Part 28 (1/2)
As they danced, she saw that Cindy had come down with Jared. At least, she thought it was Jared.
Her German dottore was fun, and a wild dancer. After three numbers, she was breathless, and begged herself off the dance floor. Downing a tall gla.s.s of mineral water, she saw that there were now at least four dottores in the room.
She wished that Jared had opted for something a little more original, at least chosen different costumes for each party.
A few moments later, she was pulled out to the floor by another dottore. She stared into his eyes the best she could while moving to the music.
No, not Jared.
During an excellent interpretation of an Elvis Presley ballad, Ragnor cut in on the dottore. She thought about protesting, then wondered why. She was attracted to him. She liked being with him, even if her thoughts ran to the erotic. She was an adult; Steven had been gone now for a long time. She didn't deserve the guilt with which she seemed to be punis.h.i.+ng herself.
She allowed herself to be drawn comfortably into his arms.
”Still no sign of Tiff?” she asked.
He shook his head. ”No.”
”There's something really wrong.”
”She may still turn up,” he murmured.
She didn't think that he believed that.
When the song broke, she told him that she was thirsty. A cold beer seemed the best thirst quencher, since there had been so much dancing that they had actually run out of bottled water.
For a moment, Jordan reflected on what she might be doing to her liver. Champagne, Bellinis, red wine, espresso with Kahlua, and now beer. But it was very cold and felt so good going down.
Ragnor wasn't wearing a mask or sungla.s.ses. For once, she could see his eyes. He seemed to be searching for someone.
”Looking for Tiff?”
”What?” he asked, as if she had startled him. ”Um. Excuse me for a moment, will you?”
Once again, he simply walked off.
Lynn found her by the table. ”Hey, that's my favorite disco song. Want to dance with a matador?”
Jordan looked out to the floor. Guests had begun to depart, and the dancing had gotten down to a group of happy-partly sloshed-people wildly moving about. As usual at most such gatherings, the s.e.x of a partner didn't matter anymore. People were just having fun.
”Sure.” ”The costume may not have been such a great idea,” Lynn admitted, shouting above the music as she gyrated. ”No cute guys have hit on me! Actually, no guys have hit on me.”
”I'm afraid it might be the mustache!” Jordan called back to her.
A moment later, another dottore popped in front of her. Lynn had turned around to dance with the gypsy sun G.o.d on her other side.
”So?”
Jordan raised her brows, looking at her companion.
”It's me, Jared. Are you having fun? What's the matter, too many Venetian friends? You don't talk to me anymore?”
She laughed. ”Jared, I've tried conversations with a German and, I think, a Brazilian dottore. How was I suppose to know this one was you?”
”Because I'm tall and devastatingly handsome, even in a cloak and mask!” he told her.
”How silly of me! I forgot!” she teased. ”Hey, have you seen Tiff yet?”
He shook his head. ”But if I had-”
”Yeah, yeah, I know. You might not have recognized her.”
”It would be like Tiff to purposely stand us all up, create an air of mystery, and then tell us tomorrow that she was the silver s.p.a.ce alien or the woman in the Swarovski crystal cloak and mask. Did you see that costume? Man, it was spectacular.”
”Everyone here is spectacular.”
The music had taken a break; she realized that she had shouted that last comment. A slow tune began again.
”Go find your wife!” Jordan told her cousin.
He nodded. ”You're okay, right? Having a good time?”
”Absolutely.”
He moved off. Jordan walked back to the buffet table where they were beginning to pack up what was left of the food. A waiter handed her another beer. She shrugged, thanked him, and accepted it. She watched the dancers and found herself approached by the sun G.o.d.
”Per piacere. Please?” he asked politely.
With a rueful shrug and a smile, she took a long swallow of the beer, set it down, and allowed him to lead her to the floor.
As they danced, he told her not to miss the Peggy Guggenheim museum. She a.s.sured him she had seen it several times.
”And the churches! So many, but you must try to see them. There are over two hundred.” The sun G.o.d was an Italian with a good conversational knowledge of English.
”When an address is 'Campo' something or the other, it means a square with a church. Pop into any of them; you'll be astonished at the art work you find, especially in some of the lesser known.”
”I saw a great church the other day, but . . . oh, a friend stopped me. Maybe I can find it again.”
”Make an effort to do so.”
The band leader announced the last number of the night: another Elvis Presley song, slow and sweet. ”He likes Elvis,” Jordan commented to her partner.
The sun G.o.d nodded. ”That's my friend, Rico Andretti. He knows every song Elvis ever wrote. He loves this party; so many Americans. And he sounds like Elvis, yes?”
”Yes, he does, he's excellent.”
The sun G.o.d was pleased with her comment. And he was a very decent dancer. When the number ended, he asked her if she needed a walk back to her hotel.
Over his shoulder, she saw a dottore at the door. Tall, dark-haired. And surely, devastatingly handsome, even in a mask.
”Thank you, but no. I came with family. They're just leaving.”