But the wolf was there again. Silver, huge, it sat a few feet away, much closer than it had been before. Steven, she saw, was beyond the window, walking in the fog.

The wolf was at the foot of the bed.

Steven kept coming. The wolf growled. She saw the great canine teeth.

"I've missed you so much," Steven said.

She had to explain the wolf. "The waiter really a.s.sured me. No wolves. I think it's just a malamute, Steven, see the eyes?"

The fog was rising all around her, swirling around the foot of the bed. There shouldn't be fog in the room. It had to be the maid's fault; she had left the window open.

"Jordan . .."

It was Steven, calling her name.

"I miss you, too, so much, Steven." Guilt a.s.sailed her. She did miss him. He had been everything good in a man. A cop. He'd cared for victims; he'd wanted reforms; he done everything, given the final sacrifice of his life.

I miss you, but I'm dying to go to bed with another man now, Steven, she thought.

She didn't say the words aloud, but it was a dream. Could he read her mind in a dream?

Was she speaking anyway? Even in the dream, she knew that a psychiatrist would have a heyday with her. This was all perfectly understandable. She'd been in love, deeply in love, engaged. She shouldn't forget so quickly. A year. Steven was dead, and she was not.

There was an explanation, yes, surely . . .

"I miss you, Steven!" she repeated.

"Love me more than the wolf!" he called to her.

"I do love you!"

"Bring me back in your mind, Jordan."

"You're always in my mind."

The wolf growled again.

The fog rose over the bed.

She awoke with a start.

Though the shutters were closed, little shafts of light streaked into the room. She could see the motes dancing in the air.

There was no fog in her room.

And there was no wolf.

And no sign of Steven, naturally.

Morning had come and dreams had broken.

CHAPTER 9.

She awoke very late.

Despite the hour, Jordan went upstairs to the rooftop restaurant, desperately in search of coffee. One of the waiters, a pleasant man she was coming to know, greeted her with a smile, and the much needed cup of coffee.

"Buon giomo, Signorina Riley," he told her. "It's not morning, but then ... it is Carnevale. I can get you eggs, if you wish."

"The coffee is wonderful, thank you so much. If it's already lunch-"

"An omelette. Formaggio, eh?"

"That would be lovely, thank you. Have you seen my cousin or his wife?"

"Signora Riley left not long ago."

"Thank you so much. Oh ... by the way, have you seen a very tall man, light haired?"

"No, signorina, I haven't."

"Well, thank you." At the next table, a woman was finishing a bowl of soup; her companion was reading an Italian paper.

"Even here in Venice," the man said in English.

"What is it, dear?" the woman asked.

"A head-a severed head was found in a ca.n.a.l."

"My G.o.d, how awful!" the woman said. Then she added "Just the head? No body?"

"Not yet-but I a.s.sume you've got to have a body to have a head."

"Yes, of course."

Jordan found herself rising, approaching the couple. "Excuse me, I'm sorry for being so rude. Did you say that a head had been found?"

The man lowered his paper, looking at her over the top. "Yes, I'm sorry to say. But you shouldn't worry. It was found far from here. This is a wonderfully safe city, young lady.

It's likely that this was a personal vendetta."

"Oh? Did the man have enemies?"

The man cleared his throat. "Well, actually, right now, the man is an unidentified head.

The authorities are trying to make an identification, checking missing persons reports and all. Here, would you like the paper?"

She shook her head, thanking him. "I'm afraid the amount of Italian I can read wouldn't give me much of the story."

"Well, as I said, it's not something you should worry about. Honestly. My wife, Alyssa-" He inclined his head toward his wife, and Jordan smiled at the attractive, silver- haired woman in acknowledgment, "-we've been coming here for nearly twenty years, every Carnevale. These are the most wonderful people in the world."

"Harold, the poor girl is white as a sheet. You shouldn't have been reading so loudly,"

Alyssa said.

"No, no, it's all right. I shouldn't have been eavesdropping. Um, does it say anything about how long the head might have been in the water?"

Harold shook his head. "I don't believe they know as yet. Unfortunately, when a head is in the sea ..." He hesitated, clearing his throat. "Well, fish chew at it, you know."

"Harold! We're at lunch!" Alyssa admonished. "And this poor dear hasn't even been served yet."

