The agency arranges limousine service to the airport. I turn back to the house and give Denny a wave. He waves weakly in return, but his eyes are huge, checking out the car. It’s kind of thrilling getting picked up in a car like this, but I’m glad I don’t have to explain the fancy door-to-door service until after I get back.

I’m surprised to find a bouquet of roses and a bottle of champagne waiting for me as the driver helps me into the back. There’s also a large manila envelope with an embossed black satin seal, with the logo of the company affixed. The roses are from Rina, and so is the short dossier detailing everything about the coming week. Details are short about both destination and my client, who is just known as James. There’s an itinerary, each event carefully noting the dress code. There’s a discrete note reminding me to leave my cell phone tucked away, and pictures are verboten, which I understand. I notice, in fact, that pictures are conspicuously absent from the whole file.

As if the limousine weren’t impressive enough, when we arrive at the airport, I feel a strange tingle of excitement as the stretch bypasses the regular Departure and Arrival Terminals and speeds down manicured roads to the “Private Travel” area. The limousine pulls up to an honest-to-God red carpet leading up to a sleek black private airplane (I know nothing about planes, do they really call them private jets?) I feel like a Bond Girl when the driver helps me out of the back. A breeze hits the cream scarf so it flutters out past the tailored leather jacket and skirt I chose for my first leg of travel. I remind myself not to go for my own bags and try to walk as though my heels aren’t sinking into the lush red carpet as I make my way to the waiting plane. This is how my high-end escort career begins, and it is light years from my regular life.

“When we land, will there be someone waiting to drive me to the chalet?”

The attendant smiles, but I can tell the question puzzles and amuses her as she offers me more champagne. “Oh, no. The chalet is only accessible via private jet or helicopter. We’re delivering you straight there.”

It’s then that I learn a little more about my “assignment” this week, from the attendant, who is more than happy to chatter. I’ll be tucked away, wining and dining at Harrington’s Ridge. The name is innocuous enough. Harrington’s Ridge could be a gated prestige subdivision or an obscure state park. In reality it’s an ultra-swank, ultra-exclusive mountain resort owned by my client this week, James Harrington, a.k.a. the Ice King. The nom de guerre is due to the twenty or so additional ski resorts he owns, not just in this mountain range, but around the world—even an indoors run in Dubai for the ultra-rich to ski when they tire of sand and sun. Harrington’s Ridge is the newest winter sport hotel and corporate compound for the Ice King’s worldwide operations. What’s more, not only is it only accessible by private jet or helicopter (nothing so gauche as commercial air would dare, surely) but reservations at the luxe hotel can only be made by or for members who pay dues of a quarter of a million dollars, annually, for the privilege.

I feel as inconspicuous as one can when arriving at a private luxury airport, preceded by no less than four valets each carrying one piece of luggage. I’m glad to have shades on so I can steal inconspicuous peeks at the people around me. Just thinking of the sheer amount of money any one of these people must have to even set foot on the property makes my head ache. And I’m here to do what exactly, for how many zeroes after that first digit?

I’m packaged and delivered to the sprawling resort in a sleek vehicle that I can only describe as a hybrid between a Tesla and a snowmobile, the vehicle whirring as though powered by electricity, but on mobile treads. Waiting at the entrance to a massive chalet door is a middle-aged, red-haired woman who coolly takes my hand and introduces herself as Jillian, my valet and assistant for the week. She’s warm and polite, asking how the trip went and if I need any water or to freshen up before I’m taken to meet James.

“Mr. Harrington?”

“You’ll call him James. He’s not anyone’s impression of an informal man by any means, but when he is addressed, he prefers his first name.”

“I see. Well, if he’s waiting, I don’t want to keep him. I made sure to freshen up on the plane.”

“Very good, miss. This way.”

She extends a professional hand and shepherds me past what looks like an elegantly appointed hotel lobby, past some discreetly labeled conference rooms and elevator banks leading to slopes and hotel towers. Then we’re down a short maze of corridors and no less than two private elevators. When we emerge, I can feel that this part of the compound is most definitely a business rather than hospitality wing, as the massive doors that line these halls are all closed and unmarked.

Jillian is still smiling but silent as she leads me down one last long hallway, at the end of which is a sleek and discrete secretary’s desk. There’s another woman planted behind the desk. In stark contrast to the deferential way Jillian has treated me since I arrived, this woman gives me a plain and frank once-over, and the sour way her frown deepens indicates to me she’s not particularly impressed by what she sees. I try not to notice as this Brunhilde and Jillian do battle with their eyes. A few short murmurs later, I am deposited into a massive executive office, the heavy door gliding silently on hidden hinges but closing with a definitive click behind me.

