Jared led them to the landings directly in front of St. Mark’s Square. Jordan turned, feeling as if someone were watching her. She looked up. The lion of Venice sat atop his high marble pillar, staring down at her. She looked around, at St Mark’s Basilica and the Doge’s Palace. By night, shadows seemed to dance, as if they were real entities, hiding behind gargoyles, proud equine statues, and other fantasy creatures set upon splendid architecture by some of the greatest artists who had ever lived.
A church bell tolled in the evening.
A dozen church bells tolled. Jared gripped her arm, leading her over the dock to their vaporetto, and soon they were shooting through waters as heavily laden with revelers as the streets of the city.
“Ah, there, ahead?our palace!”
She tried to remember everything she had heard about the event tonight. The ball was given by Nari Contessa della Trieste, a woman with a heredity as rich as that of the city itself. She was very wealthy, having married well?several times. Her first love, however, was the arts, and the Palazzo Trieste, far more of a palace than a castle, featuring the archways, architecture, stone and marble work of a building planned as a residence rather than a fortress from the very beginning. Beautiful, wrought iron gates allowed entry from the canals; there were elaborate, semicircular steps at the entry, where costumed footmen came to help the ladies and gentlemen from their conveyances.
Within the grand foyer, with its white marble staircase, they were greeted by their hostess. Of medium height and surely, a medium age, she was stunningly beautiful, dressed all in white, with huge white feathers sweeping the hem of her gown, an elaborate and very regal collar made of the same, and a mask of even longer feathers. She wielded her mask with experience, comfort and composure, nodding to the guests at her side, smiling, turning to greet the new arrivals. “Jared, benvenuto! Cindy, ciao, bella!” She drifted across the floor, greeting them with kisses on both cheeks. Then she took both of Jordan’s hands, stretching away to survey her. “Oh, la, the cousin, Jared! Bella, bella, bella, cara mia! You speak Italian, a little? Poco, eh? Grazie, grazie, bella, for coming to my little soiree, eh? Grazie.”
“Grazieanche ei,” Jordan told her. “Mille grazie.”
“You do speak Italian!”
“No,” Jordan replied. “A very, very little, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, still, dance, be merry. Most here speak English, but then, sometimes it’s much, much better when a man cannot be understood, eh?” She grinned, expressive dark eyes sliding over Cindy and Jared.
Jordan felt the strangest sensation of unease, wondering if their hostess weren’t more familiar with her cousin than he had ever suggested. She quickly dismissed the thought; Jared and Cindy were very much in love, the perfect couple.
“The buffet is upstairs, the champagne is here!” the contessa said, reaching out for glasses from a passing waiter. “And the dancing, the dancing is everywhere.”
As they moved on, Jared excused himself to her. “Jordan, I won’t leave you alone for dinner, I promise.
There are a few business associates I have to see ...”
“He doesn’t mind deserting me?just you,” Cindy teased.
“You know people here.”
“Does anyone really know people here?” Cindy queried, as they walked to the buffet table, looking around. The costumes here were even more brilliant than on the street?elegant and extravagant, costing thousands to tens of thousands of dollars, Jordan imagined. She began to feel underdressed in her sequins, faux jewels, and velvet Too many women were wearing real gems. On one medieval gown, Jordan was certain she could see the sparkle of dozens of real emeralds.
“Jordan, sorry, that peacock with the chubby butt and big fan is Mrs. Meroni. I must say hi to her quickly. Come with me?”
“I’ll wander,” Jordan assured her. “Go talk.”
“But?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Watch out for the rats.”
“If I go for any wolves, I’ll make sure they’re very wealthy,” Jordan assured her.
“And young,” Cindy advised. “Or else, old enough to keel off immediately and leave you filthy rich in your own right.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cindy walked away from her.
He saw her walking idly to the buffet table.
She was small and perfect. A petite woman with dark, wavy hair curling over her shoulders, and drawn back from her forehead with a pair of slender braids in concession to the Renaissance style of the deep crimson gown she wore. Others might be more richly dressed; none wore a costume with such natural elegance.
As many here, she carried her mask, a silver and gold creation, on a wand. She pulled it away from her eyes, sipped her champagne, and studied a certain problem in regard to the buffet table?how to hold the drink, the mask and a tiny shrimp.
