Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (16 page)

“Hurry,” Pamela whispered, cupping the match in her
hands to allow the light to be seen by Phantom, yet shielding
it from the many cracks in the rickety building.

Phantom carefully dipped a single finger into Pamela’s breast
pocket and then with his other hand stuffed a stack of money
into it. It didn’t take long before all the money had been
removed from the strongbox. And though it shouldn’t have
pleased or aroused him as much as it did, he was glad
that she had trusted him enough to allow the money to be
placed in her pockets, and had allowed him to feel the warmth of her breasts, however fleetingly, against the backs of his fingers.

“Let’s go,” Phantom whispered.

Pamela blew out the match. She sensed rather than heard
him stand and, for an instant, tried to see him but could
not. Only inches from her, in his dark clothes, ankle-length
black cape, black mask, and black Stetson, the Midnight
Phantom was absolutely invisible.

As she got to her feet, Pamela wondered whether she could
make just such a cape for herself and melt into the night like a mythological creature of no more substance than smoke.

She reached for him blindly, yet in that total darkness their hands met as though Phantom knew she needed him then.

It felt so natural to have her hand in his, Pamela realized, though she knew she should never voice this thought. He
was the Midnight Phantom, a man who did not trust her
enough to reveal his true identity to her, and she was Pamela Bragg, a poor woman—a tomboy, some said—out to de
stroy Jonathon Darwell, a man who would in all likelihood destroy her for her efforts.

“What’s wrong?” Phantom asked.

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

“Are you sure? I thought I felt something.”

“It was nothing. Let’s go,” Pamela replied. But she was already wondering if Phantom could somehow read her thoughts through her touch, and if he could, what other
thoughts—thoughts of an infinitely more intimate na
ture—had he been able to sense?

Though she couldn’t see a thing, she followed Phantom
without hesitation, trusting him to lead her in the direction
they should go. When he stopped, Pamela was amazed that
through the total darkness he’d brought them back to the
door by which they’d entered. Only the memory of Phantom
hitting his shin on something earlier convinced her that
he really couldn’t see in the dark like a cat.

For a single moment, Pamela thought of kissing him. This
was the perfect time for a stolen kiss. It was so dark she
couldn’t see him. She could look straight at him and
know
that he was handsome without being reminded of the mask
he wore over his eyes. She could taste his lips and enjoy
all those feelings she’d had when in his arms, without
once having to be reminded he was an outlaw who
didn’t trust her.

I
don’t want his kisses,
Pamela told herself as Phantom
opened the door and peered out.
And if I think that’s the truth, then I’m a damned liar
and a fool!
she thought a moment later when Phantom re
leased her hand and stepped through the doorway.

A deep male voice boomed out, “Take one more step
and I’ll put a bullet in yer back, mister!”

Chapter Eight

Pamela’s heart stopped beating at that moment. Phantom had not taken more than two steps out the door and into the
moonlight when she saw him raise his hands in surrender.

“Where’s Carl?” the armed guard asked.

The Midnight Phantom said nothing. He raised his hands
higher and turned until he faced his accuser.

“I asked you a question, damn you!” the guard said,
much louder than before.

Pamela acted instinctively, with a response she had pre
viously not thought in her nature. In a single, fluid move,
she drew the heavy revolver from her holster, raised it
high over her head, then leaped out the doorway, bringing
the butt of her pistol down upon the guard’s head.

He grunted, crumpled, and fell to the ground. Pamela looked at him, shaken at what she had just done.

“Did I kill him?” she asked, her voice quavering.

Phantom knelt and felt for a pulse. He smiled up at her. “No, you didn’t, but you did save my life.”

He took Pamela’s hand and began pulling her along, forc
ing her to step over the unconscious man she’d just struck.
As
they moved on, Pamela soon had to step over another unconscious man. She didn’t have to check to know
that he was still alive. From what she knew about Phantom,
he would not kill unless it was absolutely unavoidable.

Three-quarters of the way back up the bluff, they heard cries of alarm sound below. Phantom, leading the way, mut
tered over his shoulder, “Just keep going,” and that was exactly what Pamela did.

They were nearly to the top when someone shouted, “Up! Look up there!”

A gunshot echoed through the night, causing more noise than fear. The men below could either climb the bluff or they could get on their horses and ride far to the
east then take the gentle slope back to the west, the same
route Pamela and Phantom had taken. Either way, Pamela and Phantom
would have gotten to their horses and would be long gone.

“We made it,” Phantom said when they reached their
horses. “I can’t believe we made it.”

“You’re a pessimist,” Pamela replied. She felt buoyant,
thoroughly invincible. “That’s your weakness.”

Phantom leaped into the saddle. “You’re my weakness.”

Pamela replied without a beat, “You should think of that more often
.”

She turned Daisy around and put her heels to her flank,
feeling more alive than she’d ever before, with the singular
exception of when she was in Phantom’s arms.

* * * *

Pamela stood alone in the darkness, holding
the reins to Phantom’s horse. When the gunshot echoed
through the night, she hunched her shoulders and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

A horse is just a horse,
Pamela thought
.
She tried to believe that, only
Daisy hadn’t been just a horse. She’d been a companion as well, and no amount of self-delusion would change
that.

But it didn’t help. Her mare was dead now, mercifully put out of her misery by the Midnight Phantom. The death
had been made necessary by an incredibly lucky shot from
one of Jonathon Darwell’s men, who, though far out of ac
curate rifle range, had lobbed a bullet into the rump of
Pamela’s mare as she’d run away.

