Hotelles by Emma Mars Page A

into the dark dining hall to lay claim on what was rightfully his for the night: me. Maybe it was his way of standing up to his old friend. Maybe it was his way of saying that freedom of the press was not completely dead.
    David gamely accepted defeat:
    â€œYou know, as much as the exploitation of interns disgusts me, I might just change my mind, François. Especially since you choose such nice ones.”
    â€œYou think so, too, do you?” The other grimaced, annoyed.
    I could tell he wanted to reveal the exact nature of my function with him that night. But for the second time that evening, he was kind enough not to say anything.
    â€œSee you later, Elle.”
    As David handed me a business card, his jacket sleeve crept up his elbow, revealing his left forearm. It was girded by what looked like a tightly cinched silk armband the color of pearl. I stared at it for just a second too long, and David suddenly became more forceful:
    â€œIf you don’t take this right now . . . Lord knows when we’ll see each other again.”
    â€œYes, of course,” I muttered. “Sorry.”
    He left in a halo of light, half convincing me that the whole evening had been but a dream.
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    â€œELLE? WOULD YOU MIND GIVING me a little more of your time?”
    My client’s invitation was perfectly polite. But to me it seemed completely inappropriate. As uncalled for and vulgar as someone who grabs your behind at a garden party. I could only imagine sharing my bed with one man in the whole world. Only one man could make me lose control. And that man had just disappeared into the night.
    â€œWhy not . . .” I hesitated.
    â€œRebecca Sibony said something about the Hôtel des Charmes. It’s supposed to be really trendy. Have you been?”
    I had gone once or twice over the past few months, lured by my need for extra cash and even slightly aroused after a few too many glasses of champagne. It was no big deal. I hadn’t made it a habit.
    Maude, Fred, Sophia, Rebecca . . . David. An image of their faces raced across my mind. What would they think? What would they tell me to do? Take the money, no matter its source? Or go home in the taxi that my date would surely hail me?
    I couldn’t help dreaming of the four hundred euros he’d leave on the nightstand at the end of the evening. Suddenly, my phone started vibrating.
    The text message was from an unknown number, and it sealed my decision:
    Let’s not leave things like this. No, what I mean is: let’s never leave each other.

6
    June 4, 2009
    H ow do you measure the inviolability of your darkest secrets? Perhaps by the fact that they become so much a part of you that you actually forget about them. You become so used to keeping them to yourself and pretending that they end up escaping your conscious thoughts.
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    AFTER OUR MAGICAL AND UNEXPECTED meeting, David and I got really close. As his first text message suggested, we never left each other’s side. Occasionally, I would go home to see Mom in Nanterre and spend the night. But not a day went by that David and I didn’t see each other. Sometimes just for a quick lunch at a restaurant near Barlet Tower, an ultramodern steel-and-glass structure that David had commissioned ten years earlier. Located in south Paris, it housed all of his company’s activities.
    â€œSee you tonight?”
    â€œAt Le Divellec,” he’d said from his car earlier in the day. “Do you know where that is?”
    I knew where it was, yes. But I had never had the chance to dine there. It was considered one of the best seafood restaurants in Paris, and had been a favorite of President Mitterrand, who would eat there with his secret daughter, Mazarine.
    â€œIt’s on Rue de l’Université, right?”
    â€œThat’s right. I have a reservation for eight thirty. Does that work for you?”
    David knew I had way less to do than he. Still, he was