Hotelles by Emma Mars Read Free Book Online Page A

garish soirees. At least I had the opportunity to visit some of Paris’s most beautiful buildings—private homes, ministries, museums, and other exclusive locales—and overhear secrets from the flow of conversation that the journalist in me quietly tucked away in the back of my mind.
    Other guests rarely asked questions. Typically, they would compliment my clothing, elegance, or supposed grace. No one was fooled as to my role as arm candy. It didn’t bother me. I knew my own worth. I swallowed my pride and took my check at the end of each evening. That was it. I kept myself from giving this job more thought or emotion than it deserved. “Where are you cast tonight?” Sophia had asked a few hours earlier.
    I had finally graduated. I knocked on the door of every television network in the capital, looking for a job as a TV presenter. In school, I had focused on broadcasting. I didn’t want to apply for jobs in radio or print until I had run through all the possible options there. I would have worked for any station, any show, even the ones with the lowest ratings. I don’t think I was a lesser candidate than my peers, but everywhere I went the answer was the same: not enough experience.
    â€œHow am I supposed to get experience . . . if no one gives me a chance! It’s ridiculous!” I complained to Sophia.
    â€œI know, it’s stupid . . . I have the same problem: they want both the fresh face of the young ballerina and the résumé of a star with fifteen years of experience.”
    â€œ ‘Not enough experience’—I know what they really mean.”
    â€œOh, yeah? What?”
    â€œNot enough connections.”
    Your network. If you were well connected, if somebody could call in a favor on your behalf, it made all the difference . . . This typically French evil allowed the elite classes to reproduce faster than a family of rats. Always the same people. By and for the rich. And for people like Sophia and me—nobodies, without money or influence—the doors were closed.
    I didn’t stand a chance. Not without a good recommendation.
    Â 
    â€œYOU LOOK RAVISHING!”
    The man complimenting me was tonight’s date. We were standing in front of the Maison des Polytechniciens, a building in the heart of Paris’s very chic 7th Arrondissement. It was an evening for the alumni of HEF, an elite business school. He was the latest in my long list of recent missions, which included a dentist in town for a conference, a diplomat, several executives of prestigious companies, and a number of senior executives wishing to impress management at the big annual gatherings by strutting about with a creature such as me.
    â€œThank you. That’s very kind,” I replied, adjusting ensemble number two, the dangerously low-cut Armani dress.
    â€œI mean it.”
    If I were to compare him to my other clients over the past two weeks, François Marchadeau, a well-known economic journalist, was considerably better than average, physically speaking. Less bald, less paunchy. He was in his forties, brown-haired, and well built. His suit showed off his muscles. It was obvious he worked out. I had to admit he looked hot.
    â€œDo you know where we are?” he asked, guiding me to the reception hall.
    â€œThe Maison des Polytechniciens.”
    â€œYes, but I meant the occasion. Do you know what we’re celebrating here tonight?”
    â€œNot exactly, no . . .”
    â€œHEF is not as well known as, say, Harvard Business School or HEC Paris, but most of the richest tycoons on the Paris Bourse graduated from it. You’re going to meet the crème de la crème of the French business world, and all, or almost all, were top of their class at our school.”
    As he went on, the president of the Association of French Entrepreneurs, whom I had often seen on the news, gave him a friendly wave. She was already holding a glass of