Hotelles by Emma Mars Read Free Book Online Page B

champagne.
    â€œAnd what about you?”
    â€œI’m my year’s loser. I think I’m the only one who doesn’t have a bank account in the Cayman Islands or a chalet in Gstaad.”
    â€œWhy do you come to these things, then? Do you like being humiliated?”
    He let out a genuine laugh.
    â€œBecause I need information for my magazine and after a couple of drinks they’re happy to oblige. And they need me to write favorably about their strategies for handling the economic crisis. They want to reassure their stockholders as well as public officials.”
    â€œWin-win.”
    â€œExactly.”
    Over cocktails, I learned about an imminent redundancy scheme at a major automobile manufacturer, the release of a revolutionary new tablet, and some other exclusive tidbits I pretended to ignore. I played my part of the beautiful ingenue flawlessly. But I filed all the information away in my memory. Just in case. My training as a journalism major hadn’t worn off.
    Still, what was exciting the first hour quickly grew tiresome. And as we sat down to dinner, all I could think about was my freedom after the last bite of rose-infused meringue.
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    I have a recurring erotic dream that takes place at a formal reception. As a joke, and also as a form of provocation, I’m not wearing any underwear. My formfitting dress reveals the absence. No panties. The breeze whips up the silk fabric, blowing gently over my exposed parts, tickling and teasing my clitoris.
    The men look at my body with increasing intensity. They don’t have to say anything for me to know they’ve all noticed my little secret.
    As I walk by, even though they’re with their wives, they caress my buttocks, my breasts, my thighs  . . .
    Their collective desire is like the Fountain of Youth. I feel much more beautiful than I really am.
    Suddenly, I stop moving, and then I feel an anonymous hand grasp my crotch. Two fingers spread my lips, exposing my dripping vagina. Just as I’m waking up, they sink into me. The interruption is painful. I need to be taken . . . in my dream as in reality.
    Â 
    Anonymous handwritten note, 4/18/2009
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    â€œI BET ALL THIS INTERESTS you more than you let on? Am I right?”
    I heard his familiar voice before I saw him. He was leaning over my shoulder. I hadn’t noticed him before. Next, I felt a tickling sensation in my nose. He wore a smooth and yet powerful cologne. Its bouquet was surprising, with notes of citrus, leather, tuberose, and maybe a hint of iris. I had never smelled anything like it. It must have been a custom blend. Like his voice, his cologne was a perfect mix of youth and power.
    He extended a large hand, and only then did I see his face for the first time.
    â€œDavid Barlet.”
    â€œAnn . . . Elle.”
    â€œAnnelle?” he asked. “Or Anaëlle?”
    His tone was candid, perhaps with a hint of irony. But it was hard to reproach him for it; his smile was just so enchanting.
    Rebecca had advised using a pseudonym on missions. All the girls did it. Sophia changed her name almost every time, from Brenda to Zoe to Cleopatra. I’d opted for my actual nickname. It was mysterious enough to entice the messieurs, and familiar enough so that I didn’t forget or give myself away.
    â€œNo, Elle . . . Like the magazine. Anne is my middle name,” I lied.
    Seeing him like this, in the middle of such a tedious evening, as though he had been torn from that article in Le Monde I’d read a few weeks before, it felt like a dream. I wanted to touch him to make sure he was real. I made do with shaking his hand.
    â€œI should read more women’s magazines,” he teased.
    â€œI was just saying . . . I don’t really read them.”
    â€œOh, yeah? What do you read?”
    As if by magic, the decrepit old man sitting next to me stood, leaving a vacant chair. David gracefully sat down, without taking