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  THE SEDUCER

  A Novel

  Claudia Moscovici

  Hamilton Books

  A member of

  The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group

  Lanham · Boulder · New York · Toronto · Plymouth, UK

  Copyright © 2012 by

  Hamilton Books

  4501 Forbes Boulevard

  Suite 200

  Lanham, Maryland 20706

  Hamilton Books Acquisitions Department (301) 459-3366

  Estover Road

  Plymouth PL6 7PY

  United Kingdom

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  British Library Cataloging in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943256

  ISBN: 978-0-7618-5807-2 (paperback : alk. paper)

  eISBN: 978-0-7618-5808-9

  Cover image: Timeless by Edson Campos.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992

  Advance Praise for Claudia Moscovici’s The Seducer

  Like the best, most delicious novels, Claudia Moscovici’s psychological thriller, The Seducer, grips you in its opening pages and holds you in its addictive clutches straight through to its dramatic, remarkable conclusion. This is a fascinating novel, on every page of which Moscovici’s intimate understanding of the psychology of psychopaths and their victims gleams with a laser’s concentrated brilliance. The result is a narrative that builds with a patient, yet propulsive, force; a narrative whose intensity and suspense, in tandem, leave the reader eager to know, at every step of the way, what happens next? I encourage the reader to start this novel with a full set of nails, because it’s a nail biter in the most literal sense.

  Steve Becker, MSW, LCSW LoveFraud.com feature columnist, Expert/Consultant on Narcissism and Psychopathy

  The Seducer offers a thrilling look at the most dangerous men out there, that every woman is warned about and many encounter: the psychopathic predator. We’ve seen these men featured in the news for their gruesome crimes. But few would expect them to be the charming, debonair, romantic seducers that love stories are made of. When the heroine of the novel, Ana, met Michael, she was in for the roller-coaster ride of her life. In her exciting second novel, The Seducer, Claudia Moscovici depicts with talent and psychological accuracy the spellbinding power of these charming yet dangerous Don Juan’s.

  D. R. Popa, author of Lady V and Other Stories (Spuyten Duyvil, 2007)

  What is love in this seductive new novel? Hypnotic attraction or deadly trap? A dream come true or a world filled with obsessions in the absence of genuine feelings? The Seducer probes the chilling depths of alienation and selfishness as the heroine, Ana, is caught in the spider’s web of her narcissistic lover, Michael. No magic, just cruelty. Claudia Moscovici wrote a powerful novel about an unfortunate reality many women face: the unraveling of their romantic dreams as love turns into a cold and calculated game of chess.

  Carmen Firan, author of Words and Flesh

  Claudia Moscovici’s new psychological thriller, The Seducer, reminds us of classics like Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary, but with a contemporary twist. The new seducer is a psychopath, a dangerous predator without genuine emotion. And yet, we remain fascinated as he charms two women: one of them utterly dependent, the other seduced but autonomous. The reader’s outrage toward the reprehensible Michael may feel neutralized by the author’s meticulous studies of the psychopath in action and by what I call “ethical irony,” an often hidden moral perspective. Moscovici’s epic of betrayal and self-deception draws the reader into the convoluted mind of sexual predators and their victims. The narrative is bold, vivid and lucid.

  Edward K. Kaplan, Kaiserman Professor in the Humanities and Chair of the Program in Religious Studies, Brandeis University

  to Jewel, my muse, and to “Dr. Emmert,” an inspiration

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part II

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way — Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

  What if Tolstoy was wrong when he said that all happy families are alike while each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way? Michael mused. Turn that statement on its head and it rings even more true. If there was any way he’d manage to screw up his marriage plans with Karen it would be, let’s just say, in the usual manner, he speculated. Oh well, c’est la vie! he shrugged. After all, there were plenty of other fish in the sea. Better not focus on negative things on such an awesome, sunny day, he reminded himself. He noticed through the translucent curtains the conic outlines of the two majestic pine trees growing right outside his bedroom window. They shielded him from the prying eyes of neighbors, making him feel like the king of his castle. Michael stretched out his arms above his head and wiggled his body. He enjoyed the cool smoothness of the sheets against his warm back. Every morning he rose with a sense of wellbeing peppered by a restless excitement. He thought to himself, “Ladies, fasten your seatbelts because IT’S SHOW TIME!” in bold capital letters of a flashing neon sign, like at his favorite strip club, Foxy Lady. Beep, beep! A loud noise suddenly jolted him. He hit the alarm clock with the flat of his hand.

  “Michael, you’ll miss your class!” he heard Karen’s singsong voice echoing from the bathroom, intermingled with the sound of running water.

