Hotelles by Emma Mars

his azure eyes from mine. He didn’t say anything. He must have known the effect of his words on me.
    â€œI don’t know . . . Dailies, news magazines . . .”
    Don’t be a groupie, Elle. Don’t talk to him about Le Monde !
    â€œDon’t tell me you read our friend François’s rag?” he asked in a voice that was loud enough for my date to hear.
    Standing to his right, François turned and parried:
    â€œDon’t listen to that old fox! He’s a frustrated journalist. Back in college, he was the worst writer among us.”
    â€œFair enough,” admitted Barlet, triumphantly. “But my little poems weren’t my only method of seduction.”
    â€œRight. Well, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, old friend. I’ll concede that I never could fight you at that level.”
    We all laughed at their little duel.
    â€œTell me everything, Elle: How did spoon-less Marchadeau and you meet?”
    â€œWe . . .”
    I hadn’t anticipated this line of questioning. I was afraid my client would reveal our secret. But even though I could feel him standing behind me, listening to every syllable, Marchadeau did not say a word. I had to come up with a credible story all by myself. Posthaste. Everybody knows that the best lies, the ones you can actually keep up over the long term, contain a small grain of truth.
    â€œI’m a journalism major.”
    â€œAt CELSA-Sorbonne?”
    â€œNo, at the Center for Journalism Studies. I just graduated. I did an internship at the magazine where François works.”
    â€œAnd you two got along?”
    â€œYes.”
    David’s soft, charming look suddenly threw daggers at his old friend. He could have shot him on the spot. The blend of sensitivity and violence in this man was off-putting. From one second to the next, he was as soothing as a salve and then as harsh as a third-degree burn.
    I was finally able to release myself from David’s spell to take in the ballet of people around us: men and women alike were drawn to him like moths to a lamp. Yet there were certainly others in attendance who could easily rival his fame and fortune. But everyone seemed to want to be near him, to get his attention, to have some of his glory rub off on them. Everyone wanted to penetrate the magical circle that surrounded him. Standing in such close proximity, even I was a source of jealousy, especially as the minutes went by. He was granting me a considerable amount of his time.
    â€œWho is that? Do you know who she is?”
    â€œNever seen her. In my opinion, she looks rather ordinary.”
    I heard people whispering in the background, some perhaps only a few chairs away from ours, gossiping. Who was I to monopolize the star of the evening? How did I dare assert myself like that? Shouldn’t I have taken it upon myself to cut my conversation short with the media prince so that other people could get their chance to talk to him?
    â€œAnd where do you work now?”
    David was completely focused on me.
    I was so troubled that I couldn’t even see the opportunity in front of me. It was so huge I hardly noticed it. The man was so enchanting that I didn’t think to grasp it.
    â€œUmm . . . I have leads. I’m taking my time.”
    â€œI see. So, to summarize . . . you have nothing.”
    That was the kind of blunt statement that normally makes you want to slap the person who’s just assaulted you with it. So why was I standing there dumbfounded and smiling piously. Where was my pride?
    Since I didn’t have anything to say, David slowly reached toward my face and whispered an order:
    â€œClose your eyes, please.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œYou heard me: close your eyes. Just for a few seconds.”
    â€œWhat are you—”
    â€œDon’t be scared,” he instructed, with all his natural authority.
    Marchadeau ended up popping his head