Read Online Hotelles by Emma Mars - Free Book Online Page B

his beautiful hand resting just above the curve of my hip. He led me down Rue Fabert toward the docks, the sparkling dome of the Invalides behind us. I, who had made it a rule never to let other people manage my life, was quickly learning to enjoy letting go. It didn’t seem like much of a risk, not with David. He had all the self-assurance and easy confidence of his class, a giant air bag of money, loads of connections and self-confidence. He flattened all obstacles and hardly even broke a sweat.
    I liked that he took charge. But once again I longed for more . . . at the very least, a kiss.
    When we got to the Quai d’Orsay, he wordlessly guided us toward the Pont Alexandre III, one of the most beautiful bridges in the city. I couldn’t help but notice the Ronde des amours , three happy cherubs dancing at the base of each lamppost. We walked over the elegant steel-and-stone structure, which had been built for the World’s Fair in 1900, and reached the Right Bank, where a few stairs led us to a pier.
    â€œYou know,” I said ironically, “I may be from the suburbs, but I have actually taken one of these tourist boats before.”
    In reply, he pointed to a vessel tethered farther away. It had a fresh coat of paint, its bottle-green sides shining with lacquer. From where we stood, I could see a small canopy under which lighted candles danced in the breeze. Our skiff was nothing like the tourist traps. A uniformed man in white gloves was waiting by the boat to greet us:
    â€œMademoiselle, Monsieur Barlet . . .”
    â€œGood evening,” I whispered, more impressed than I wanted to let on.
    As soon as we set foot on the varnished deck, a string quartet started playing Vivaldi from behind the canvas tent. I hesitated: Did I want to laugh or give in to this avalanche of clichés? Everyone clearly expected the latter. Even romance novels weren’t this cheesy.
    David read my thoughts out loud.
    â€œMy white horse has a cold and asks you to forgive him. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to make it tonight.”
    â€œWell . . .” I feigned exasperation. “You tell him I’m sending a doctor to make sure he isn’t lying.”
    â€œI will.” He laughed. “But if you’re going to go to all that trouble . . .”
    The servant had just unveiled a small round table, the epitome of simplicity: a white tablecloth, two bottle-green garden chairs, two candles, two champagne flutes, and one bottle of champagne. Only then did I notice the starry spring night overhead.
    â€œI warn you, I won’t be able to manage anything more than bubbles.”
    â€œPerfect. My plan was to get you drunk.”
    â€œReally, that’s all?” I simpered coarsely.
    He seized my hand, caressing it as though polishing a stone. A distracted gesture that was more of a comfort for him than me.
    The boat slowly started to pull away from the dock. A light hum. Our glasses clinked, a crystalline note tinkling amid the long vibrato of the string instruments. As he uncorked a vintage Moët, we floated by the obelisk at Place de la Concorde and the National Assembly. They were both lit up for the night and sparkling. We continued on, passing the Musée d’Orsay’s glass arches, which were also dressed in light for the night.
    To be honest, I could have gotten used to the clichés. I could pretend all I wanted. Play the young intellectual . . . but he wasn’t fooled, and neither was I. Who wouldn’t enjoy such a beautiful view, and from their own private boat? Who was I to look down on something millions of other women could only dream of?
    I signed my surrender with a sigh. Then I smiled. David and his charming attitude deserved it.
    â€œTo what shall we drink?” I asked, tipping my glass in his direction.
    â€œWait . . .”
    He who was usually so self-assured seemed taken aback by my invitation to clink crystal. He