  “I’m already up,” he announced, but apparently not convincingly enough, since his fiancée emerged out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. She wanted to make sure that Michael was telling the truth. “Well it’s your class, your job,” she mumbled. Her mouth was still partially filled with a pasty mix of water and toothpaste. Karen often assumed a maternal manner with him, projecting the attitude that she had enough com
mon sense for the both of them. In her heart of hearts, she hoped that no matter what temptations Michael might face with other women, as far as the deeper matters of human existence were concerned, she was indispensable to him.

  From time to time, Michael slipped away on vacation or to scholarly conferences without her. Before he left, Karen felt very apprehensive. She’d give him a fidelity lecture, to make him feel that the idea of hooking up with or, worse yet, falling in love with another woman would be sheer frivolity compared to the depth of commitment she had to offer. Sometimes Michael couldn’t help but smile. Karen genuinely believed that there was an inverse proportion between libido and depth. Which is perhaps why, for her, daily communication over dinner and in the evenings was obligatory. In her estimation, good communication consisted, first and foremost, of a detailed account of their daily activities. For him, these entailed teaching, taking graduate seminars, eating, screwing around with other women (however, this particular detail he understandably omitted) and returning home. For her, it entailed going over the minutia of her job as administrative manager in a physician’s office.

  Moreover, about once a month, Karen initiated “us conversations,” or thorough debriefings about the state of their relationship. These conversations usually culminated in Karen melting into a heap of self-doubt that took Michael hours of effort to comfort. He recalled how often he’d seen his fiancée’s scrunched up face, the sides of her nose rosy from crying. Karen would wipe her tears away with two quick butterfly wing movements. They started from the inner eye, along the curve of her nose, then brushed her cheeks and vanished into the air, she hoped, unnoticed. But Michael did notice, of course. Most of the time, however, he pretended not to and craftily changed the subject to something more pleasant. His evasive behavior led his fiancée to suspect that something was lacking in their relationship. That something, she hoped, could be compensated by his constant verbal reassurances.

  “You don’t talk enough about your feelings,” Karen would periodically complain to him. Granted, Michael manifested all the outward signs of romantic sensibility. He bought her flowers on special occasions. He took her to fancy restaurants. He said “I love you” with commendable frequency. He patiently listened to her concerns. Yet there was something flat and mechanical about his emotional reactions. It’s as if Michael were rehearsing a role or just going through the motions. Sometimes he’d greet her anxiety with a plastic smile. At others, he’d brush it aside with an inappropriate joke. One minute he’d be gazing lovingly into her eyes, his attention fully absorbed by her. The next minute he’d be whistling, completely distracted, ending their conversation abruptly with a non sequitur.

  He’s so immature, Karen would tell herself. Although he was twenty-seven, Michael looked and acted younger than his age. His abrupt movements and brief attention span reminded Karen of the children who came in with their parents to the doctor’s office: particularly those diagnosed with attention deficit disorder. They wouldn’t sit still in their chairs for more than a few seconds. They quickly flipped through the books and magazines on the table, moved around, sat back down, doing everything they could to relieve a perpetual state of restlessness.

  Was that what led Michael to moon his parents at the end of their visit last Thanksgiving? Karen wondered. After saying their goodbyes in a more or less civil manner, Michael had suddenly turned around, pulled off his pants and bent over like a drunken frat boy. He peered over his shoulder and burst into laughter at his parents’ and fiancée’s visibly perplexed reactions. Karen couldn’t comprehend such outbursts of puerile behavior coming from a grown man. Yet, at other times, this very same Michael would appear wise beyond his years. He’d listen to her attentively, gazing at her with a reptilian tranquility that she had never encountered in anyone else. He’d tell her calmly his reasoned opinion, in a voice as smooth and soothing as silk. Her insecurities would temporarily melt away in the fusion of her gratitude and his affection, only to resurface later, when the insensitive boyfriend suddenly returned. Through the perplexing oscillations of his mercurial temperament, Michael held his fiancée fascinated and captive, under his spell.

  “What do you want me to say?” he’d object when put on the defensive about his apparent lack of interest in their conversation.

  “If I have to tell you what to say, that defeats the whole purpose of talking in the first place. I might as well deliver a monologue,” Karen retorted. And often, she did. As far as communication was concerned, she presented herself as a role model since, in point of fact, she did open up to him—and only to him. To everyone else, Karen presented a cool, unflappable exterior. Even her own parents viewed her as a pillar of strength. Only Michael knew that this pillar had deep emotional fissures, like a ruin. “The reason I go on these eating binges is because I feel so insecure about my self-image,” Karen had commented earlier that week, when they were having lunch together at Panera. She had looked up at him from her oriental salad, scooting with some regret the unopened package of peppercorn dressing towards his side of the table. “Here. You can have it.”

