"I don't know. A touch of the flu. I slept all morning, and I'm tired again. But you!

We've been worried to death!"

"I went out. Remember, Venice is a really safe city. The cops carry big guns."

"Venice is a safe city, but still .. ." Cindy's voice trailed off. "I don't know. I just get scared when I don't know where you are."

"I'm fine."

"Great. Are you going to get something to eat with Ragnor?"

"Um ... I guess."

"Well, have a nice night. And please, don't take off tomorrow without telling us that you're leaving, and where you're going, please?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Cindy that she was well over twenty-one, and that she lived alone in Charleston, and that she knew a smattering of Italian-bad Italian, but enough to get around. But Cindy was earnestly concerned, and Jordan didn't want to hurt or worry her anymore.

"Are you sure you're all right? Maybe you should see a doctor."

"I will, if I don't start feeling a little bit better ... well, it's not so much better... I don't really feel ill, just exhausted."

"If you don't perk up, you've got to see a doctor," Jordan insisted.

Cindy promised she would, then asked Jordan to hang on a minute, Jared was saying something.

She sighed when she came back to the phone. "He wants you to watch out for Ragnor.

Don't trust him, and don't let him up to your room."

Jordan didn't tell them that that particular warning was too late.

"I'm going to dinner," she said simply. That wasn't a lie. How could she argue with her cousin when she wasn't sure what she felt herself?

"Dinner," Cindy said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Personally, I think he's the best in the world for you!"

"Thanks. Okay, get some sleep."

She rang off and came back to Ragnor. He was reading his paper again.

"All right. They've gone to bed."

"So you do want to go to dinner."

"Might as well. Give me a minute; I want to run up to my room."

He frowned slightly, as if not certain that she should. He started to fold the paper as if he'd go with her.

"I'll be right down," she promised, and headed for the stairs before he could stop her.

She hurried to her door and into her room. She quickly checked her E-mail. There was another note from the cop in New Orleans. It was simple, brief, and to the point.

Please call me anytime.

She considered putting through a phone call right then, but she didn't want to take too much time. She'd call him around noon tomorrow. That would be very early in the morning in the States but the cop's message had read any time. And at noon, for some reason, everyone she knew tended to be sleeping.

She washed her face quickly, switched jackets, and opened the door. Ragnor was waiting for her in the hallway. "I was getting worried."

She sighed with exasperation. "Why is everyone worried about me all the time?"

"I've told you-I think you might have stirred up trouble."

He was quiet as they walked to the restaurant, a little place just a hundred feet away once they had left the hotel and crossed the bridge to their left. There were many people in the restaurant, and many people in the streets.

It felt very safe.

They ordered wine and joked with the waiter, a man who seemed to know Ragnor. Then they ordered their food. When the wine arrived, along with an antipasto, Ragnor drew the newspaper from the pocket of his black suede jacket. He opened it, smoothed it out, and pointed to a picture.

"Do you recognize that person?"

She stared at the face and at the headlines. The words meant nothing to her, except that she thought she recognized the word for death.

"I've never seen the man before. Why?"

"That's an artist's rendition of the man whose head was found in the ca.n.a.l."

She stared at the picture again. She shook her head slowly. "No, I've never seen him.

I'm positive I've never seen him."

"They think he's Slavic."

"I don't know him. Do you?"

He shook his head. For once, she was certain he was telling the truth. "No," he said.

"Why do you think he was killed?"

"I don't know."

Now, she wasn't so certain he was telling the truth. But he leaned toward her then.

"Don't go running out alone."

"Now wait a minute. You're telling me-"

"I'm telling you not to go running out alone."

"You don't ever explain anything."

"I can't explain."

"Oh-you have a hunch?"

"Something like that."

"We always talk in circles."

"So let's talk about something else."

"All right-let's talk about you."

"Let's talk about you."

Their pasta arrived. Jordan took a bite. It was delicious. Ragnor knew Venice, and he knew his restaurants.

She took a sip of her wine, studying him. "I'm an open book. I live in Charleston. I was born in Charleston. Jared and I both grew up with my grandmother, Granny Jay. We have her eyes. I'm short-he's tall. He started dating Cindy in high school. They adore one another." "That's Jared and Cindy. What about you?"

"Well, I did leave Charleston to go to Brown. I majored in English and Comparative Literature. I write articles now and then, but mostly I do book reviews, fiction and nonfiction. I'm syndicated, and in the last few years I've done very well."

"And your personal life?"

She took another sip of wine. "I told you. I was engaged to a cop named Steven. He was killed. I'm sure you've heard the grisly details-that's why I supposedly went so out of my mind at the contessa's party, seeing real evil in her entertainment."

"And after his death?"

"I've been working. Don't you want to ask me about my life before Steven? There was a guy named Zachary my first year of college. He was cute-had great hair. Then there was Jimmy Adair. He wanted to move to the wilderness in Montana and rough it. Go back in time. Live in a cabin with no electricity and study wolves."

"You've got something against wolves."

"Nope-I'd love to visit him sometime. I just didn't want to live there. Oh-I love movies, too. Well, there you have it Steven came along, and ..."

"He was perfect."

"You're supposed to say you're sorry, or something like that."

He shrugged. "So ... you've been in deep mourning."

"Something like that."

"I'm honored."

"Thanks," she murmured casually. "So-just who are you?"

"Ragnor. Wulfsson."

"Your real name?"

"It is my real name."

Their main course arrived. They smiled and talked to the waiter. He left.

"And you're really from Norway?"

"Yes. Originally."

"You've traveled a lot."

"Quite a bit."

"Doing?"

"Different things over the years. But mainly, spending family money. Parting with antiques here and there."

"And learning languages. You must be very bright."

"No more so than the next man. I travel, and I listen. And take the time," he murmured ruefully. "Time-time in a place helps a lot."

"So you knew the contessa before."

"I don't really care to go into that."

"But you think she's evil?" Jordan wiggled her brows, as if half teasing.

"I know she's evil," he said.

"You think the contessa caused that man to be murdered, don't you?"

"I have no proof." "You should tell the police."

"Oh? And the police will arrest her because I think she caused a man's death?"

Jordan shrugged. "It would help if you went to the police. Then they might take me more seriously. Though I must say, Roberto Capo-" she broke off.

"Roberto Capo what?" he demanded.

"He doesn't think I'm crazy. You should tell him what you think. Maybe it will matter.

Maybe they'll get someone in there to investigate the woman."

"It won't matter if they do."

"Why not?"

"Trust me, she covers her sins well."

Again, the waiter came by. It was time for coffee and dessert. They both decided just coffee, and it was then that Jordan remembered to ask, "Have you heard from Tiff?"

His expression became guarded. "No."