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  Victoria smiled. “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “I think they’re compatible,” Charles agreed, smiling to himself.

  “So what elements are they?”

  He hesitated. “I’ve never thought about it. Why?”

  “I want to get some idea of what they’re like before I meet them.”

  “Well, I suppose John Sinclair is earth. He spends a lot of his time at archaeological digs.”

  “And Cordelia?”

  “Water of course. She’s an oceanographer.”

  Victoria smiled. “Water and earth go together. She soothes him and provides the way for him to flourish and grow. And he, in return, provides stability and solidity in her life.”

  Charles laughed. “That sounds about right. Without Cordelia, Sinclair is a bit of a dusty old bachelor.”

  Victoria turned to him. “Charles, do you realize that all the essential elements will be present tonight? Earth, water, air, and fire.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “It’s fantastic! The four of us will be in perfect balance! … I do hope they like me.”

  They started toward the house

  “They will love you, V.”

  HOTEL CAESAR AUGUSTUS, ANACAPRI

  Two blocks away from Charles Bonnard’s villa, a police car pulled into the village square. The revolving red light flashed onto the façade of the Hotel Caesar Augustus. Detective Jaccorsi of the Naples Police Force climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  The night was starting to get oppressive. The heat turned muggy as the sea mist pervaded the island. Detective Jaccorsi cut across the darkened plaza, wiping the perspiration off his forehead with a handkerchief.

  Curious onlookers milled around the street, speculating about what was happening. Rumor had it that there had been a theft and a murder in the hotel.

  As he entered the lobby, the desk attendants were huddled together, whispering.

  “Scusi, detective?” the manager called over.

  Jaccorsi didn’t even break stride as he crossed to the elevator. The hotel staff could be interviewed later. The crime scene was more important.

  This was the first time he’d been inside the hotel, although he’d heard many tales of the splendors. The Caesar Augustus was an old mansion, used by Italian nobility in the 1920s that was now converted into a five-star resort. Rooms here went for astronomical sums, with suites costing two thousand dollars a night.

  The finest of these was the Vesuvius Suite, famous for its view of the historic volcano. Here guests would drink Bellini cocktails on the balcony while observing the jagged peak of Mount Vesuvius on the mainland.

  The entrance hall was spectacular. The white marble floor was well polished, and a crystal chandelier chimed slightly in the breeze.

  He followed a corridor past several large bedrooms and entered the large salon. The spectacular double-height ceiling had skylights, giving the room a soft glow. A shaft of late afternoon sun was coming in, cutting through like a ray from heaven.

  A body was on the floor in a pool of crimson.

  “I’m here,” he announced.

  The medical team stepped aside, so he could approach the corpse. A clipboard was thrust at him, and he drew a pen across it in a hasty scrawl, giving them permission to transport the body.

  He looked down. It was an assassination-style hit. The point of entry was clean and small, 9 mm. There was a small dark hole in the middle of the forehead—the signature of a notorious Camorra gangster.

  Only one person killed like this—Salvatore Mondragone—a mobster nicknamed “Cyclops” after the Greek mythological creature with one eye in the middle of its forehead.

  Jaccorsi checked the wall. As expected, small particles of brain matter spattered the paint. This was either Mondragone’s handiwork, or that of one of his henchmen.

  The corpse was sprawled awkwardly, staring at the ceiling, mouth slightly open. Jaccorsi bent down to take a closer look.

  The face was gray-white. A fly buzzed around the pale lips, crawling in and out of the oral cavity. Rigor mortis had already set in. Soon the skin would begin to swell and discolor. In this heat, putrefaction would be rapid.

  “Alejandro Castillo, from Spain,” the policeman read, handing over the passport.

  The passport was in the hotel safe. That ruled out robbery as a motive. Any average thief would have taken the passport. Government-issued documents went for a lot of money on the black market in Naples.

  Jaccorsi stood up and started to type his notes on an electronic tablet.

  “If anyone asks, it was a heart attack. Chief’s orders.”