There was no doubt in Pamela’s mind that she had been
the only one who had been seen. It was because
Phantom was dressed in his cape and other garments of con
cealment that the bullets had not been directed at him.
Pamela’s error had cost Daisy’s life. The mistake, she prom
ised herself, would not be repeated.

Phantom returned carrying Pamela’s saddle, blanket, and bri
dle. The tight line to his mouth said the mercy killing,
though something he’d realized needed to be done, was an
ugly business just the same. Death, even the death of a
horse, affected Phantom, and Pamela was grateful that was so.
He hid Pamela’s saddle beneath some scrub for later retrieval.

“She’s out of her misery now,” he said softly, taking
the reins of his stallion from Pamela. “She won’t suffer any
more.”

“She won’t be found?” Pamela asked.

Phantom was about to step into the stirrup, but he stopped
to look at Pamela. With only his eyes, because words would
be much too cruel, he reminded her that her mare would
be found. She would first be discovered by coyotes then
by wolves and finally by buzzards. By the time the men
pursuing them found the carcass of the mare, there would
be no way of identifying the animal with Pamela Bragg.

“Let’s go,” Phantom said, mounting and easing into the saddle.

He took his foot out of the stirrup so Pamela could use it
then reached down for her. She slipped easily onto the
rump of his stallion. He was vividly aware
of lush breasts
pressed against his back.

They moved off into the night at a canter.

* * * *

“There’s a place I want to show you,” Phantom said, breaking the silence that had developed between them.

Pamela was curious, but she said nothing. Guilt over the death of her mare had put a pall over the happiness she’d felt at having once again successfully raided Jonathon Darwell’s coffers.

They had been riding steadily for over two hours. Won
dering where he could be taking her, Pamela was distracted
by her body touching Phantom’s. The insides of her thighs rubbed the outsides of his, and with each stride the horse
took, she was unable to prevent the sensitive tips of her
breasts from brushing against Phantom’s broad, strong back.

He’d brought her to a high, rocky area where, in the
very middle, a low spot in the rocks trapped rain and water from
an underground source. Around this small oasis were trees
and vegetation of indeterminate health and species. Pamela
had seen other exotic places in the area surrounding
Whitetail Creek, though she had never before heard about this
one.

“Who knows about this place?” she asked. She quickly
slipped off Phantom’s horse, wanting to put some distance
between herself and him so that she could keep her
thoughts clear, lucid, logical.

“Just myself and the animals, as far as I know,” Phantom
replied, also dismounting. He led his mount to the small
pond at the epicenter of this strangely tropical area of the
plains and let the animal drink. “I’ve been coming here
for years, but I’ve never once come across any other hu
man, or even seen a trace of one.”

Been coming here for years? Pamela looked at Phantom,
aware that he knew her, and expecting she should somehow
know him—that is, know the identity
behind
the mask. If
he’d been coming to this secret spot for years, then he’d
probably always lived in Whitetail Creek or, like her, near enough
to be known to the people in town.

But she’d seen Phantom’s uncanny ability to keep himself
shrouded in shadow, and though the mask over his eyes really did not conceal much of him, it obscured his features enough so that she couldn’t determine what he truly
looked like.

“We’ll rest here for a bit,” he said, keeping an eye on
his horse. “This ol’ boy’s in need of water and a rest.”

At first Pamela thought he was talking about himself, but when she looked at him, she realized he was referring to
his stallion. Was her additional weight a great burden?
Pamela suspected so, though she hated to admit it, loathing
the feeling that she was incompetent, not quite as capable of taking care of herself or of attacking Jonathon Darwell.

She watched as Phantom rubbed down his stallion, allow
ing him to drink, praising the animal quietly for his stam
ina, strength, and courage. The tenderness Pamela saw him
show the horse touched her deeply, and for the hundredth
time, she wondered exactly what kind of man the myste
rious Midnight Phantom really was.

Where were they headed next? She was curious, but
she was in no hurry to part company with Phantom. She
turned away from him, moving down near the cool water.
Now what? she kept wondering, not knowing
whether she really wanted an answer.

“We’ll stay here an hour or so,” he said. His deep voice
carried easily on the still night air. “Then we’ll head out
again.”

Pamela watched him approach. His movements were all
grace and power, smooth and yet loose-limbed despite the
considerable strength in his chest and biceps. And the
black cape, flowing over his shoulders and moving gently
with his steps, gave him an appearance of flight, as though
he were a gigantic raven about to take off.

“What time is it?” she asked, not really curious but
feeling she should say something.

Phantom withdrew a heavy gold watch from his pocket, thumbed
open the case, and angled the timepiece so he could read it in the thin moonlight.

“A little after three. I’ll have you home before the sun comes up,” he answered.

When he was close enough to touch, Pamela felt the near
ness of him, felt it deep within herself, and though she
understood the sensation and even took a certain pleasure
in it, she also realized with crystal clarity it was some
thing she would do well to avoid.

She took off her hat and placed it on the ground beside
her as she knelt, then cupped her hands and tasted the
water. It was from an artesian well, bubbling up naturally
from deep beneath the earth’s surface.

Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at Phantom’s
boots. They were made of high-quality leather. The crafts
manship showed in the stitching. They were the kind of boots she had promised herself she would one day own.

She tasted the water again, aware that Phantom was al
most hovering over her. She felt intimidated but couldn’t
tell whether there was any logical reason for this or not.

“And then what?” she asked, not looking up.

When Phantom did not answer, Pamela got to her feet.

“Here,” he said, taking her right wrist.

She had been just about to dry her hands on her Levi’s,
but Phantom gently took her hand in his and wrapped his
black cape around it. Slowly, very sensually, he dried each
finger one at a time, blotting off the water.