Beyond All Dreams (28 page)

Mrs. Zanetti said that Anna was in danger and she shouldn't
trust anyone. Anna knew she could trust Neville, yet he was nowhere to be found and she was afraid.

She could trust Luke Callahan. Luke was the most honest man in the world. And he was strong. Well connected.

She stood and began running toward the Willard Hotel.

The dinner hour was winding down, and men began filtering into the lobby of the Willard to enjoy cigars and the informal conversations that fueled so much of Washington's political engine. There was a time when Luke's company was eagerly sought during such gatherings. Now he had to invite himself to join the clusters of men while they congregated to talk business and politics. The shift was subtle. A slightly turned shoulder or a glance in the other direction was all it took to send a clear message.

Luke didn't care. If he couldn't regain his political footing, he was going to lose the next election, and that was unthinkable. Besides, if he returned upstairs to his hotel room, he'd be treated to an arctic blast from Philip, who still hadn't forgiven him for the paintbrushes.

Luke spotted Representative Steiner standing before the fireplace, talking to a group of congressmen. There was a time when Steiner had fervently courted Luke's time and attention. Now he barely met Luke's eyes before turning back to the men to recount the tale of a rogue wood quail that had built a nest on Farragut Square. There was great debate in the neighborhood about what was to be done about their new resident.

“I was for making a meal out of it, but she kept laying eggs. Four, six, eight . . .”

It would be nice if these men cared more about tariffs and the poor rather than a single quail, but Steiner held the group spellbound.

“That bird ended up laying sixteen eggs!” Steiner chortled, still keeping his shoulder to Luke.

“Perhaps we should notify the Smithsonian,” Luke said. “Anything that can seize the attention of half a dozen congressmen is worthy of note.”

“All very well for you, Callahan,” a congressman from Philadelphia said. “The wilds of Maine are probably flooded with quail eggs ripe for the picking, and fruit growing on every tree. A veritable Eden on earth.”

Not quite. Because of this new tariff, it was full of logging companies that would be scaling back production, and lumberjacks without enough work to earn a living.

A movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Amid the silk dresses and fine black dinner jackets was a woman draped in a plain brown coat. He couldn't see her face, but her narrow frame and the way she flitted through the crowd reminded him of Anna O'Brien. He leaned back, cocking his head to peer through the crowd, following the diminutive figure as she headed toward the front desk.

It was Anna. No doubt. Without a backward glance he left the discussion of Steiner's prolific wood quail and strode to the front desk.

“I understand he lives here,” Anna was saying. “Can I send a message to him?”

Luke clenched his teeth. For an unmarried woman to approach a hotel clerk and inquire about a male guest at this hour of the night wasn't seemly.

“I'll take care of this, Mr. Grenville,” Luke said to the desk clerk. Anna whirled around, relief shining in her eyes.

“Luke! Thank heavens . . .”

When she looked at him like that, every logical thought left his brain. It had been several weeks since he'd laid eyes on her,
but now every ounce of those inconvenient emotions shot to the surface. He grasped both her elbows, looking deeply into her face. He had to fight the impulse not to drag her into his arms.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I need help.”

He didn't care if she asked him to fetch pearls from the bottom of the sea. Whatever she needed, he was going to do it for her. By heaven, he missed her. He hadn't realized how much until he heard that warm, throaty voice and saw the kindness in her eyes.

“You look like you're freezing,” he said. “Come on, let's get out of here.” The breakfast room was closed, but he'd never been very good about following rules. No one paid them any mind as he guided Anna inside. The tables were covered in white linen and set for the next morning's meal, with china and water goblets glimmering softly in the darkness. Only a little moonlight filtered through the tall windows, and the potted palms loomed over them like silent sentinels.

“Are we allowed to be in here?” Anna whispered.

“It's all right,” he assured her. He guided Anna to a chair, then stepped outside to summon a waiter. “Bring us something to drink and a few candles, please,” he said quietly. If nothing else, it would give him something to concentrate on rather than look at the gratitude in her eyes. In the wake of his grief over Jason's death, he'd tried to let his feelings for Anna lie dormant while he healed, but everything had come roaring back to life the moment he was in her presence again.

He returned to sit beside her at the table, noticing a strange brass contraption clenched in her hands.

“What in heaven's name is
that
?”

Anna picked up the slim tube, a grin dissolving the worry on her face. She pressed a button, and a beam of bright light cut through the darkness. He almost fell off his chair.

“It's called a flashlight,” she said. “Neville just signed off on the patent, and he let me have the prototype. It runs on a dry-cell battery. Neville says it's a unique invention because it holds a steady beam of light and can operate when held at any angle. Watch this.” She twirled the brass tube around, the light bouncing off the ceiling, the plants, and the windows.

“For pity's sake,” he muttered. Would Anna's bizarre fascination with technology forever prompt her to latch on to silly machines of no practical value?

“Wait, you have to see this!” She propped the flashlight beneath her chin, rolled her eyes, and contorted her face as the beam of light cast ghoulish shadows upward on her face.

“I'm doomed,” he said.

She turned the flashlight off. “You don't really think that, do you?”

Looking into her eyes, hearing her alluring voice . . . oh yes, he was doomed. He wanted to pull her into his arms and shower her face with kisses, but the waiter returned with a pitcher of water and a couple of candles.

