33
“Another man?! Are you out of your mind?”
“The manual clearly states that at this point I must seduce a man ‘as close as possible—physically and spiritually—to the prey’s ultimate idol.’”
“So… basically a Lev Mirov look-alike?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, great,” I muttered.
I dug his old forty-five out of the cabinet in the living room.
On the back, the photo.
Lev Mirov, in scratched black and white, with the soft body of someone who’d never said no to a drink or a second helping of goulash.
Wrinkled corduroy pants sagged under worn suspenders that slipped off one shoulder, leaving his hairy torso completely at the mercy of the camera.
His belly jutted out with the pride of a fallen king, and his crooked, sly grin seemed to declare that life wasn’t worth taking too seriously.
Sweat-damp black hair hung in messy strands across his forehead, and the sax resting diagonally on his thigh completed the scene with a sensuality that was both ridiculous and irresistible.
Behind him: a peeling wall, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
The personal hell of an artist who’d never planned to live past thirty-two.
“Now that’s a real dreamboat,” I said dryly.
“And yet—the few who knew him swear he was always surrounded by women. A bit like Jean-Paul Sartre, who wasn’t exactly a cover model. But by now, Bea, you should know better than anyone: seduction has very little to do with looks.”
“Are you seriously telling me you can make Ryder jealous with this specimen? One of them is tall, lean, abs carved like marble, with hair down to his waist. The other is… grotesque.”
“Even better! The Countess says the more different, the better. First, Ryder won’t be able to miss the resemblance to his idol.
Second, it’ll plant the doubt—what if he’s not actually my type?
What if I really prefer pudgy men with thinning curls?
Can you even picture it, Bea? Imagine the devastation I’ll put him through.
After five minutes of knowing me, he’s already trashing his career just to please me.
Next comes the physical decline, because—what can I say?
—I adore a little belly. And finally, financial ruin, because of course he’ll have to pay me my half in the divorce settlement. ”
“Poor guy. Need I remind you, Ryder isn’t your enemy. Chad is.”
“What can I say, Bea? That’s the curse of tortured artists—they love with their whole being. It’s inevitable. I can’t save him from that. He’ll bounce back… in a few years. And by then he’ll have a whole catalogue of heartbreaking songs to write about our tragic love story.”
“Mhm.” I kept staring at the saxophonist’s photo. “So where exactly do we find ourselves a specimen like this?”
“At the Tropical Jazz Club, obviously!”