“Can you actually feel beauty?”

“Perhaps you could play semantic games with someone else?” she suggested, but then found that she was giving him an answer. “Yes, you can feel beauty. Like the beauty within someone, the beauty of a gentle soul, a compassionate gesture?”

He was watching the performers again, a small smile still curving his lips.

She let out a soft sigh of aggravation.

“And what about magic?” he asked her suddenly.

“Do I feel magic? No,” she murmured. Was it magic? No, it was discomfort, being so close, feeling his presence as if he touched her, watching the dancers, the eroticism of their every sinuous movement... the performance was arousing; it was meant to be arousing. She was suddenly aware of the fluttering of a few antique fans around the room. And a surge of whispering. Men’s heads bowed to their wives. Or their lovers. Or the acquaintances they had made here, perhaps even strangers behind masks.

If he had touched her, instinct would have willed her to lean against him, to place a hand on his knee. She would have liked his fingers at her nape, caressing her, the brush of his knuckles against her cheek. . . no, more. . . his clothing on the floor, her hands on his chest. . .

The heat in the room was increasing. She reached behind, groping for her champagne. She would have liked a gallon of water; anything cold would do.

He procured the flute for her, barely seeming to move again. The touch of his flesh as he passed the glass to her felt as hot as blue fire. She gulped the champagne in a swallow; her head started to spin mercilessly. She was going to teeter against him, fall right into his arms as he seemed, with all amusement, to be expecting. His eyes were locked on hers, laughing, confident, uncanny ... yes!

The lights came up; the room was suddenly alive with a burst of applause.

Jordan was holding her empty champagne glass. His chair wasn’t all that close to hers. Around the table people were talking and laughing, and Cindy was in Jared’s arms. His head was bent to hers, and he was whispering something that brought a sparkle to her eyes and the deepest smile to her lips.

Jordan bolted from her chair, startling Raphael, who sat at her other side. “I see a friend,” she lied quickly. “Excuse me.”

She hurried, intent on reaching a bar and getting a big glass of water. Before she could make her way through the tables at the stage’s side, she was stopped as a woman in Renaissance apparel suddenly rose, taking her arm. She nearly shrieked aloud, but the woman spoke quickly. “Jordan Riley! It’s Tiff.

Tiff Henley! I thought that was you when I spied the costume, but you had your mask on earlier?smashing, really. I mean, absolutely smashing!”

“Tiff,” Jordan murmured quickly. “Of course, hello, how are you? You look terrific yourself. Beautiful costume.”

“Thanks, I had it made. It seems, however, quite ordinary next to yours. But then...” Behind her mask, Tiff quickly gave Jordan an up and down assessment “Well, it seems made for you, and with vinyl, of course, it must be. Tell me, is it terribly hot?”

“Oh, yes. Extraordinarily so, at the moment.”

“Maybe you need a breath of air ... some water. Please . .. Roberto, per favore, acqua per Signorina Riley?”

Jordan glanced to the table. She should have noted the policeman, Roberto, right away. He rose at Tiff’s bidding, quickly pouring Jordan a plastic flute of mineral water from the bottle sitting in the center of the table. He smiled at her, telling her, “Good evening,” in English.

“Buona sera,” she returned, accepting the glass, “and thank you.”

“Perhaps you’d like to walk outside ... ?” he inquired. “It’s much colder.”

“Cooler, Roberto,” Tiff said, pleasantly inserting the right term.

“You needn’t leave your party?”Jordan protested.

“I would like a walk,” he told her.

“Go, go! Cool down!” Tiff advised, reaching for her own champagne flute. “We’re on for coffee tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, certainly,” Jordan agreed.

Roberto led her through the tables and out through the maze of low barricades that had been set up for crowd control just beyond the tent The moon was high, and light shone from the tent, but the ancient buildings created a world of shadows beyond the spill from the party and the glow from the moon.

Roberto seemed to understand the desire for light that sprang up within her, though, pausing casually by a cement bench in the center of the square, and lighting a cigarette. As he indicated, Jordan took a seat. He remained standing, but set a foot on the bench and leaned an elbow on his knee as he spoke to her.

“No further ... difficulty?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “None at all.”

“I’m happy. I love my city. Venice is beautiful. There is nowhere like it in the world.”

