“Well, he discovered a lot of frescoes in the course of renovation. He also installed a number of trompe l’oeil paintings taken from other villas. Went a little wild with the ceiling art.”

“Damn bat babies got into my dreams.”

“They’re meant to be little angels. Think of them that way. It’s more soothing.”

“Who’s this friend anyway?”

“A Montreal businessman. ‘Friend’ is an exaggeration. If it really belonged to a friend, I wouldn’t go near it—the risk would be too great. Alasdair Swift is someone I did a few favors once. Always urged me to stay at his place if I were ever in northern Italy. He spends a few weeks here in July, otherwise, it’s pretty much vacant. I figure it’ll serve a turn. There’s also a fair amount of high-tech communication equipment here. A satellite dish, high-bandwidth Internet connection. Everything a modern businessman might need.”

“Everything but a pot of joe,” she said.

“There’s a sack of coffee in the kitchen. Why don’t you make us a pot?”

“Trust me,” she said. “That’s a real bad idea.”

“I’m not fussy,” he said.

She held his gaze sullenly. “I don’t cook and I don’t make coffee. I’d say it was out of feminist principle. Truth is, I don’t know how. No big whoop. Something to do with my mom dying when I was a little girl.”

“Wouldn’t that turn you into a cook?”

“You didn’t know my dad. He didn’t like me messing around in the kitchen. Like it was disrespecting my mom’s memory, or something. Taught me how to microwave a Hungry-Man dinner, though, and scrape the gunk out of the foil sections and onto a plate.”

He shrugged. “Hot water. Coffee grounds. Figure it out.”

“On the other hand,” she went on, her cheeks aflame, “I am crazy good with a rifle. And I’m generally considered hot shit at field tactics, E and E, surveillance, you name it. So if you had a mind to, you probably could put me to good use. Instead, you’re acting like you got nothing in your head but boogers and a peanut shell.”

Janson burst out laughing.

It was not the reaction she had expected. “That’s something my dad used to say,” the young woman explained, sheepishly. “But I meant what I told you. Don’t sell me short. Like I say, I can come in real handy. You know it.”

“I don’t even know who you are.” His eyes came to rest on her strong, regular features, her high cheekbones and full lips. He had almost stopped noticing the angry welts.

“The name’s Jessica Kincaid,” she said, and extended a hand. “Make us some joe, why don’t you, and we’ll sit down and talk proper.”