  The medical examiner gave a glum nod, uncomfortable with the lie.

  Four medics lifted the corpse. Its dead weight thudded onto the gurney. On impact, air escaped from the lungs, and the mouth emitted a faint ahhh as if the man were trying to get in a final word.

  Jaccorsi resisted the impulse to make the sign of the cross.

  VILLA SAN ANGELO, ANACAPRI, ITALY

  Cheerful music filled the kitchen as the fish sizzled on the grill. Charles leveraged the sea bream off the brazier, its silvery skin bubbled to perfection.

  He and Victoria had eaten almost nothing all day. In fact, they’d never even considered going into the kitchen.

  He rolled a lemon on the countertop to release the juice inside. Victoria had just picked it from his garden. The citrus smell was intense.

  As he cut wedges, a 1960s Italian pop song started up on the music system—“It Had Better Be Tonight.”

  If you’re ever gonna kiss me

  It had better be tonight

  While the mandolins are playing

  And stars are bright.

  The kitchen was a refurbished farmhouse, with the cooking and dining areas combined. All the appliances were of professional quality: thermostat-controlled refrigerators for food and wine, a gourmet stove—a La Cornue, with eight gas-flame burners.

  Charles took a stainless steel spatula and moved the fish onto a platter. A saucepan boiled over and began to spit on the stove, so he quickly redirected his energy to saving the mushroom risotto. Fragrant steam billowed out as he lifted the lid. The small kernels were golden and perfect.

  Suddenly, he felt a pair of slender arms slide around his waist. Hips pressed into him from behind.

  “You are the sexiest chef I’ve ever seen.”

  Charles dropped the pot lid.

  “V, you’re a real distraction.”

  She tightened her embrace, nibbling his ear. His concentration wavered and a piece of lemon slipped to the floor.

  “You’d better stop. I can’t multitask.”

  “Seems to me you were multitasking pretty well this morning.”

  “Cooking’s different.”

  “If it wasn’t so late, I’d drag you back to bed,” she breathed.

  He laughed and wiped his hands on a dishtowel, then turned around. Her pink Indian tunic was transparent enough for him to see the outline of her breasts.

  “They’ll be here any second,” he cautioned.

  “Then kiss me quickly.”

  His lips found hers. Soft and compliant. He pulled her body tight, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Just then, the sound of a doorknocker shattered his concentration. Victoria flinched and giggled with nerves.

  “Right on time,” he said.

  “What should I do?”

  “Why don’t you set the table?”

  He sprinted out into the corridor, the heels of his loafers clicking a rapid staccato. After the heat of the kitchen, the hallway was cool and pleasant.

  Cracking the door open cautiously, he found John Sinclair on the threshold, holding a bottle of wine. Next to him was his inamorata, Cordelia Stapleton.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Sinclair apologized. “We ran into some traffic—”

  Cordelia cut him off. “There was an ambulance outside that big hotel.”

  “At the Caesar Augustus?”

  “I thin
k so. The one at the end of your street.”

  “I hope it’s not serious.”

  “There must have been five or six policemen.”

  Charles thought about it, wondering about the proximity of law enforcement to his house. Clearly they were not looking for Victoria. Not if an ambulance was there.

  “If someone’s hurt, they might have to evacuate them by helicopter,” he said. “The last ferry leaves at nine. Anyway, come in, come in.”

  Cordelia strode inside, giving him a quick hug. A crisp, white linen dress draped off her body with simple elegance. Flat Greek sandals laced up her shapely legs. Fetching indeed.

  “We brought you some flowers,” she said, holding them out.

  In the dark hallway, the bouquet looked spectacular. The white cone of paper offset the brilliant red poppies.

  “Wow, Delia. Those are gorgeous.”

  He took the bundle from her and examined them.

  “What are they?”

  “Tuscan poppies,” she said.

  She shot Sinclair a look, and they exchanged a smile.