“My Harrington is descending now. He’ll be with you shortly.”

Strange turn of phrase. I don’t give it much thought, though, because I’m trying not to be overwhelmed by the room.

My impression of what “high-end” means just got a serious gut check. Staring out through plate-glass windows that take up the entire far wall, the view is a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees of pristine, white-capped mountains. The office within is all sleek lines, though the mahoghany desk is massive. This is beyond high-end and straight over to the very end of the world.

I’m alone in the office, though. Clearly, wherever Mr. Harrington is “descending” from, he hasn’t finished yet, and I look around the room for some sign of a private elevator. There is one, in the far corner. I’m grateful to be alone just a moment more, if only to have a chance to pull myself together. Whatever my client turns out to like, he’s expecting me to be sexy, professional, and ready to go.

I’m still focused on the elevator, waiting to see some movement, when out of the corner of my eye I see big tufts of snow kicking up. Still keeping one eye on the elevator, I walk over to the window and watch as a black-clad figure skis expertly down what looks to my untrained eye like an almost sheer-dropping slope.

Ski suits are not exactly flattering on anyone, and yet somehow, whomever is on the skis is dipping low over the blades as they cut into the ice with such power and precision, I can almost see muscles in the shoulders and hindquarters burn and pump as they attack the downward slope like it’s an enemy. As the person drifts closer, the speed is breakneck. I’d be worried if the body in the suit didn’t give the impression of complete and total mastery over the equipment, the mountain, and himself.

I feel my eyes get wide when I see that whomever is on the skis is heading straight for where I’m standing behind the plate glass. There’s no way anyone going that speed can possibly stop in time, and I wince and shout out, my hand on the glass as if I could possibly warn him or stop him. At the very last second, the body cuts to the right and comes to a thunderous hockey stop, so close to the glass that the skis kick up a wave of snow that spatters the windows.

The figure in black stands very still on the other side of the window, looking in at me. I realize I’m still pressed close to the other side, my body sagging with relief he didn’t crash into the building after all. The figure’s shoulders and frame are unmistakably male. I can’t see behind the mirrored face and eye-shield he’s wearing, but I still feel that he’s looking straight at me. Feeling stupid, I take my hand away from where it was pressed on the glass.

The man in black stamps twice and the skis expertly kick up and off his booted feet. He has no poles or anything, and I’m reminded of the sleek speed skiers I’ve seen on TV in the Olympics. Maybe this guy is an elite athlete, training here? I’m no expert, but the resort seems like it could serve as a training facility just as easily as a snowy playground for the ultra-wealthy.

Maybe it’s just a trick of the light of that mirrored surface, but I can’t shake the feeling that whoever this man is, he’s still staring at me from behind the shield. And when he leaves the skis to the side and heads purposefully toward the building—toward me—I instinctively take a few steps back.

I shouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point. Everything from the moment we drove away from my “regular life” has been surreal. And yet I’m still confused when the man seems to find a seamless hidden entrance and walks by magic through the glass and into the office like he owns the place. And even more confused when the man removes his face shield and I find myself staring into the most striking pair of blue eyes I have ever seen in my life.

It’s not just his eyes that are striking. He’s so handsome that it’s almost impossible, with a strong, square jaw and high cheekbones. He has dark hair, though, slicked back. I’d call him movie-star handsome if it weren’t for the powerful presence in his face and body— the way he stands, and the show of athleticism I just saw when he skied in. This man is no pretty boy, and just standing still I feel like he’s taking up all the space in the room. The building. And he’s tall. I’m in heels, and I have to look up to meet his eyes.

He’s also breathing fast from his run down the mountain, and the strange whorl of snowy cold and heat coming from him is just more unsettling. I catch a clean scent of spicy soap and snow on the air, too. Out of nowhere, I feel a strange pull in my chest, like I want to step closer even as I feel a tingle of caution along the back of my neck. The way it feels to approach something animal and caged.

“You’re Darcy? Rina sent you?” His voice is disconcertingly deep.

I blush and start when he says my name. I don’t even know why. I was half-expecting this gorgeous guy to keep walking out of the room, but he stands there looking at me, one eyebrow raised. And then he holds out his hand to shake mine.

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.