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.

I step in. “Senator Malcolm, isn’t it?”

The man’s eyes lift to me, and he seems pleased to be recognized.

“Goodness, the snow and ice have just got to be a shock. Don’t you live in Key West?”

“Well, young lady, my home is of course the Capitol, but yes, I do admit…” I steer conversation away, looking back at James only through the corner of my eye. Still, he knows I’m watching him because I feel the barest press of his palm on mine again, and I feel the signal that his moment has passed.

So, there is another purpose to my being here with James. Some kind of social freeze or anxiety, it seems—fleeting, but there. He just neglected to mention that part. Through lunch and the long afternoon, I only see it happen two more times, but I have the signals down now, and I’m able to move in to expertly deflect.

The third and final time it happens, the afternoon is clearly winding down, and James and I have made our way to the door to catch the last of people as they make their way out. A plump older woman, in a giant hat that you’re more likely to see in church on Easter, shoulders her way in against the outward flow of the crowd and—without a word or glance at me—tries to take James into a mama-bear hug. I’m almost amused, but still rather horrified to watch James’s reaction to this unsolicited affection—well, really any affection—but I know something’s wrong when she speaks.

“James, darling, we just arrived, and I wanted to express my sincere condolences. Harold and I were out of the country when we heard what happened. You know that if you need anything…”

Condolences?

James freezes, but the hug knocks him out of it. When the woman finally steps back, I see James narrow his eyes and take a little evil pleasure in taking my hand in his and tugging me gently toward the yammering biddy.

“Thank you, Carol. May I introduce you to Darcy?” The way he curls his arms about my shoulders implies exactly the kind of intimacy between us that James spent most of last evening explaining that he didn’t want. I try not to be concerned about how this one is going—James chose to blow it up, not me.

The woman’s jowls quiver with embarrassment, and I do what I can to be pleasant and oblivious to get us all through the awkwardness. James excuses himself, and halfway through the end of the receiving line, I realize he’s gone.

* * *

The sounds of the party recede behind me as I slip out one of the open veranda doors. The walkway system is a marvel, operating like a heated pergola and running the length of the building so people can still step outside without coats. Following the path along the edge of the building, I’ve got one eye on the moonlit mountains, and the other on the lookout for my date. My client. There are shadowed alcoves set back along the path, and I hear rather than see couples murmuring together in them. It’s a breathtakingly clear night. No light pollution to speak of this far into the mountains, the sky is awash in stars, each burning so bright and cold in the deepest dark that it’s not hard to believe each one is its own burning sun.

I’m still sipping champagne, following my shadow in the light cast from the house. I peer into every three or four of the windows as I pass them, but all the glass is dark. Dear Lord, this place is enormous. The silver in my dress is shimmering in the moonlight, and I stop at one window, shiny as mirror glass. Tendrils of my hair have come loose, and I can still feel the tingle that shivered through me when James touched one of the loose curls earlier. I take a sip and study myself in the glass. Shoulders back, one hip cocked, I wonder if I pulled it off tonight. Do I blend in with those impossibly rich, glamorous people at the party? Or do I look like what I am? An escort. The paid help. I have to admit, there were plenty other beautiful playthings on the arms of some of the old men—and even some of the women—back at the party. I highly doubt I was the only one.

I turn my back on my reflection for a bit and stare out into the silent, cold night, trying to remember why I’m here. Hard to feel like any of that could possibly matter in the shadow of those peaks. Uncaring. Uncompromising. My brother almost died, exposed on the side of one of them. I wonder what he felt, lying there for so long, waiting and praying for rescue in the cold. Had he felt alone like this, but a thousand times more desolate, mortally so?

“Denny is the only thing that matters.” I say the words out loud so that I’ll feel them. I’m doing this for him. Besides, someone might as well get something out of it. My client doesn’t seem interested.

As if on cue, the light snaps on from within. Too late, I realize that I’m standing on an executive office veranda. My heart quickens when I see James enter the room on the other side of the massive plate glass.

He’s alone. I recognize the clean lines, the objects within sparse and gleaming. The difference, though, is there’s a lone picture on the desk surface now. I can’t see the subject from here, but I know it wasn’t there before.

The picture is propped in front of the chair as though he sat down to it before but had then been called away. He’s returned and pulled out his chair, but rather than settling in with it, he reaches for the frame, picks it up gently. The look on his face is a frozen blank.

