Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (22 page)

The water running down her body drew Phantom’s attention.
All he could think about as she walked slowly toward him
was that he wanted her again, then and there. He’d throw her down on the hard rocks if necessary.

But that last thought told Phantom—and Garrett Randolph
as well—that he’d already gone much too far with Pamela.
He’d taken more from her than he had any right to. Some
thing in the way she walked out of the water with her shoulders squared and her head held high, despite her pained modesty, told Phantom that. She was only being brave because of the things he’d done to her.

“Let me dry you,” he offered, feeling the sexual tension
evaporating. Picking up his cape, he shook off the dust then held it up for Pamela.

“It’s so beautiful though,” she said, looking at it, fight
ing hard not to cross her arms over herself to answer in some small measure the call to modesty.

“And so are you. Take the cape.”

Pamela took it gratefully. Then Phantom turned his back to
her and started wiping the water from his arms and legs
with his bare hands. Turning away also, Pamela ran the silk cape over herself and, when she did, caught the lingering
aroma of passion once more. Fresh memories were awak
ened in her, memories she immediately tamped down. There would be time enough later, when she was alone
with her thoughts, to put this evening into proper perspec
tive. Right now, with sunrise a few hours away and stand
ing so near Phantom without a stitch of clothing on, other matters needed her attention.

“Pamela,” he said, stepping up behind her, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

“We’d better get going.” She held his cape against her.
“Your stallion has to carry both of us, and we can’t be sure those men won’t pick up our trail.”

“Of course,” Phantom replied.

He dressed in silence and so did Pamela. When she got onto his horse, seated behind him, a tension, a nebulous emotional distance, had come between them.

Chapter Ten

Dawn was lighting the horizon when Phantom let Pamela off
his horse.

“Save a little of that money for yourself to buy a new horse,” he said, getting out of the saddle so that he could look into her eyes. “I think Jonathon Darwell can buy you that much.”

“I told you before I’m not in this for the money.”

“I know you’re not. I’m just suggesting that you use a little of it to help you with, um, expenses incurred doing business.”

Pamela smiled. “Such an odd way of putting it. What is it you do, Phantom?”

“What do I do? I steal from Jonathon Darwell, just like you,” he replied, showing the dimple in his cheek.

“No, I mean in real life, when you’re not wearing that mask.”

The question caught Phantom by surprise. He looked away, fully aware that she had a right to more honesty
than he’d shown her, and knowing if he
were
honest
with her, he would regret it. She was safer not knowing his identity.

“I’m sorry,” Pamela said quietly, bridging the silence. “I shouldn’t have asked. I know that’s not allowed.”

“It’s not really like that.”

“Of course it is. It’s exactly like that,” Pamela said.

Strong fingers seemed to grip her heart. She did not want to leave Phantom, and she didn’t want him to leave her.
She had opened herself to him physically and emotionally,
and now, with a painful separation at hand, she was getting
the terrible, empty feeling that the evening had been
memorable only for her. For him, it was just another night
of adventure and seduction, entertaining, to be sure, but in no measure unique.

With any other man she could ask if she would see him
again, but with Phantom, she couldn’t even ask who he really
was.

“Be careful about what you do with the money,” Phantom
said as he removed his Stetson. “Darwell is going to be furious about what happened tonight.”

“I’ll be very careful. There are lots of people around here who need the money. I’ll give it all away.”

Hearing recrimination in Pamela’s voice, Phantom looked
away. She deserved much more from him than he’d given
her this evening.

“Be good to yourself,” he said softly, touching her chin
to turn her face toward him.

They kissed, softly and with sorrow.

“Good-bye, Phantom. You be careful, too.” Pamela’s smile quivered as she held
back tears.

She turned away and began walking the last hundred
yards to her cabin, stepping out of the tree line while Phantom
remained hidden. She felt him watching her, and though tears burned in her eyes, she would not let them fall.

Nothing that had happened on this night was anything she should be ashamed of or regret. That was what she
needed to believe. But how could she when the only man
who’d ever made her feel totally alive and beautiful was
known to her only by his alias, the Midnight Phantom?

* * * *

“I want that bastard dead, do you hear me? Dead! Dead!
Dead!” Jonathon Darwell screamed, slamming a fist down on his desk.

Michael Darwell knew better than to say any
thing whenever his father got into one of these
murderous moods. He was with Richard, and there was no telling which of
them might suffer the brunt of Jonathon Darwell’s anger at a time like this. Best to just sit quietly and wait
until his volcanic fury had spent itself and rational thought
had returned to him, Michael always thought.

“I thought we’d protected the payroll!” Jonathon shouted, still glaring at his sons. “Some smart guys you two are. You didn’t even put the money in the safe.”

Michael thought,
We had money in the safe in your bedroom, and that didn’t stop the Midnight Phantom. As h
is
father’s favored son, he knew that to say such words might
well be a grave mistake.

“I want the Midnight Phantom dead right now,” Jonathon continued, throwing himself into his plush leather chair. Continuing to glower at his sons, he ordered, “If you haven’t got the men to catch him, then find the men who can.”

“The best man for the job would be Jedediah Bragg,” Michael suggested, spotting his chance to please his father and make his brother Richard look inadequate in the process.

“The bounty hunter?”

