Page 8

Seven

Unlike those gathered in the lounge, Dante Wentworth knows without a doubt who’s behind the trip.

Ironic, considering how he’s not even supposed to be on the train.

The invitation had been addressed to his father, Kenneth Wentworth, along with a handwritten message on the back that was as vague as it was ominous.

You and I have unfinished business.

That note is what piqued Dante’s interest when he spotted it on his father’s desk.

Even after twelve years, he still recognized the handwriting.

Those elegant curves and swoops were impossible to forget.

Seeing them again after all this time compelled Dante to pocket the invitation and attend in his father’s place.

Not the first time he’s shown up uninvited. In fact, it’s a bit of a habit for Dante. One he always gets away with. He’s young, handsome, charming, and rich—four characteristics that allow those who possess them to do practically whatever they please.

In this instance, it also doesn’t hurt that his father owns the Philadelphia Phoenix.

Not originally, mind you. A dozen years ago, the Phoenix—and the company that had built it—belonged to Arthur Matheson.

But it’s now his father’s property, and Dante suspects he could drive the train all the way to Chicago if he wanted to.

His father does it all the time. Never one to resist playing with his toys, he likes to climb into the front of the locomotive whenever he rides the Phoenix, taking over the controls and guiding it into the station.

Dante isn’t inclined to do the same. Unlike his father, he has no interest in the trains and railroad lines that built his family’s wealth.

At thirty, he’s still young enough to see the future, and it sure as hell doesn’t involve trains.

Dante knows they will soon become dinosaurs, replaced by fast cars, jet engines, and whatever new technology everyone but his father is developing.

But for now, the Phoenix still rumbles down the tracks, and he’s one of the few people on it.

By Dante’s count, there are at least five others onboard, not including the shifty-looking conductor he spotted skulking around earlier.

In the past thirty minutes, he’s heard people exit the two other rooms in his car and listened to the footfalls of three others as they passed on their way to the first-class lounge.

Before heading there himself, Dante studies the invitation that had arrived exactly two weeks ago.

While intended for his father, the message on the back could also extend to him.

He and his hostess definitely have unfinished business.

And Dante, for one, is very much looking forward to seeing how it plays out.

He slips on his jacket, adjusts his tie and pocket square in the bathroom mirror, and leaves the room. As he makes his way through the car, he practices how he’ll greet his hostess after such a long absence.

It’s good to see you, Anna.

No, Dante thinks. That’s too weak.

I’m pleased to see you, Anna.

Dante shakes his head. Too formal.

I’ve missed you, Annie.

Now, that might work. It all depends on the way he says it. Too much emphasis will make him sound desperate. Not enough might make it seem like he doesn’t mean it, when he absolutely does.

No matter what he says, Dante has the feeling it will be lost in the shock surrounding his presence. After all, Anna is expecting his father. Dante hopes she’ll eventually forgive the intrusion.

When he at last bursts into the first-class lounge, Dante expects all eyes to turn his way.

That’s normally what happens when he enters a room.

Part of it stems from his reputation as Philadelphia’s most eligible bachelor.

Dante Wentworth, dashing heir to a railroad fortune.

The rest has to do with his formidable good looks, which are routinely admired by women and envied by men.

That hadn’t always been the case. As a boy, Dante was gangly and ungainly, with a chin too sharp for his cherubic face and eyes that were too large, too wide.

He eventually grew into his features, puberty righting all those physical wrongs.

The rest of his body caught up with his too-long limbs, and his face lost its baby fat, revealing a square jaw that was just right.

As for his eyes, they became sapphire pools so arresting it prompted his mother to say, “You’re going to break a hundred hearts, Dante. Be gentle about it.”

She was right. Between then and now, Dante has broken many hearts. And he has been gentle with all of them except one.

Rather than stop everything when he enters, the five other people clustered inside the lounge are too busy speaking in hushed tones to notice his presence.

Dante uses the rare moment of anonymity to size them up.

To his surprise, he recognizes all of them.

Judd Dodge and Herb Pulaski. Sally Lawrence and the dour Edith Gerhardt.

And, of course, the esteemed Lt. Col. Jack Lapsford, who’s as much of a blowhard as Dante’s own father.

Seeing them all together like this gives Dante a kick of excitement. Anna is definitely up to something.

“I’m telling you, it’s not a coincidence,” Judd Dodge says, hissing the word.

Lapsford scoffs. “So you do know why all of us are here.”

“I know why,” Dante says.

This finally gets their attention. All eyes turn to Dante, who reacts with a satisfied nod. Now that is what he’s accustomed to.

The others recognize him as well, of course, and most of them seem surprised by his presence. Apparently, they also expected his father.

“Dante Wentworth,” Sally Lawrence says. “Is this your father’s doing?”

“I’m afraid not.” He continues deeper into the car, passing the others on his way to the piano. There, he sits and starts aimlessly tickling the ivories. “But I know who is behind it.”

Jack Lapsford steps toward him, impatient. “Then what’s this all about? If you know who brought us here, tell us.”

“This is the work,” Dante says as he bangs out a fanfare on the piano, “of someone none of us—especially me—thought we’d ever see again.”

What Dante doesn’t say is that, other than himself, no one is going to enjoy seeing Anna Matheson again. This, he’s certain, won’t be a happy reunion.