He left the balcony, and came down the stairs, studying her all the while. He joined her at the table, addressing her in Italian at first, but when her eyes immediately hit his with a certain confusion, he switched to English. “Good evening. Excuse me for being so impertinent?” he paused, lowering his voice?“I believe one is supposed to have an introduction here, but as you seemed to be in some difficulty, I thought I would be of assistance.” He reached out a hand, offering to rescue the champagne glass, the mask, or both.
She looked up at him, green eyes that rivaled any gem here, alight with a sparkle, a slow smile of rueful amusement curling her lips.
She spoke softly, too. “I’m not so sure I can accept your assistance. I’ve just assured my cousin-in-law that I will watch out for rats and wolves and all predators of the night, I believe.”
“Ah, unless they should be filthy rich,” he murmured.
She laughed, the sound a bit guilty as she looked around, the slightest touch of a frown furrowing her brow.
“Well,” she murmured, looking him up and down once again. “You are a wolf.”
“A wolf?” he said with mock distress.
She indicated his costume. His mask was leather, with carved nose and teeth. He wore a black cape, but beneath it were worn strips of fur.
“But perhaps I’m a young, very wealthy?filthy rich?wolf. Take a chance. Dance with me. Well,” he amended thoughtfully, “have a shrimp, finish your champagne, and then dance with me.”
“Ah, but?”
“Live recklessly. This is Venice. Carnevale.”
Her smile deepened. She handed him her mask, quickly finished a shrimp, swallowed her champagne, and nodded. “I will do my best.”
In a minute, they were out on the dance floor in the rear, a terrace that looked over another section of a canal. The moonlight captured on the water reflected the dancers. They played a waltz; she had warned him she was an American and frightfully behind in the etiquette of dance, but she seemed to waltz as if she had been following his lead for years. She glided, she laughed, she stumbled, and grimaced. “You’re a bit too tall,” she told him.
“You’re a bit too small. But we shall manage.”
“You’re not Italian?” she told him.
“A wolf?and not even Italian,” he admitted.
“But you’re not American.”
“A citizen of the world,” he told her. “But you are, of course, American.”
“I might have been English,” she told him.
“Not in the least.”
“Ah, but perhaps I’m Canadian.”
“You’ve the clear mark of an American,” he assured her.
“Oh, do I?” It was true; everyone always seemed to recognize Americans immediately. Before they spoke. It was as if they wore the word American tattooed on their foreheads. “From Charleston, South Carolina,” she admitted. “And you?”
“Italy is my home away from home. At the moment. There are few in the world as warm and welcoming as the Italians.”
“But you were born ... where?” she inquired, curious green eyes bright on his.
He smiled, deciding not to tell her. There was little reason to do so. After tonight...
He shouldn’t have danced with her. He shouldn’t have spoken with her. The mayhem was coming. But she had caught his eye; she had awakened his senses, perhaps his instincts. Then, it seemed, she was capable as well of charming the mind.
And the soul?
“Sir? Excuse me?Sir Wolf? Where are you from?”
“Far, far away,” he said lightly, sweeping her in a circle. Then he paused at a tap on his shoulder.
“Signore, per piacere ...”
A Victorian gentleman, clearly English, broke in on him.
He acquiesced, bowing low. “Care Americana,” he told her. “Ciao, bella. Ciao, bella.” She smiled at him, regret in her eyes, he thought. Or was it only that he could not help but hope?
He watched her dance away.
Her feet hurt?she had practiced in heels, but these were high. And the night was far from boring. First?
the wolf. The enigmatic, very tall, oh-so-charming wolf. She hadn’t the faintest idea of what he really looked like. He wore his mask. And yet, his height was hard to hide. Would she recognize him again?
She would know his scent, she thought. Certainly. Very nice. An aftershave that was clean and woodsy but ... with a very sensual, musky undertone.
After the wolf?the Englishman.
Then a harlequin, or joker.
He complimented her gown, then her eyes and her hair. Then the length of her neck.
She laughed, kept her distance. “You are too effusive, sir.”
“Ah, never. Such lovely white flesh. The way your pulse ... beats.” Just when she was beginning to feel uncomfortable, a Grim Reaper in brown leather and silk broke in on her. He was a Spaniard, tall, attractive. He commented on her wonderful energy, the ray of light that seemed to flow from her.
She thanked him. His features were colored with gray makeup, but his eyes were very dark and intense.
Sexy, she thought.
Cindy, you’re right, there are wolves everywhere. Tempting wolves . . .
