so there is no behind-the-scenes shop talk with any member of the staff or any guest at any time. The guests are members and current or future investors.”
He pauses, watching me, maybe checking for my reaction. I haven’t heard anything that sounds too terrible. Be on guard. Make him look good.
I smile politely, professionally. “I hope you’ll be pleased with me.”
“Wrong word. Ensure that I am pleased with you, Darcy. Don’t hope.”
I let my eyes fall demurely and nod. “Of course.” Without thinking, I try to insert a little levity in my voice, to break the ice. “I’m happy to please you.”
From the way his eyes drain of even the little bit of warmth that may have been there, I realize this is absolutely the worst thing I could have said. He draws up tight without moving a muscle.
“You were hired as an escort, but your services in that regard are not needed for this job. Believe me when I tell you your only priority is to add to the pleasantness and ambience of the resort. I will not require anything else from you. Do you understand?”
I think I do. He’s just told me in no uncertain terms that sex with me is off the table. What’s more, I get the impression that he begrudges that it would even be on offer.
“Ok, then we’re done. You have the itinerary?”
He stands. He doesn’t make a move to show me out, shake my hand, or acknowledge me in any other way. I nod meekly.
“Then I’ll see you at dinner.” I remember from the schedule that we have a dinner scheduled for tonight, just the two of us. The way this first meeting has gone, I’m surprised he’s keeping it, but I don’t question.
And thus ends my first audience with the Ice King of Harrington Ridge.
Chapter Three
The resort, what I’ve seen of it, and the bits I spotted from the air, is massive. It’s a compound in the truest sense of the word, with several branches and sections, not to mention the sprawling acres and acres of slopes and trails draped over and around the mountain. James Harrington doesn’t look older than thirty-five or forty. I wonder how it’s possible that a man so young could amass so much, so quickly.
Jillian came to fetch me after my first meeting with James, and she gives me the penny tour. Lavish, Art Deco styling, with seven floors in the main building, and a tower of suites for offices. It’s a ski lodge, too; I’m told that in the woods to the south and west there are several stand-alone mini-mansion “cabins.” Thoughtfully, my three-room suite is situated close to the spa, and I have leave to use all the resort amenities. Jillian smiles when I tell her James also seemed to encourage me to use the facilities. She’s more to the point about why.
“You’re here to be seen enjoying yourself, Miss Ellis. That’s part of the allure for the clientele. Beautiful and young guests on the property enhance any destination.”
I appreciate her candor, but it’s also disconcerting. And I want to ask her more, but I was just admonished by my new client not to gab or gossip with any personnel. So I keep my mouth shut.
I’m surprised that I was invited to dinner at all, given the terseness of my “audience” with his majesty this afternoon. I realize I should stop being so sarcastic about it, even in my head, or I’m going to slip and insult the man. Looking through the different cases of beautiful clothes Rina sent, I calculate something like twenty or thirty thousand dollars of expensive labels. She told me this client was important. She clearly meant it. I don’t own anything that even comes close to these clothes.
On the phone, when she first told me about the job, I asked her why, if this client was so important, she was sending a rookie.
“He asked for someone fresh. A professional, but not a pro. And I think you two will get along.”
Fresh. What an ick word. I imagined I was being sent into the clutches of a grizzled old bear on a mountain.
But now that I’ve met the tall, dark, and absurdly fit man, I’m even more confused. James could have anyone. In fact, he seems insulted at the very idea my “services” are even on offer. Maybe at dinner, I’ll find out why.
When I arrive, I find that a beautiful and intimate table has been set for two. I’m slightly early, but James is already seated, reading something on a tablet while he waits. He’s traded the snow and action gear for a black cashmere crewneck sweater
and creased slacks. He stands when I arrive and even pulls the chair out for me. But if that gentlemanly gesture sparks a little hope in my chest that his earlier abruptness was just a fluke or bad timing, I’m disappointed. James takes the seat across from me and goes back to his reading, proceeding to ignore me through the entire first course.
None of this morning was my imagination. I wonder if this is going to turn out to be a really long week.