  Charles observed the two of them with renewed interest. They were so well matched. She was a pale, willowy beauty, with dark hair and green eyes. Sinclair was tall and broad shouldered, with the deep tan that came from year-round exposure to the sun at his archaeological digs.

  Charles turned to Cordelia. “I’m so glad you finally decided to come. Sinclair said you might be tied up at work.”

  She smiled and plucked his sleeve. “I escaped at the last minute. Joel is taking over my duties for the week. Besides, I wouldn’t miss seeing you for the world.”

  “Well it’s the perfect season to come here. Capri is incredible this time of year,” Charles agreed.

  “I hear you have a new girlfriend,” Cordelia probed.

  He hesitated. “Well, not a girlfriend exactly.”

  “Then what would you call her?” she asked.

  Charles stopped, uncertain how to continue.

  Sinclair cut in, handing Charles a small plastic case.

  “We thought you’d enjoy this.”

  Charles breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the diversion.

  “Music. How nice,” he said

  Sinclair tapped the CD with his index finger. “‘Les collines d’Anacapri.’ It’s by Debussy.”

  “The Hills of Anacapri. What’s the story behind it?”

  “Claude Debussy composed it in the summer of 1909. He used to vacation here on the island.”

  Cordelia stared at Sinclair as if she couldn’t believe he was interfering with her cross-examination. She turned and stalked off down the hall.

  “Delia, wait,” Charles objected. “What’s wrong?”

  “I won’t be put off that easily,” she said, and kept walking.

  “I think she’s lost interest in our musical discussion,” Sinclair joked.

  “Delia, where are you going?” Charles asked.

  “I’m going to the kitchen. These flowers need water. And I want to meet your mystery woman.”

  Charles’s house, the Villa San Angelo, had been built partly into the cliff. It had the simple stucco style of a monastery, and there was a long corridor leading back to the kitchen. Pieces of marble fragments were mounted on the wall for display. Sinclair had said that they were shards of carved Roman marble. Charles found them when he dug up the vegetable garden.

  Cordelia barely gave the artifacts a glance as she walked along the corridor. Ancient history was not her chief interest tonight. She was more concerned about the woman Charles was dating.

  He rarely had a steady girlfriend. Not that he wasn’t attractive. Charles Bonnard was the quintessential fair-haired charmer. He enjoyed life to its fullest, and everything about him was carefree and fun.

  Sinclair always dismissed the rumors that Charles was a playboy. He said that an Italian expression summed him up better: sprezzatura.

  It described a quality that was rarely found in most individuals. People with sprezzatura were highly accomplished, yet made everything seem effortless. It was a characteristic that was prized at the royal court in the 1400s. A courtier had to be equally skilled in diplomacy, sword fighting, music, poetry, and dancing—all gracefully executed without any self-aggrandizing fuss.

  That was Charles.

  When Cordelia entered the kitchen, Charles’s latest girlfriend was setting the table. She was a real glamour doll: tall, blond, and slender. And when she glanced up, her blue eyes were fringed with dark lashes.

  Cordelia blinked in astonishment.

  It was Princess Victoria of Norway!

  There was no mistaking the slim body and the loose chignon of pale blond hair. Victoria was one of the most recognizable European royals of her generation.

  The princess spoke first.

  “Hello. You must be Cordelia.”

  The Nordic accent was barely discernable. She stood there looking utterly regal, head held high. Cordelia stared, speechless.

  Just then, Sinclair and Charles came into the kitchen and stepped forward, smoothly dispelling the awkwardness.

  “Your Royal Highness, an honor. I’m John Sinclair. May I present Cordelia Stapleton.”

  The princess smiled. “Delighted to meet you. Please call me Victoria. Everyone does.”

  Cordelia felt Sinclair’s hand on the small of her back. It was a nudge, or a reassuring pat. Clearly, she needed to say something.

  “Nice to meet you …”

  “And you as well, Cordelia,” Victoria said.

  “Actually … my friends call me Delia,” she added.

  “Then I shall also, in the hope that we will become good friends.”

