Hotelles by Emma Mars Page B

everything was normal, as though we hadn’t needed an intermediary to set up our meeting. Not he. And his unusual frankness irritated me. It was as if he were trying to tarnish his first impression.
    â€œAnd yet we manage it every time . . . keeping our promises,” I replied brusquely.
    â€œYou have all night to convince me . . . Elle.”
    I hated the way he detached my first name from the rest of the sentence, playing with it like a cat with its prey.
    I had been hoping that on my last mission I would get someone gentle and clumsy, someone who would simply be proud to show me off. But an escort doesn’t get to decide these things.
    â€œI don’t even know your name,” I snapped. “You are Monsieur . . . ?”
    â€œPatience . . . You have all night to find out.”
    With every passing second, the man seemed less and less charming. I, for one, was having a hard time staying composed. I wanted to leave, and had to keep reminding myself of the watch in the window at Antiquités Nativelle to motivate myself to stay. Without this eccentric man and his money—Rebecca had told me he was willing to pay double for me —I might as well kiss the watch good-bye. But how long did I have to endure this?
    As though sensing my panic, the limping dandy shifted tones, making himself more affable and even a little playful. He asked questions to be polite: Was I a student? Was I from Paris or the provinces? Did I like contemporary art or not really?
    He had at last stepped down from his pedestal.
    â€œAdmit it, you’re not really that into galleries . . . ?” he said, breaking into an open and almost charming smile.
    â€œNo . . . Not really.”
    â€œIn that case, will you allow me to be your guide?”
    â€œMy guide?”
    â€œYes, here, tonight. You know, David Garchey is an up-and-coming artist. He’s already very popular in New York and London.”
    David. So that was the artist’s name. I smiled to myself, pleased by the irony and coincidence. David Barlet. David Garchey. The similarity was troubling.
    â€œOkay, that would be nice,” I said, relaxing.
    He offered me his firm but slim arm, which was tense and gave off a kind of nervous energy. As he guided me to such and such piece, to such and such corner of the gallery, he allowed himself to behave with me as with an intimate. His fingers ran through a stray tendril, brushing over the nape of my neck and sending an electric current through my body.
    â€œYou see,” he pontificated in a calm, deep voice, “David isn’t just another spoiled child from a good family who feels guilty about his background.”
    â€œIf you say so . . .”
    If I was going to cut this tedious night short, then I’d have to let him do the talking. The less you contradict someone like him, the more quickly he’ll grow bored of his own opinions. I figured he was like those university professors who go after naive students. I had been approached by some when I was in college—only to disappoint them.
    I could smell his cologne, its notes of vanilla and lavender accentuated by a persistent charcoal that seemed to follow him everywhere.
    â€œI’m sure of it. The social meaning of his work goes well beyond his background.”
    As he said this, he pointed to a giant statue of Sophie the Giraffe with huge breast implants and a silver lamé string bikini riding up her backside.
    The sleeves of his jacket and shirt were slightly bunched and revealed a tattoo of a miniature a and the tip of a feather pen on his left forearm. The rest of the word was hidden from view.
    â€œSorry, but I don’t follow. I don’t see the interest in making fun of children’s toys by turning them into grotesque sexual objects . . . How exactly does that diverge from the petulant bourgeois youth biting the hand that feeds it?”
    I hadn’t been able to