Sexy Beast, Page 3

  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.

  Chapter Five

  Idiot. I’m such an idiot.

  An hour on the treadmill did nothing to lessen the sting of that humiliating encounter with James. I’m standing under a punishing shower spray, letting the harsh water pressure pummel my body, and sometimes my face.

  I suppose the only thing left to do before he has a real professional flown in to replace me is enjoy the spa. The whole thing is open air, laid out like a Japanese garden, set against the constant backdrop of glistening mountain peaks. And at the heart is a hot pool.

  I was warned about this thing by the staff. A full, traditional, Japanese-style soaking bath, the water temperature is so hot that any slight movement that causes the water to ripple can be painful. I’m not into Jacuzzi jet bubbles, so this sounded lovely, but Jillian politely handed me a thick fluffy towel with a generous look of worry on her face. “You really want to settle down into the thing, quickly but smoothly, and then let the water stop moving around you. Try not to move at all, and then the heat will go deep into your muscles. And whatever you do, don’t splash or wave, because you really won’t like how long it will take to settle. It will hurt, but there’s nothing else like it if you can get past that part.”

  Okay. I’m grateful for the instruction. And she was right—the water is a deep, dark pool, and gliding in is not fun. Bordering on scalding. But a minute or so more and my body has slowly unclenched and adjusted, and if I focus and don’t allow myself to move or float, all I can feel is luxurious heat, and the whole day finally shakes loose and slips away. It’s incredible.

  I let my head fall back and stare up at the stars again. Maybe it’s all for the best. This high-end escort business is clearly not my scene. And certainly not something a desperate me should do. I don’t know what the way ahead is, for me or for Denny, but I can’t take care of anyone like this.

  I’ll drive for Lyft. Sell cemetery property. Hell, at this point, even becoming a stripper would be a step up from glorified hooker. I don’t even respect this job, not really. Why am I getting my feelings hurt over the Ice King not respecting it either?

  It’s as though just thinking about him is making my Spidey sense tingle. The back of my head literally tingles, partly from the heat…and partly because James really is standing on the terrace less than ten feet from me, watching.

  I turn just slightly to face him, but even that motion is enough to make me wince when the slight wave in the water snaps my skin like electricity.

  He steps forward, frowning. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Certainly not in that pool. How can you stand that thing?”

  “Just trying it out,” I say lightly. “I like it hot.”

  His eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t bother with a reply.

  I see my ridiculous streak is going strong. “Do you need me? I can climb out.”

  “No, no,” James says. “Stay put. Really.”

  I do, if only to equalize the heat on my skin. The water settles, and I carefully look up at James, waiting.

  He looks off into the distance. He’s doing his best impression of a stone statue again, but just when I think he’s decided not to speak after all, his eyes snap to mine.

  “I want to thank you for your help at the luncheon today. I froze. I know you saw that. You’re…” his mouth curls up at one corner. “You’re a perceptive woman.”

  The way he says the word ‘woman’ sets my lips and fingertips tingling, and not from the heat of the water or the cold in the air.

  I would shrug, but it would hurt. Instead I say, “That’s what you’re paying me for.” I try to joke a little, keep my tone light. This time, though, instead of going stony or angry, James winces.

  “I don’t love the fact I had to pay someone to pretend to be with me this week.” His hands haven’t left his pockets, but I see his wide shoulders shrug. “I was serious about the need to foster a certain perception for certain associates. Grief or tragedy is like blood in the water for people like them, but that doesn’t make this any less humiliating.” He stops and meets my eyes head-on, unflinching. “I don’t pay for women.”

  The Ice King, they call him. Imposing, ruthless, one hundred percent in charge, all the time. But even he seems insulted at the idea of paying for affection rather than it being given freely, or it being earned. I had no experience to speak of when I first came here, but I’ve always respected a sense of honor in people. And been attracted to it in men. I can’t help but respect and be attracted to it in James. Only a man with as much money as he has, or a woman with as little of it as I have, can understand what it can and can’t buy.

  Still neck-deep in the bath, I can’t move except to settle my head more comfortably and watch James through my lashes.

  “You’re not enjoying having all these people here, either.”

  He tilts his head, both acknowledging the remark and silently inquiring as to the reason for the observation.

  “Aside from the fact that you’ve made it virtually impossible to reach the place without wings, rotors, or pack animals, you seem to bristle at the sight of so many bipeds in your domain. So why build a resort at all?”

  “My wife.”

  He says the words so softly and casually,
yet I still jerk in the water and feel immediately scalded for the trouble.

  “The woman in the picture you saw. That’s—that was my wife, Annette.”

  My heart rate is rising, and I feel a warning flutter in my head, as though the heat is getting to me.

  “She died a little over a year ago. Car accident,” he continues. “I built a house here on the mountain, long before we ever even thought of a resort. It was my refuge, the place I’d go to escape. Even more remote before because there was no landing strip or helipad. Annette was very social, though. She hated the solitude, even though that was the whole point for me. She pushed and pushed for the idea, handpicked the designers. The exclusivity was our ‘compromise.’ ” He says the word as though it tastes bitter. “But opening it up to the public, even an exclusive public, was all her idea.”

  “So, you gave her what she wanted.”

  He sends up that barely perceptible shrug again. “She was my wife.”

  Perhaps it’s because I know exactly what he went through that the story of the car accident doesn’t shock or shake me the way it might do someone else. Denny survived his accident, but at great, great cost—not just monetary, but the physical toll was so severe it seemed his spirit died in the accident. So, I feel the survivor’s remorse and recognize it in another person who went through the same crushing ordeal. And I admire James more for stoically giving his wife her desire to build what she wanted, the resort of her dreams, even though it meant commercializing his favorite sanctuary.

  “You ask why I seem to hate having people here. If I had my way, none of this would be here, and I’d be back up at my lodge on the ridge. Alone.”

  “The ridge?” I ask. Some part of the resort I don’t know about?

  James juts his chin toward one of the slopes behind my left shoulder, to the east. “My private home.”

  “Is that where you skied in from the other day when I arrived?”