Still, I can’t fault the view. We’re seated at a table set in one of the private restaurant terraces. It’s a true marvel to think that one man can actually own a whole mountain, and I’m sitting across from one who owns something like twenty. James doesn’t seem inclined to talk, so I watch the sunset. Easier on myself to focus out there rather than the man across from me, too. James is a distracting man, even without trying to be.
Silent attendants bring a second course, and one of the staff is mid-pour before I can stop him. I realize I’m on my third glass of wine—I’m drinking to keep myself from talking. Out of nowhere, James heaves a deep sigh and sets his tablet to the side, finally reaching for his napkin and tucking into the soup.
“Everything okay?” I venture.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
I offer a bemused smile rather than shrink this time—the wine is really great—and finally James relents and amends his statement. “Yes. Everything is fine. I shouldn’t read at dinner.” He pauses, and the his voice is gruff when he says, “I’m not used to company.” He glances up at me for the briefest moment, then away.
That was more of a human reaction than I expected from him. I press gently.
“You don’t have people up here often?”
James looks out at the mountains, squinting into the sun. It’s a gesture and stance he seems born to, staring intently into the impenetrable mountains, lord of all he surveys. “I build ski lodges on mountains because I enjoy living in them. The people are a necessary evil.”
His answer begs the question as to why go out of his way to open Harrington Ridge to more intruders, but I keep this to myself. I realize I might be skating close to prying.
Rolling the last sip of wine on my tongue, I turn my attention to the mountains and sigh. “I think I know what you mean. It’s…perfect, empty like this. Why share if you don’t have to?”
He doesn’t say anything, and I let the silence settle, drinking in the view and the feeling of distance from all my worries, perched thousands of feet up in the clouds. I think how lucky he is to have a refuge away from everyone and everything, only choosing to glide back down to the world when he feels like it.
For a moment, I’m enjoying this absolute fantasy. I love Denny, and would do anything for him, but it’s been months since I’ve been removed from the worry and responsibility of caring for both of us. Our parents passed a few years before Denny’s accident, and he and I were the only family the other had. Then, with Denny in the hospital, on the brink for eight months, then home and needing so much help, the world stopped. But now, however I got here, I’m away. Sitting on top of the world, in a gorgeous designer dress, watching ivory snow drift off distant peaks as as the sun sets. The fading light turns everything into a red and purple masterpiece.
Lost in the reverie, I’m startled to notice that James is watching me, his blue eyes dark in the twilight.
He’s steady, unwavering, and the same flutter I felt earlier returns. Closer this time, I notice his cheeks have a hint of stubble, making long shadows in his chiseled face. If anything, it makes him even more handsome. It’s so intense for a moment that I touch a hand to my neck to calm the pulse jumping there.
His eyes follow my hand. Self-conscious, I put it on the table between us, circling the stem of my wineglass with a fingertip. His long fingers are flat on the table, only a short distance from mine.
There might have been a moment between us, but then something akin to dislike shadows his face.
“You’re very social, I suppose. Given your…profession.” If his curtness is any indication, I think he considers this a less-than-redeeming quality.
I lift my chin. “I enjoy people. Trying new things. Anything that gets me out of the house, you could say.” I try to make that last bit sound like a joke, even though that part is the most true.
“And this kind of work is satisfying for you?” I don’t detect any judgment in this question, but I’m surprised he’d ask me anything personal. The expression on his face is blank, unreadable.
I bite my lip, trying to decide how to play the question. Play the part of the happy hooker? Or reveal this is the first escort job I’ve ever had?
I must have taken too long, though, because he shakes his head as though my answer doesn’t matter. “Well, there’s plenty on the schedule this week to keep you busy.”
“Well, I hope this week goes well for you, too.” He looks up at me when I say the ‘H’ word. “I mean…” I offer a teasing smile. “I mean, I will work to ensure that this week goes well for you.”
No reaction. He turns back to his soup.
I tried joking with him this morning, and it didn’t go well. So I try reassurance.
“Everyone loves parties.”
