Hotelles by Emma Mars Read Free Book Online

night.
    Before getting to the cashier, our arms filled to the brim, I piped up with concern over how much this was all going to cost:
    â€œRebecca, all of this is wonderful, but . . .”
    The way she lifted her index finger, I could tell she’d been waiting for this moment.
    â€œDon’t worry about it. The agency will advance you the money.”
    So it would be an advance, not a gift.
    â€œBut I’ll never make enough to pay you back!”
    â€œRest assured. You won’t have any out-of-pocket expenses.”
    I slowly grasped what she meant. Much like drug dealers and human traffickers, Rebecca provided her new recruits with generous advances on their future salaries.
    â€œWhat you mean is you’ll deduct it from my first missions?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd so long as I haven’t reimbursed you, I’ll be working for you for free?”
    She glared at me, then broke into a cavernous laugh:
    â€œAnd here I thought you were just the pretty one. I’m happy to discover that you’re also the smarter of the two.”
    Intelligent, maybe, but also hers now.
    All she had to do was firmly put all the gorgeous clothing in my hands for me to look beyond the poisoned gift and see the promise of a gilded future. A life where I would not need Rebecca Sibony to treat myself to things like these.
    Fred was right. I had definitely gone to the other side. And I didn’t want to go back.

5
    April 2009
    Y ou can open your eyes, Elle.”
    How had he managed to perform such a miracle? In less than twenty seconds, the massive dining hall, its staff and fifty guests included, had been completely emptied. Now we were alone. Just he and I in the middle of all the gilt, drinking magnum bottles of champagne under flickering candlelight. The candles ran the length of the hall, replacing the electric chandeliers that had served as lighting until just a moment before. From an adjacent room, we could hear a harpsichord’s crystalline notes singing what sounded like a piece by Rameau.
    â€œHow . . . How did you do that?”
    He and his honeyed voice, the clarity of which reminded me of the actor who’d recorded a reading of Corneille’s Le Cid and starred in Fanfan la Tulipe . I had my own theory: up to a certain point, individuals of the same physical type are equipped with more or less the same quality of voice. But David Barlet’s voice was not content to imitate Gérard Philipe. He had deeper, graver inflections that continued to ring in the air long after he’d finished speaking. His voice, like his person, was surprisingly young, but he was as capable as any bass or baritone of giving you shivers. He was a perfect combination of lightness and gravitas.
    I know now: a man’s voice, and just his voice, can fill me with maddening desire. His voice is like a sex toy that titillates my clitoris with every sentence. Hmm, I wonder if there’s a Rabbit . . .
    Â 
    Anonymous handwritten note, 4/15/2009—David’s, I can’t deny it . . .
    Â 
    A MINUTE EARLIER—AT THIS POINT, we had only known each other for a half hour—he had asked me to close my eyes. I’d had just enough time to see him whisper something into the head waiter’s ear and hastily pass a scribbled note to our immediate table neighbors. A few instants later, the miracle had been accomplished. David was that powerful. He was a magician. A man with what seemed like limitless powers.
    Â 
    AFTER MY SHOPPING TRIP WITH Rebecca, I had a busy schedule of missions. One or two a week. Everything was as she’d described in our interview. For the most part, all I had to do was wear one of the extravagant ensembles she had purchased for me; parade on the arm of a man who was double or triple my age; teeter, long-legged, on my extremely high heels; keep my torso and neck as straight as a ballerina; and attend a great number of frivolous and