Seduce Lukas Thorn.

That’s my mission.

Holy shit.

I take a deep breath and count to ten, trying to control my breathing. Two weeks ago, I was a struggling waitress, worried about getting ketchup to table six and making sure the soup is hot enough for table four. Now I’m a professional seductress for hire, about to walk into a parade wearing nothing but body paint.

Karl Werz steps back from me, squints, grunts, and then mixes a new color, adding a finishing touch.

One more step backwards, and then he raises his eyebrows.

“Gut,” he says, “I zink zat’s it.”

I lean up on my elbows. “Can I get up?”

“Ja. Ve are done.” He motions to the mirror.

I close my eyes, swing myself off the tarp, and take the three steps to the ornate three-way mirror. Lorena nearly glows as she gazes at me with a huge smile. She takes a fake puff from her cigarette-less holder.

“Unbelievable,” she says. “Karl, I think you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

I gasp and put my hands up to my mouth at the sight greeting me.

The person I see in the mirror . . . isn’t even a person. It’s some sort of water-nymph creature. I’m completely indigo. Painted on the middle of my body from my breasts downward is an elaborate design that looks somewhat like a short dress that’s part body wrap, part bikini that’s made out of leaves. Or are those waves? Or are those shells?

Whatever it is, it looks amazingly real. I swear I have clothes on, and yet I know I don’t. When I move left and right, it even appears to cast shadows, making it appear truly three-dimensional. How did he do that?

My lips are a fluorescent blue with sparkles that contrast sharply with the indigo of my skin. It matches my eye shadow and mascara. The contacts in my eyes glow a bright aquamarine. A sparkling gold flower adorns the temple by my right ear, blending seamlessly into my bluish-purple hair.

“Holy shit,” I say. “What am I?”

“Stunning,” says Lorena. “That’s what you are.”

“No, but what is this?” I turn to Karl Werz.

He just shrugs his shoulders. “Vater nymph?” he says. “Spirit mermaid? I know not. Mein verk ist complete.”

He begins packing up his kit of paint.

I turn to see my backside.

Oh my God, that looks real!

I swear I can almost feel the bristles of the . . . whatever they are . . . rubbing against my skin. I look like something out of a science-fiction or fantasy movie.

I turn to the other side. My butt looks amazing. The pounds I need to lose are delightfully hidden.

As is my pussy, of course. God, the very sight of my own self is, for once in my life, spectacular. I think I want to fuck me.

“This is incredible,” I say. “I can’t even tell I’m naked.”

“Zat is ze point,” says Karl Werz.

“Thank you!” I say. “Thank you so much.”

I go to give him a hug, but he reels from me with a shocked expression. “No, no, no! Give ze front a half an hour before you let anyzing touch it.”

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Frau MacCall has already zanked me for you. Quite handsomely, too.”

In five minutes, the odd man has everything into a large leather bag. He tosses on a three-corner hat straight from the eighteenth century, bows, and heads to the door without a word.

Once he’s gone, I turn to Lorena and make a happy squealing noise.

“You are going to be spectacular,” says Lorena. “There is no way Lukas Thorn can resist you.”

She gets up, moves over to her briefcase, and opens it up.

She takes out the earpiece headset with which we’ve practiced for the past two weeks and brings it over to me. She expertly fits it in my ear. It blends in seamlessly as the center of the golden flower.

Then she walks back to the briefcase, takes out the transmitter, and turns it on. I hear a tiny beep in my ear.

She turns away from me and speaks into it. “Can you hear me, Jayd?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good.” She turns it off, walks over to me, and hands it to me.

I bite my lip, glancing in the mirror at the odd but very sexy creature glaring back at me from the netherworld.

“You know what to do. It’s showtime.”

Chapter 13

Lorena and I are in the back seat of a Mercedes-Benz driven by her bodyguard, Vargas. He’s the same tall bald man with the goatee that I used to see when he would pick her up at the restaurant.

We’re moving very slowly down the street because the street is packed with so many people. Music fills the air with heavy rhythmic beats, hitting us from all sides.

The Junkanoo used to be held only on December 26th, but to capitalize on the tourism business, Nassau now has several festivals a year, all involving costumes and street parades.

The air is thick, the music is driving, and there are what feels like millions of people. Vendors sell everything from glo-sticks to diamond jewelry. Performers are everywhere, in costumes of every variety. Dancing girls throw odd lights into the air, do somersaults, then catch the lights as they fall down again. The lights vanish completely as if they were never there.

A laser light show brings several corpses out of coffins where they seemingly float in the air to an upright position. When their eyes open, they glow as if lit by flashlights from behind.

The locals are all in costumes, scurrying past and around the tourists. I bet they’re paid performers, though. Real Bahamians must be sick of this.

“Lukas is in a house around the next corner,” says Lorena. “He is on the second floor, outdoor deck with a gathering of ladies.”

“How do you know this?” I say. She just smiles at me and takes a fake puff while patting my knee.

Note to self:Practice not answering questions by just smiling. Powerful shit. I’ll skip the fake cigarette, though. That’s just cheesy. I need to tell her sometime. But then again, who cares? She’s old. If you make it to eighty, do whatever the fuck you want.

The car rounds the corner, the amazing asses of three girls in masks and tinsel fringe bikinis parting to let the car through.

The house appears on my right. My heart beats out of my chest.

It’s one of those old, traditional Bahamian houses. The recipe is simple. Start with a basic two-story New England wooden house then add balconies all around. Make sure you put fancy designs all around the moldings and railings. Oh, and paint it in bright colors, naturally.

The second floor balcony of this one, which is a bright peach with white trim, is teeming with girls. Some are wearing nothing but bikinis. Others are in costume wear. All seem to have drinks.

Then I see him.

My heart leaps out of my chest.

There he is. Right in the middle. Laughing and holding a drink with that carefree expression that he pulls off so well, just like at Lorena’s party which feels like a century ago now.

Damn. He’s got two girls with their arms around him.

Well, of course he does, Abigail! He’s Lukas Thorn. He was probably born with two girls with their arms around him.

Everything but him vanishes again. The world rights itself around its center of existence there on that balcony. All that has been confusing me lately — my dad, Trevor, Karissa’s disappearance . . . fades away.

Lukas Thorn is again in his usual white flowing oversized shirt, open almost to his waist, those spectacular pecs on display for the entire world to reach out and grab. The shirt would look goofy on most men, but it so works on him.

Black jeans again. Good. I hate men in shorts, even if it is five thousand degrees and the humidity is as thick as melting rubber.

On a side note, I think I’m getting used to the humidity now. I don’t sweat as much. My body’s thermometer must be adjusting to it or something.