"No, no, it's all right I'm a pretty hardy soul," Jordan said. "I'm Jordan Riley, by the way."

"Alyssa and Harold At.w.a.ter," Alyssa said, extending a hand. "A pleasure. Where are you from?"

"Charleston, South Carolina."

"A fellow Southerner," Harold said, as if he had decided beforehand that there was something about her of which he approved.

"We're from Texas," Alyssa said.

"Oh, look, there's that tall fellow I told you about the other day!" Alyssa said to her husband. She grinned at Jordan. "I think he must be a European film star."

"Rocker, probably-look at that hair," Harold said.

"Rich rocker, Harold, look at the cut of his clothes," Alyssa rolled her eyes at Jordan. Jordan turned, already aware that it had to be Ragnor Wulfsson coming into the restaurant. He carried a paper; his eyes were shielded behind very dark gla.s.ses. He was wearing black jeans, a tailored shirt, and a fitted black leather jacket, blond hair queued at his nape.

Jordan stiffened slightly and offered Alyssa a return smile.

"Antiques dealer," she told her.

"Oh, you know him!" Alyssa said, flushing. "We didn't mean anything ... he's rather hard to miss, that's all."

"I agree," she said pleasantly, adding a soft, "I don't know him all that well."

"Big fellow," Harold said. "German?"

"Norwegian."

"He could be a bouncer. Or a tough guy."

"Oh, Harold!" Alyssa said softly, noting that Ragnor had seen them and was coming their way. "Don't be ridiculous! There is no such thing as a Norwegian mafia!"

"And this is Italy! Hush up about the mafia!" Harold warned.

"Good morning," Ragnor said, reaching the table. He nodded to Harold and Alyssa, and looked at Jordan. "You've just arrived."

"A few minutes ago. Ragnor, Harold and Alyssa At.w.a.ter. From Texas. Mr. and Mrs.

At.w.a.ter, Ragnor Wulfsson-from Norway."

"Originally," Ragnor said, shaking Harold's hand, and inclining his head politely to Alyssa. "A pleasure to meet you. You must be familiar with Italy, Mr. At.w.a.ter; I see that you're reading an Italian paper."

"Oh, yes. I was in the service, stationed in Italy," he said. "Grisly thing, this, have you seen the headlines? Oh, do you read Italian?"

Ragnor arched a brow, accepting the paper. "Yes, I read Italian," he murmured.

"I tell you, Harold, the Europeans have it all over us! He's Norwegian, his English is perfect, and he reads Italian as well!"

"You speak Spanish nicely." Harold absently complimented his wife.

"Norwegian, Italian, English ... and I'm sure Mr. Wulfsson speaks one or two other languages," Alyssa said.

Ragnor looked up from the paper long enough to offer her a smile. "A few," he agreed, and gave his attention back to the paper.

"There has been a severed head discovered in one of the ca.n.a.ls," Jordan said.

"Yes, I see that."

Alyssa gasped suddenly. "Jordan Riley! Why, you're the young lady who thought she was in the midst of ma.s.s murder at the contessa's party the other night."

Jordan felt her flesh warming uncomfortably. "Yes. Were you at the party?"

"I'm afraid we were."

"And you saw nothing ..."

"We weren't in the upstairs ballroom, dear," Alyssa said. "Poor girl! No wonder Harold's words were so disturbing, and this story... but honestly, you mustn't worry. I mean-lord knows! This head might have floated over from Greece or Albania or... well, somewhere." "I don't think a head would have made it quite that far," Harold said.

As he spoke, the waiter arrived with Jordan's omelette. It was decorated with greens and tomatoes. The plate was attractively arranged. But the eggs ...

"Oh!" Alyssa murmured, appearing a little ashen. "Will you gentlemen please put that paper away!"

"Is everything all right?" the waiter asked anxiously. "Mr. Wulfsson, may I bring you coffee? Will you be joining Miss Riley?"

"Yes, thank you," Ragnor said.

Alyssa rose. "Go eat your omelette, while it's hot," she suggested to Jordan, glancing at the plate on the table as if it were the severed head itself. She shuddered. "Lovely to meet you. Harold, we have to leave."

"No we don't-"