  To spare her the extra calories, Michael gallantly poured the dressing over his own salad. After saturating each leaf, he looked up at his fiancée and thought of a defense strategy, before the conversation headed towards another meltdown. At worst, she’s about fifteen pounds overweight, he estimated. But they hang pretty well on her tall frame. “You look mighty fine to me,” he observed, thinking that massaging her ego would pacify her.

  This prediction, however, proved a bit too optimistic. “I don’t understand how other women stay so thin,” Karen responded with a sigh, looking around at her competition in the restaurant. “After all, I watch what I eat and I’m as tall as a skyscraper. It must be my mother’s genes.” She blamed her slow metabolism on her mother, a two hundred pound diabetes patient. That weighed less on her conscience than acknowledging the periodic binges on gallons of ice cream, atoned by brief semi-starvation periods, when she survived solely on herbal tea and salad. And that was part of their underlying problem. Karen recalled how often people would look at her and her fiancé with a gaze that measured them up and determined that they were a mismatched couple. Michael was shorter, only 5’9” compared to her towering 5’11.” But what struck the eye most was not the slight difference in their heights but the big discrepancy in their physical appearance.

  “Your son’s so cute,” a little girl once said to Karen during a shopping trip at Filenes’s Basement. Michael had emerged out of the changing room in a brand new gray suit he intended to purchase for future job interviews. He looked striking, standing proud, his jet-black hair set off by the paleness of the gray suit. His bright brown eyes, mischievous yet angelic, beamed with an inflated awareness of his own good looks. “So is yours,” Michael replied, looking at the stuffed animal that the little girl held in her hand. Ostensibly, he tried to diffuse the tension, being painfully aware of his fiancée’s insecurity about her appearance. Tall, plain, with long legs and stringy brown hair, Karen thought that her best feature was her deep brown eyes. But even in that domain, she couldn’t compare to him.

  Michael’s eyes had an amazing ability to fix your gaze, seize your attention, then glide all over you slowly, covering you in a visual syrup. After being anointed with such sweetness, you felt blessed that this angel looked in your direction and you were instantly his. The problem was, however, that Michael’s wondering eyes glazed every pretty woman they encountered, lingering over her features with a feral hunger that simultaneously intimidated and flattered. Karen feared that she’d never be able to fulfill her fiancée’s constant need for sexual stimulation. This thought deeply concerned her, no matter how hard she tried to dismiss physical attraction as merely superficial. If you can’t fix a big problem all at once, start by taking smaller steps, she had read something to this effect in an advice column. And that was precisely what she decided to do by focusing most of her energies on losing the extra weight.

  Given that K
aren had avoided putting any dressing on her salad, Michael took this opportunity to expound upon his own, more liberal, theory of dieting. “Being on a diet is the wrong way of going about losing weight. In France, people eat whatever the hell they please. But they do it in moderation. Plus they walk a lot. That’s how most Europeans stay so thin,” he proposed the only strategy he thought worked. It was modeled after his favorite culture, which he happened to teach as a graduate student in the Department of French and Italian at Michigan University. For as long as the magnifying glass wasn’t placed directly on him, Michael’s ostensible emotional generosity expanded. He did his best to coach his fiancée into improving her self-image, which only fueled her dependency on him.

  “Yeah, well, maybe that works for those skeletal French waifs. But I come from peasant Irish stock,” Karen shot his argument clear out of the water.

  “What you have to remember is that image isn’t just about how you look,” Michael altered his approach.

  “That only goes to show how little you know about women,” she countered.

  As a matter of fact, Michael had done more empirical research on the subject than he cared to admit. Since that argument wouldn’t have impressed his fiancée, however, he contented himself with nuancing his point. “Well, I realize that looks are important to women, since they’re often judged by their physical appearance. But it’s the inside that counts.” That’s the kind of crap women like to hear, he thought.

  “Oh, yeah?” Karen challenged him. “Then why is it that when we’re at the mall you start drooling over those bimbos in miniskirts? I have yet to see your tongue hanging out over their intelligence!”

  “That’s only because I don’t know any of them. Our contact’s strictly visual. But once you get to know a person, the inside matters far more,” Michael countered philosophically. I wriggled my way pretty good out of that hole, he observed, pleased with the double entendre.