“Put that monstrosity away,” he said as soon as the waiter left. He lit the candles, trying not to smile at the memory of her ridiculous face playing in the beam of light. “Isn't this nicer than your fancy mechanical light?” he asked. The warmth of candlelight illuminated the room with a soothing glow.

“It's old-fashioned, but yes, much nicer,” Anna agreed.

Just the sight of her was enough to send Luke plummeting into hopeless infatuation, and that was the last thing he needed. He needed to solve Anna's problem and send her away before she broke his heart again. Unless her craving for a safe and predictable life had changed, they were destined to repeat the same difficulties as last autumn.

“Now,” he said, “tell me how I can help.”

“I've heard back from the Zanettis,” she began, handing him the telegram.

In the cascade of tragedies over the past month, her farfetched quest had entirely slipped his mind. “And?”

“The signature indicates they are my dear friends, but I've never met a John or Maria Smith in my life. It was a very carefully worded telegram, and it confirms that Silas Zanetti is still alive and hiding under a fake name.”

Luke read the wrinkled telegram, baffled by the terse message.

Could she have been right all along? It seemed impossible, yet it appeared Silas Zanetti had miraculously survived whatever happened to the
Culpeper
. Maybe his theory about a mutiny wasn't so outlandish after all.

Luke clutched the arms of his chair but kept his expression neutral. The memory of the old diplomat's words rang in his ears. Jeremiah Hammond had been certain he saw the
Culpeper
two years after it supposedly sank, repainted and renamed, in the bay of Manila. Luke had dismissed it. It was easy to claim he was trying to protect Anna from the failing memory of a ninety-year-old man, but he should have told her. She deserved to know what he'd found, and he covered it up because he thought she'd be better off consigning this to her past.

A headache began pounding, and Luke rubbed the skin between his eyes. This was the last thing he needed. He had no formal power in Congress anymore and a dwindling list of people who owed him a favor. Did he really want to expend his paltry political capital helping a woman who wanted nothing to do with him? For whatever reason, the navy wanted to keep this quiet. The thin ice he was standing on was likely to crack wide open if he dared to take on the navy.

He hadn't actually lied to Anna, though he did commit the sin of omission when he withheld the ramblings of the diplo
mat who swore the
Culpeper
still sailed. That sin of omission plagued him. Honesty came in shades of black and white, and he'd never had problems distinguishing them before.

However awkward, he owed her the truth. “I have something to confess, Anna.”

He couldn't look at her as he recounted his meeting with the diplomat. She listened silently, not moving a muscle as he spoke in the deserted breakfast room.

“I'm sorry,” Luke said after he'd finished delivering the story, bracing himself for a hearty crack of her hand across his cheek. He deserved no less.

“It's okay,” she said.

He blinked, not quite certain she understood the magnitude of what he'd hidden from her.

She smiled as she continued, “In light of Mr. Hammond's dinner with Thomas Jefferson, most logical people would have done the same. Who could have possibly guessed the
Culpeper
was still sailing? I can't blame you for guessing wrong.”

Relief he didn't deserve trickled through him. “I missed you,” he said.

She nodded, then asked, “Why?”

Because he needed her good sense and kindness, her boundless optimism. He needed to be inspired by her soaring dreams and amused by her eccentricities. He wanted to babble about literature and poetry until the sun rose in the morning. Instead, he looked her in the eye and told her the truth. “Because I love you and I made a mistake by walking away last December.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came . . . only a squeak.

“Does that surprise you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she stammered. “Actually, it does.” She reached for a glass of water and took a long drink. Even after setting the glass down, she kept her eyes averted from him, twirling the
glass with nervous fingers. “I thought you hated me,” she finally said. “For what I did to your brother. If we had never met—”

“Anna, no. Jason did it to himself. You tried to show him compassion, nothing less. I love you for it.” It humbled him to see the relief and joy that lit her face. He reached across the table to take her hands in his. “You've always shied away from me in the past, but Anna . . . I wish I had the words to explain what you mean to me.”

“Try,” Anna said, a hint of mischief lighting her eyes. “I've always wanted to hear a little of your poetry.”

Was she finally ready to welcome his suit? He'd shout and swing from the rafters if that were true.

He pulled his chair closer, until their knees bumped and their noses were only inches from each other. “My dearest Anna,” he whispered tenderly as he cupped the side of her face. “If you read my poetry, you'd howl and flee to the other side of the country to escape it.” A soft smile hovered on his mouth as he leaned down to kiss her.

She kissed him back.

“Do you still have my key ring?” he murmured against her lips.

She nodded, pointing to her hip, where the precious gemstone lay beneath the folds of her skirt.

“Good,” he said.

The next few hours would be forever branded on his soul as they clasped each other's hands and talked about everything from music to ancient mythology to the meals served in the Capitol's lunchroom. She told him about Mr. Spofford's return to the library and of Neville's impending marriage. He told of his sister, Julia, and the terrific scandal she had caused by giving birth out of wedlock. Luke confessed his shameful loss of temper when he burned Philip's paintbrushes.

“I sounded exactly like my father that night,” he said. “I've never been ashamed of anything so much as when I flung those paintbrushes into the fire. I had once been battered and abused, and now I had become the batterer. In that instant I was truly Edgar Callahan's son.”

The words were thick and bitter in his mouth, and Anna said nothing as she leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Her lips were cool on his heated skin, her face gentle when she broke the kiss and leaned back.

“You need to forgive your father,” she said.

“He doesn't deserve it. He was never sorry for anything—”