“You’ve traveled a lot?”

“No,” he admitted with a grimace. “But I have seen TV?and I read. And now ... there is the Internet.”

“It is a beautiful city,” she assured him. “I love it.”

Before he could reply, she heard him hailed from behind. He turned. Jordan was surprised to see another of the policemen from the other night, Alfredo Manetti. “Roberto, Miss Riley!” The officer seemed to have forgotten his impatience with her. He lifted a hand, quickly indicating that she must not rise, and placed his hands on her shoulders before kissing her cheeks. She nodded warily to him, not returning the gesture.

He said something rapidly to Roberto, which she did not catch at all.

“Miss Riley is having a wonderful time,” Roberto said carefully in English.

“I’m glad. You liked the entertainment?” he inquired.

“I did. No blood and guts.”

“The Artist’s Ball is quite different. Fun, beautiful ... for everyone. You know, though she would deny it up and down, I think that the contessa is here? she would not admit to having a good time with the common rabble, but I saw a beautifully costumed Jezebel in there this evening, and I think it was the contessa? slumming it, as you might say in English.”

“Everyone loves a party,” Jordan said. She rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I think the party is winding down.”

“Of course, of course,” he said.

She turned to Roberto. “Thank you for the walk. It was much cooler out here.” She didn’t wait for his reply, but hurried back to the tent. The ticket-taker had fallen asleep at the door.

She passed him, and excused herself as she walked by the throng of people who were not leaving.

Inside, she was startled when she felt a hand on her arm.

It was Lynn Mallory. “Jordan, I picked up your mask. Everyone was dancing, our table was bare. If you’re through with it for the night, I’ll take it with me.”

“Yes, thanks. You’re leaving?”

“Um, we have a very long day tomorrow. Carnevale goes on?and on.” Lynn looked tired, but happy. “Where is everyone? still dancing?”

“I think. Jared and Cindy looked like newlyweds? after watching the acrobatics! Thank God they brought on a clown and juggler right after?for those of us going home alone! Anna Maria ... I think she has gone, too. I last saw Raphael with another queen. They were comparing costumes and jewels.”

“Thanks, then. Good night.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure. I’m having coffee at Tiff’s palazzo, but I’ll be by sometime in the afternoon.” Lynn gave her a cheerful wave and started out. Jordan was weaving her way through the tables when she felt a hand on her arm again.

“You ran away.”

It was Ragnor. She noted that he had chosen to wear black again, a period costume from the era of the English reformation?black breeches, buckled black shoes, a black cotton shirt and quilted vest. His hair seemed very light against the darkness of his attire, but the ice blue shade of his eyes seemed almost to match in the muted light of the dance floor.

He was wearing a cape as well, a cowled cape that seemed to be a mainstay of apparel at Carnevale.

“You ran away,” he repeated.

“I didn’t run away. I was being baked alive in this. I needed to get outside.” As she spoke, she realized that he was leading her to the dance floor.

“It’s late?”

“You want to run away again?”

She found herself being led into a spin; the band was now playing swing music. He seemed to know what to do with it.

“Actually, it’s just late?”

“Actually, I think that you should run away. Go home.”

“Well, actually, I’d like to get to the hotel?”

“I meant home. The United States. Your cozy little home in the South.” She arched a brow at him. For a moment, spinning once again beneath his lead, she had no breath to reply. When she faced him again, she said, “How incredibly rude.”

“I’m afraid that you may be a cause for trouble here,” he told her.

“I may be a cause for trouble? A woman with power and position stages a horrible scene and I may be a cause for trouble? Are you defending the contessa?”

“No. I don’t defend her in the least. But I think that you should go. I can’t imagine why you wound up being where you were when you were?”

“It was a party. I was invited.”

He waved a hand in the air. “You’ll notice that many others you know were not in that ballroom.”

“How do you know where I was? You said you weren’t there.”

“The story is all over Venice.”

“So I’ve heard. But it’s in the past?”

“Is it? The police are watching you.”

“Good. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you’ve angered the contessa.”

“You know, I really don’t give a damn.”

“You should.”

“I’m an American. We don’t grovel before European nobility.” He was swinging her out to the music; it might be the perfect moment to simply slip from his hold and keep going.