Hotelles Read Free

gray hair. The last six months of her treatment took a toll on her muscles and their strength but not on her head, which remained covered in hair. Maude Lorand was a trouper. She hung on as she always had, with courage and humility. She didn’t even complain. Her lungs had gone to hell, but she hadn’t lost one inch of dignity. She was a bronze statue rising from the ashes.
    â€œDo you think you’ll need another room in the coming days? Perhaps tomorrow?”
    â€œI don’t know yet. And even if I do . . . it will definitely be the last time.”
    He did not seem surprised by my off-the-cuff statement. He almost looked happy about it, flashing me a knowing smile. Monsieur Jacques wanted what was best for me. Or, rather, he saw the best in me. At least that’s the feeling I got whenever we met. In spite of appearances and the obvious reason for my presence in his hotel, he thought I could be good, or better. It only took a few seconds for his kind gaze to boost my morale.
    But that night I didn’t have time for his tonic look. He was still smiling as the doors sucked me out of the hotel and into the gentle night. It was still early.

2
    The same day, a little later
    S o, basic . . . or base itinerary?”
    The voice behind this terrible play on words came from a girl who loves to flirt with all things vulgar, knowing full well that it adds to her coarse charm. Sophia. My best friend. Kind of my only friend, to be honest. Sophia Petrilli, two years my senior and at least five years ahead of me in the world of men and sex. Chocolate curls that catch everybody’s attention. Perfectly sculpted breasts that call out for hands to touch them. Eyes in which all men long to get lost. One of her first lovers nicknamed her Esmeralda because, being the young dancer that she is, she’s wildly independent and makes men burn for her. In her everyday life, she is just Sophia, a little lost and without a serious boyfriend or stable job. But she is the most lively and independent person I know, and she has been a solid friend in the face of hardship. Boyfriends have come and gone; Sophia is forever.
    â€œMmm . . . ,” I replied, dodging her question with a shrug. “Second itinerary.”
    â€œMakes sense, given the hour. I kind of figured.”
    On nights when we were both working, we typically met at Café des Antiquaires on Rue de la Grange Batelière, which is just a few paces away from the Drouot auction house in Paris’s 9th Arrondissement. The rule was simple: the first one to finish up with her client would wait for the other. Option number one rarely kept us out past eleven p.m. Number two could easily go into the wee hours of the morning.
    â€œAnd you? Did you have a good night?”
    â€œOne might say,” she said, smirking.
    â€œRich client?”
    â€œDisgustingly rich, you mean. I’ve never seen such a flashy Rolex. And he really pulled out all the stops: the Pompadour suite and all the trimmings.”
    That was another thing about the Hôtel des Charmes: each room, which could be rented by the hour, was dedicated to one of French history’s great seductresses and courtesans. The king’s favorites, mistresses, queens, and simple ladies of the night whom posterity had not forgotten. A surprising collection of dancers, spies, artists, and half-socialites. All were remembered for their extraordinary powers over men and the ways in which they used them over the course of their tumultuous lives. No reference was made to these men in the hotel; none of them were associated with a room. Meanwhile, as I had noticed earlier, each room was decorated in perfect harmony with the time and period of the heroines I’ve just mentioned. Each room was a unique setting that embodied one woman and gave life to a whole fantasy.
    â€œNot bad,” I said with forced enthusiasm. “I was in the Josephine.”
    â€œNice! Have you ever