  The formality of the exchange left Cordelia searching for a response. Sinclair jumped in to keep the conversation flowing.

  “Are you enjoying Capri?”

  Cordelia barely heard the answer. The conversation rose and fell as she struggled with the facts.

  Charles and Princess Victoria? It was incredible she was here in this little farmhouse. She looked exactly like the pictures in the magazines.

  Victoria was only about twenty years old. Too young for Charles. Yet when you really thought about it, Charles was of correct rank. He was an aristocrat in the true meaning of the word. The Bonnard family was one of the oldest in France.

  Cordelia glanced over at Sinclair and saw that his eyes were troubled. He clearly didn’t approve of the situation. So much for a relaxed dinner.

  Cordelia finally found her voice. “So Charles, what are you cooking tonight?”

  He looked at her with relief.

  “Gazpacho, sea bream, and mushroom risotto. I expect you are starving.”

  “I’m famished.”

  “Well, it’s ready. Can you give me a hand?”

  “Absolutely,” she answered, grateful for something to do.

  Anything was better than standing around staring at Princess Victoria. Sinclair could handle the diplomatic chitchat.

  Charles went over to the oven and pulled on some mitts. “I have the vegetables warming on the stove.”

  “Why don’t I put these flowers in a vase,” Cordelia suggested.

  “Oh, right. I think there’s one under the counter.”

  She found a tall glass container and filled it with lukewarm water.

  “I’ll open the wine,” Sinclair said.

  Charles turned to Victoria. “Chéri, would you bring the bread?”

  Cordelia’s head snapped up, surprised. Charles had just called Princess Victoria chéri—the French equivalent of darling.

  Cordelia shot a quick glance over at Sinclair. He hadn’t noticed and kept his attention on the red metal seal of the wine bottle. Sinclair inserted the corkscrew and gave it a solid pull.

  He looked up and smiled. “I’m really looking forward to hearing the story about how you and Victoria met.”

  HOTEL CAESAR AUGUSTUS, ANACAPRI

  Detective Jaccorsi pulled his car out of the shadowy plaza. The moo
n gave off enough light for him to see. It was a winding road, and only a low wall delineated the edge. Beyond, there was a thousand-foot drop, straight down to the sea.

  Even though it was late, lights blazed from a few private residences. August was high season, and people stayed up until well after midnight. The windows of Villa San Angelo were illuminated. The Bonnard house was right next to the plaza. He made a mental note to come back tomorrow. Maybe Charles had noticed something unusual.

  “Madonna,” he said aloud.

  He usually didn’t curse, but no one could hear him inside his empty car. The implications of tonight’s events were just becoming clear to him.

  The Camorra, an organized crime organization, controlled the Italian mainland, which was twenty-six miles away. But up until now, Capri had been relatively free of mob influence. If Salvatore Mondragone had sent an assassin here to the island, it set a dangerous new precedent.

  Mondragone was one of the most powerful bosses in Naples. No public official would ever stand up to him. This murder would never be reported to the press, or even to authorities in the capital city, Rome. Naples police always turned a blind eye when it came to the Camorra.

  But moral duty was clear. Jaccorsi wasn’t going to allow Mondragone to get a foothold on Capri. The Jaccorsi family had lived on the island for countless generations.

  It had been his childhood home. He personally knew every inch of the place. His youth had been spent diving off a small skiff out on the bay and climbing all over the rocky hillsides. And at night, under the grape arbor, his grandpa would tell him stories about the old days.

  Eventually he had moved to Naples to become a policeman. But his mother still lived here. And every week he came over on the ferry to visit her.

  He parked at the local precinct and got out of the car. The station was only manned during the day. Whenever duty called him to the island, he used the precinct as his base of operations.

  He opened the office door and flipped on the light. The air smelled stale. It was warm, so he opened the window and let the place air out.

  The phone sat prominently on the empty desk. He stared at it, trying to decide. There might be another way to report the murder. Rome was a separate jurisdiction, and his cousin was an inspector.