“Yes,” he continues, “no matter what happens, the authorities will walk right past a perpetrator if he acts like he’s supposed to be there. No one questions him.”
I smile at that. “You don’t have much respect for my profession.”
The dining car sways, and I clutch my tumbler to keep it from sliding across the glossy wooden bar. Everything about this line is vintage. It’s filled with highly polished antiques, and the smell of cigar smoke, wax, and days gone by.
“Au contraire!” Aleister places a palm flat against his vest. “I have great respect for law enforcement. I am merely a lifelong student of human behavior.”
“I see.” I take another sip. The alcohol warms my chest on this frigid night. “You’re a profiler. I’m afraid your line of work has fallen out of fashion, my friend.”
“Pah! I’m a profiler of the profilers,” Aleister argues. “Profilers make judgments. I merely watch for patterns. Men see what they’re looking for, and they’re looking for suspicious behavior, fear, defensiveness. The most cunning serial killers—the Unabomber, the Boston strangler, Jeffrey Dahmer—they all walk around in plain sight because they’re confident. They’re calm.”
My lips tense, and I’m ready to argue when the double doors slide apart, and my insides go completely still.
A woman enters the dining car.
I don’t believe my eyes.
It’s her.
She’s more beautiful than ever. Her long, brown hair is perfectly straight, and her skin is as gold as the California sand. I meet her bright blue eyes, a spark flickers, and it’s gone.
Still, she recognized me. My stomach is tight, and I can only imagine she feels the same. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other in five years.
She continues, poker face in place, and behind her is the girl. Stike that, behind her is the young woman. She’s grown and changed, and while I know she’s eighteen, she seems more mature. Her hair is now bleached pale blonde, but her skin is still peachy. Her body is much curvier, and she moves like she’s become accustomed to attracting the male gaze.
They’re both stylishly dressed for dinner. Lara wears tight black pants and a flowing burgundy blouse that reveals her slim neck and elegant collarbones. She still has the body of a dancer, long and willowy, and her skin is as smooth as I remember her voice. My fingers curl at the memory.
Molly is in a short skirt and thick sweater. She’s completely new to me—almost like a different person.
I watch Aleister studying her ass as they go to a table near the window, and I can’t help thinking she’s the wild card in this game of cat and mouse.
Outside, winter white blurs our view of the scenery. It’s all mountains and treacherous canyons, but as they sit, Lara turns to us.
“Our route is appropriately named.” She smiles, and her voice is smoky silk and longing. “White as far as the eye can see.”
My drinking companion is quick to answer. “The White Pass is one of only two train lines running from Alaska into Canada.” He doesn’t try to hide his interest, and his eyes burn with lust. No doubt he’s hoping to find a bunkmate with whom to pass this cold winter night. “You’re from Montreal?”
“I’m American,” she answers, turning her gaze to the menu on the table.
It’s the universal sign she’s finished with us, but Aleister isn’t done. “You’re traveling to Whitehorse?”
The faintest hint of annoyance is in her blue eyes. It disappears when they meet mine. She smiles at me, and I fight the heat flooding my stomach, the tightness across my fly.
I’m not that easy.
It’s been too long. I have too many questions.
“Just passing through,” she says.
The girl across from her lifts a golden locket hanging from a long chain around her neck. It’s chunky and stylish, not delicate, and the gold is dirty, like an heirloom.
When she speaks, her voice is soft and high, deceptively innocent. “It’s almost eight, but it’s still so bright outside.”
“I wouldn’t be so anxious to see the sun disappear,” Aleister says. “At sundown, the weather turns brutal. It’s a deadly night to be out in the wilds.”
“Scaring the women, Fragonard? Hoping to lure one to your bed?” A loud authoritative voice breaks the hypnotic spell of the swirling snow, and Baron Robert Esterhaus pushes through the double doors with his valet Jeffrey following close behind. “Good evening, Fitz,” he says to me. “I trust you’re keeping this swindler on his toes.”
“I am no swindler,” Aleister growls, red rising around his collar. “The Yukon Territory is renowned for its dangers—”
“Keep your shirt on, I’m only yanking your chain.” The older man takes a seat across from the two women and winks back at me. “Still, I left my wallet in my safe.”
Aleister emits an insulted noise, and I break the tension. “I heard we might be in for some weather tonight.”
“Yes, forecasters predict a blizzard, but these engineers know how to navigate it,” Esterhaus says to the room.
Lara turns to the baron, and I’m not sure how she would know him. I remember him, of course. I’ve been following him these many years watching and waiting.
So far, he’s walked a straight line.
“I haven’t heard the weather report. Should we be concerned?” Lara asks.
“As long as this beast stays on the tracks, we aren’t in any danger, despite what this Frenchman might tell you.”
Aleister shifts in his chair, growing angrier by the syllable. Ustinov, our perky Russian porter, cuts off any further interaction as he enters the car.
“Limited choices on the dinner menu tonight, I’m afraid.” He tugs on his starched white jacket and smiles. “We have Duck l’Orange or roast duck.”
I’m turning back to the bar when I hear Molly whisper, “I don’t care for duck.”
“What comes on the side?” Lara asks.
“Ah, yes…” A wink is in Ustinov’s tone. “We have a lovely roasted corn salad with avocado, or a risotto with exotic mushrooms and spinach.”
“Avocado this far north?” Robert exclaims, his hearty voice loud in the small car.
“We received a special shipment from the California coast when we embarked at Juneau.”
“We’ll each have the roast duck with the risotto, please,” Lara says.
The baron selects the l’Orange and corn salad, as do Aleister and I. Ustinov’s mood seems to have assuaged my friend’s irritation at our brash companion.
“Forgive me, I failed to introduce myself.” Esterhaus turns to the women. “I’m Robert Esterhaus, and this is my valet Jeffrey. At the bar there are Detective Mark Fitzhugh, or Fitz as I call him, and Aleister Fragonard, The Grifter of Montreal.”