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.