“The very one. He’s the best tracker in the territory by
far, and he’s got a reputation for bringing corpses rather than prisoners back to town,” Michael continued. “The
Randolphs hired him last year when rustlers were making off with their northwest herd. He caught every one of the
rustlers.”

Jonathon nodded approvingly. “Yes, I remember that.
He’s got a reputation for being a lone wolf, but he likes his money. Yes, that he does.”

“He generally only goes for men with dead or alive printed on their wanted posters,” Michael explained. “And though what we’re asking is a little different, I’m sure if he gets a few hundred dollars up front, he’ll be happy to go after the Midnight Phantom. The reward won’t even have to be that extravagant.”

“I don’t care what the reward is,” Jonathon said quickly. “Money’s not the issue. Make sure he gets enough to make
this worth his while. I want him hungry for the Midnight Phantom. This isn’t the time to try to save a few pennies.”
He looked from Michael to Richard and asked, “And why
didn’t
you
think of this? Why is it you always sit there like a deaf mute?”

Richard’s face colored, his hatred for his father and
brother increasing as it always did in these situations. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say in his own defense,
and that, too, infuriated him.

“Now, Father,” a sweet, feminine voice wheedled from
the doorway.

Angie Darwell glided into the room. Though it was nearly noon, she was still in a nightgown and robe, the robe un
tied to reveal an immodest amount of her slender, firm
body. She walked around her father’s desk, slipping her arms around him to kiss him first on the top of the head
then on the cheek.

“You know it isn’t good to let your temper get the best
of you,” she continued, occasionally kissing her father’s
cheek or ear as she spoke. “Now try to calm down and don’t be so hard on Richard. He tries very hard to please
you.”

There wasn’t another person in the world who could
talk to Jonathon Darwell that way, and Angie knew it. She alone had the power
to calm him, just as she alone could tease him or occa
sionally talk down to him. She was her father’s little girl,
and it didn’t matter that she was reputed to be a loose
woman, or that everyone knew she had the blackest heart
in the entire territory. To Jonathon Darwell, Angie
was his beautiful child, and anyone who said otherwise
was courting death.

“Close your robe,” Jonathon said quietly when Angie
was gliding out of the office. “You shouldn’t walk around
the house that way.”

“Yes, Father,” Angie replied over her shoulder, making
no effort to pretend to comply.

When the men were again alone in the room, Jonathon said with deadly calm, “Hire Jedediah Bragg. Pay what
ever it takes. And tell him I’ll pay double if the Midnight
Phantom dies a slow and painful death.”

“Yes, Father,” Michael and Richard said in unison, each
rising from his chair to leave.

* * * *

Garrett was edgy. He had a problem with no easy solution.

How could he give Pamela Bragg a horse without her fig
uring out he was the Midnight Phantom?

She had hesitated using the stolen payroll money
to buy a new mount for herself. She hated Jonathon Darwell
so much she just wouldn’t do that. And Garrett doubted that she had enough money of her own to buy a decent
horse. She might be able to afford a forty-dollar nag, but
she deserved much better than that.

She also deserved much better than the miserable treat
ment she’d received from the Midnight Phantom.

Garrett tried to convince himself that their lovemaking
had been mutually satisfying and mutually acceptable. But
he knew he’d seduced her, a virgin with very little money
and no experience with men.

He felt like a cretin. He’d known far too many rich
young men who used exactly the same reasoning to excuse
their seduction of household maids or young women from
the outskirts of town. Certainly it was not rape. Still, these wealthy men used every social and economic advantage
they had to get the drawers off disadvantaged, naive women.

“Hell,” Garrett muttered aloud after sipping his cold coffee.
He added some hot liquid from the silver pot on the tray.

Now what to do? he kept asking himself.

He had Jonathon Darwell to imprison and Pamela Bragg to set free. He wasn’t at all certain he could accomplish either of his goals.

The butler knocked softly on the bedroom door and
announced that the mail had arrived.

“Thank you, Juan. Leave it on the bed, and I’ll see to
it in a moment.”

“Yes, sir.” Juan, confused, placed an assortment of let
ters and packages on the bed, his brow furrowed with con
sternation. Since mail was always a priority for Señor Randolph, why was he making it await his attention?
Whatever was playing upon Señor Randolph’s mind was
evidently very important.

Garrett stared out the bedroom window, sipping the rest
of his coffee, seeking a believable excuse for giving Pamela a good riding horse. He told himself he just had to think
long enough on it and he’d come up with the answer.

He left his chair by the window and walked over to the
bed. Running a finger across the envelopes there, he de
cided some were important, others not. All needed his attention, yet he didn’t feel like giving any of them more
than a minute of his time.

Except for one.

The handwriting was clearly that of his friend in Cold Ridge,
the sheriff. Garrett ripped open the envelope and read the
letter quickly, allowing the enclosed bank draft to wait
until he was finished. As he read, a smile stretched across
his face.

The letter concerned a simple legal matter, one having
more to do with a town’s prejudice against bounty hunters
than legality. Jedediah Bragg had brought the corpse of
a wanted murderer in to Cold Ridge then had demanded the
reward money. Several of the town’s more fanatically religious men decided that Jedediah simply wasn’t spiritual
enough to warrant the bounty, so they refused to give him
the money.