I had to attend one of the events to see him in action, but after this afternoon, I think I have a better sense of why I’m really here. Something happened to him, or someone close to him. Not everyone was offering effusive condolences like Easter hat lady, but she was definitely not the only one. Because I looked the part, and James kept me at his side to introduce me as he made the rounds, he let people come to their own conclusions about me as some kind of romantic interest. The Ice King wouldn’t be seen as some kind of tragic figure presiding over a week-long funeral procession all by himself. And far fewer would be so rude as to push their well-wishes on a man like James, who clearly feels uncomfortable with the attention in public, and certainly not in front of me. I have to admit the ruse is simple but effective. I know my presence doesn’t matter much in the grander scheme of things—this crowd is used to their arm candy—but even they follow the rules of polite society. Or they pretend to.

Watching that still, proud face through the glass, part of me wishes he had told me from the beginning what he needed. I wonder if he even knew. Whatever happened, it was recent. I’ve been through a couple of catastrophic events that tore my life apart, so I can understand. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ll need until you’re there. And he probably didn’t know how I’d respond. People are strange around tragedy—they don’t know what to do. James knows he wants me to keep things going smoothly, keep everyone upbeat and pleasant. I can do that.

I decide to turn and go, leave him alone, but as I step back, he lifts his head and looks right at me. Caught.

A second later, a glass panel in the plate glass whirs open. I guess I have to go inside now. Shit. I step inside and hear the panel close behind me.

He doesn’t ask me what I was doing outside his window, but I can’t help babbling.

“I took a little break from the party. Followed the building to try and circle back, but this place is just so big, I got turned around.”

He’s angry, I think, but deadly silent. So tight and controlled. Whatever he has a leash on seems like it’s snapping and snarling at his insides, but for now he’s got a strangle hold on it.

“I’m sorry. Really.” Trailing off, I look down at my wringing hands and then back to him. And then I look at the picture in his hands. I see a couple in it. I think it’s James, but younger and in profile. The woman in the photo, though, stares out, smiling.

“She’s pretty. That woman you’re with in the picture.”

By the way his face drains of color, I think this must have been the absolute worst thing I could have said. I think he might explode as he stands there, but still he doesn’t say a word.

Deep breath, Darcy. Air goes in but not out. Maybe I should hold it until I pass out and he calls for an EMT. Or doesn’t. It’s the only think I can think to do to get the hell out of this extremely awkward moment. Helpless, finally giving up, I just wait. To be dismissed, screamed at, fired…

By some weird miracle, he blinks. Once. Again. Then…

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

“New to what?”

“New to the companion service. New to being an escort.”

I can feel the blood rush to my face. Earlier question answered: I really am that obvious. I wince and then try to keep my chin up. “I was told you asked for someone ‘fresh.’ ” The word still makes me cringe.

James lets out a sound that I think is either a grunt or a bark of laughter. “ 'Fresh,’ sure. Because I didn’t want a so-called pro, some girl trying to porn it up. But you are—” He cuts off whatever was about to come out next. Something insulting, I bet.

“Yes, fine, I’m new. This is my first job.”

I’m suddenly very tired. I feel like an amateur, which I am, but I also don’t understand why he’s making this so hard. I turn my attention back to the picture still in his hand. In it, a younger James is smiling at the woman in the photo, while the woman is staring out at the camera. I look back up at him, and the hollow, blank look on his face is at once revealing and familiar. I know what loss looks like. I remember the feeling of desolation so close to the surface for so long, and now I see it in his face. The woman in the picture was nowhere to be seen tonight or anywhere else.

“New or not,” I tell him, “you should know I want to do a good job for you this week. I hope my intentions make up for my lack of experience. For what it’s worth.” Even as I say the words, I’m pretty sure that sentiment and good intentions mean nothing to a man like the Ice King, but it’s all I have.

“And…” I take a deep breath, gather my courage, walk to the edge of the mountain, and jump. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

I feel a surge go through him. Bullseye. I know I’m right. The woman in the picture is gone.

James is still as stone as I approach. Walk just close enough to feel heat radiating from him as I reach out with numb fingers and take the picture from his hand. Without thinking too hard, I prop the frame on its stem on the desk and pause to look a moment longer at the younger James’s face, so clearly in love with the woman in the picture. I swallow and look up at the flesh-and-blood James now. Older, but several thousand times more handsome than the boy he had been, even despite the phantom pain that so obviously still hurts him. He grew into his face.

“I know you’re paying me to be here, but we can still talk if you want.” I feel silly the moment the words leave my mouth. So much so that I turn away without looking at him again. Did I really just offer a crying shoulder to the freaking Ice King himself?

Mercifully, he doesn’t say anything, and I finally find the good sense I walked in here without and head for the door.