“Do they?” he says, not looking up.
Not James, clearly. Mentally, I envision the printed itinerary I was given, and there are no less than ten parties planned this week alone. For a moment I feel sorry for the man—if this is the part he hates, he’s in for as long a week as I am. “Well, the guests will love it. I’ve seen the VIP list, and it’s star-studded.”
Giving up dinner as a lost cause for conversation, I watch as the last sliver of light drops down in the west, and try not to keep peeking over at my stoic dinner companion. He gets a call as dessert is being set, and with a silent nod of dismissal to me, heads off and back into the building with his phone pressed to his ear. I’m a cross between relieved and bereft, watching James move away.
Chapter Four
I think I’m going to have to revisit what I consider a measure of “success,” if I’m going to make it in this business. When I got this job, the one thing I worried most about was being expected to sleep with a client as part and parcel of my profession. And so, by any measure, my assignment at Harrington’s Ridge should make me happy. Ecstatic. Other than the plastic face paint and glad-handing, I’m only required to eat expensive food, drink fancy wine, and enjoy myself at a resort so exclusive you must be born a billionaire to even walk through the door. So why, why am I beating back wings of disappointment that James Harrington, the Ice King of Misery Mountain, shudders at the very thought of sharing my bed?
I toss in bed for hours after my dinner with James. Finally, at two in the morning, I realize what it is. Were the tables reversed, and I’d hired James Harrington to be my arm candy for the week, I’d be in bed with him right now. He’s gorgeous.
And he wants nothing to do with me.
I punch a pillow. Who knows why the hell rich people do what they do? I don’t know why a man with that much money insists on putting himself through something he so very clearly hates, when he doesn’t have to. The way he talked about the people, the business, all the opening events at the Ridge this week, I’ve never seen a man outline so many things that irk or piss him off in one seating. And yet, he’s pulled out all the stops and—gasp! Horror! Choke!—hired me to be his companion this week, when clearly even the word is evil. I just don’t get it.
The next day, I try to put a better spin on it. A little hurt pride never killed anyone. And I should be grateful because later I might look back on this job and think of it as one of the better ones—who knows who I’ll end up with next time?
There was a note under my door with an updated time for the luncheon, and a note about dress. I let my newly enlightened attitude buoy me as I bounce down the stairs to the first itinerary event. I think to myself that I’m going to smile at James to show him that I am a thousand percent on Team Harrington Ridge, and then proceed to wow his guests at the
luncheon.
I see him the briefest second before he spots me, but it’s enough to note that he looks just as delicious as before. No sporty mountain gear today, just a killer tailored suit, cuffed shirt, and sweater. There’s no erasing a hint of the sportiness about him, his shirt and sweater sleeves are rolled up high on his forearms. But I have a brief little fantasy of snuggling up to him and rubbing my breasts against his bicep as I take his arm.
Dashing the thought aside, I smile at him when he sees me, just as I promised myself I would.
I don’t know if it’s my imagination or not, but I swear I see a flicker of surprise on his face when he sees me, but it’s gone by the time I make my way to his side. The smile is still in place, but all I get for my trouble is a brief nod as he offers me his arm to walk into the party together.
Immediately James is swarmed with people congratulating him on the opening of Harrington Ridge. Both the interior designer and the star chef are being feted at the luncheon. The chef’s team is providing an exhibition display for all the guests to watch as their luncheon is prepared, and while the crowd is wowed by the knife skills, I wander with James from table to table. He introduces me only as Darcy, and few people bother with more than asking me to repeat my name so they have it. James seems to feel completely at home in this crowd, and I begin to see a more animated, entertaining side to him in front of them. It’s only when I inadvertently step too close to a flower arrangement and James, barely looking at me, trouble-steps me away from the vase, that I feel a dry heat in his palms. And for the first time that day, I notice the slightest shake.
I look closely, and I can see James’s eyes are a little bright. The gray-haired man he’s talking to stepped in close for a whispered word, and I don’t think anyone but I notice that the affable, animated James from a moment before has suddenly frozen.
