Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (2 page)

Too bad it won’t be first blood,
she thought angrily as she slipped out of the bedroom, moving down the hall to the next door.
Jonathon Darwell drew first blood with me,
and he’ll probably draw last blood. But before that
happens, before his guns silence me forever, I’m going to
make him bleed
.
I’m going to attack him right where he’ll
feel it most
—
in his wallet!

* * * *

Garrett Randolph took an obligatory sip of champagne and was able to stifle his grimace. The wine had gone warm because he’d held the same glass so long, and he loathed champagne that wasn’t icy cold and the finest money could buy. He pulled the heavy gold watch from his pocket and touched the stem, opening the protective
case. It was still too early, he decided, reminding himself
that tonight patience was not only a virtue. It was a
necessity.

A portly old journalist with a ring of frizzy hair on his
skull, his notebook and pencil at the ready, approached.

“Mr. Randolph, do you have just a moment more? I’d
like to ask you a few more questions, if I might?”

Garrett smiled, even though he did not feel like answering any more insipid questions. “A few more, then I think
we should concentrate on having a good time. After all,
that’s what the celebration is all about, isn’t it?”

The two men exchanged a laugh, both knowing that this event was designed to get Jonathon Darwell’s name in the newspaper in association with the charity hospital.

“It seems an unlikely alliance, your working so closely
with Jonathon Darwell on the hospital,” the journalist began.
“Everyone knows that you and Mr. Darwell have been on
opposite sides in several controversies over the past few
years. Can you tell me how it came about that the Randolphs and the Darwells got together to build the hospital?”

“First off, let’s get the record straight.
I
didn’t get to
gether with Jonathon Darwell. I started organizing the
charity hospital almost four years ago when I first realized the great need for it. It wasn’t until last year that Jonathon Darwell got involved. By that time, most of the work was completed.”

Garrett looked away, forcing himself to be calm. He re
sented the fact that the public might think the Darwells benevolent. But no matter how much he hated Darwell, he wasn’t going to turn down Darwell’s money—not when it was needed to complete the construction of the hospital.

“Aside from the hospital, there’s your political career
to consider,” the journalist continued, obviously hoping for a juicy
morsel of news that his competition hadn’t gotten. “When
are you planning to run for elected office, and what’s the
first office you’ll seek?”

Garrett smiled at the journalist, pleased that the conver
sation had turned from Jonathon Darwell, a subject that al
ways spoiled Garrett’s mood.

“For now, I am quite content to practice law. As you
know, the Circle R ranch—run by me and my brother—
has just recently signed a contract with the Army to provide beef for the troops. That’ll keep all of us more than
busy for quite some time.”

“Yes, of course,” the journalist said, but his old eyes
indicated to Garrett that he did not entirely believe every
thing he’d just heard. After a brief pause, he asked,
“What will be the first office you seek? Give a hardwork
ing man like me a little leg up on the competition, Mr.
Randolph. I’m getting along in years, and the editors all
think you’ve got to be a young buck to be any good in
this business.”

Garrett laughed softly, enjoying the man’s honesty, but
still not willing to answer such a question.

The journalist pressed on, taking a new tack. “What’s
your opinion on the Midnight Phantom? The story has it
he’s out to destroy Jonathon Darwell. Do you believe that?”

“No, I don’t,” Garrett said, answering just a bit too
quickly for his own peace of mind. “If the Midnight Phantom
is out to destroy Darwell, why did he break into the
Colville Saloon and burn it down?”

“Everyone knows Jonathon Darwell was a silent partner
in that saloon,” the journalist replied.

“Oh? Not everyone. I didn’t know that.”

“Well, it’s true.”

Garrett decided to change their topic of conversation.

“I can’t speak about the Midnight Phantom. How can I talk about something I really know nothing about? What I can tell you is that the first office I’ll be going for is
mayor of Whitetail Creek. I’m only twenty-eight, and though my
father pretty much had it in his head all along that I was going to be the politician in the family, there’s an awful lot I need to learn.”

“So you’ll start as mayor of Whitetail Creek, then move on to…?”

Garrett smiled. “I repeat, I’m only twenty-eight. I’ll keep
the job of mayor for at least two terms. When my second
term is over, I should have learned what I set out to absorb and have done for the city what I could.
Obviously, the next step would be territorial governor.”

“Or governor, if we’re a state by then.”

“That’s right,” Garrett said.

At that moment Angie Darwell joined them, her steps as fluid as the silk she wore. She’d always looked
to Garrett like a house cat that was still a wildcat in her soul. Even though a man could keep this little kitty in his lap and scratch her behind the ears to make her purr, in this animal’s heart was a feral creature that had never given up the thrill of the hunt or lost the taste for a fresh kill.

“Territorial governor right from the beginning,” Angie
declared, her moist red lips curling into an all-knowing smile. “Why not start right at the top?”

“The top of the political ladder is the presidency,” Garrett
commented.

“Darling, you don’t want to go that high,” Angie said,
her tone soft, smooth, and unmistakably sensual. “If you were president, you would be much too busy to do
anything except lead this great nation of ours, and it would be such a shame if you had no time to just enjoy yourself.”
She turned to the old journalist and gave him the full
impact of her startling blue eyes. “Don’t you agree?”

Garrett had seen countless gold diggers and dan
gerous and ambitious women, but they couldn’t compare to Angie Darwell.

The journalist appeared stunned by the blatant sensuality in the woman’s unwavering look, and he mumbled, “Yes,
you’re quite right.” He excused himself quietly and walked
away, heading for the liquor tray
.

“I’m afraid I’ve frightened the poor dear away.” Angie
smiled, casting Garrett a sideways glance that other men
would kill to get. It plainly said if he was interested, Angie
was more than willing. “I do hope the interview was
over.”

“No you don’t, Angie. You ended it. You’re not the type
to share the stage with anyone. It’s either all of you or
nothing.”

Angie laughed softly, then sipped champagne. “You’re right,
darling. But then, you’re almost always right, aren’t you?
I do appreciate your honesty.”

Garrett looked away from her, wishing he could hate her,
knowing in his heart he couldn’t. With all her annoying
and infuriating traits—her rampant vanity, her heartless
ability to use people and then cast them aside when they
were no longer necessary to her—he could never trust her. But her candor, her
joie de vivre,
her refusal to live
life by anyone’s rules other than her own, made her fas
cinating to him.

“You know, you’ll never get elected without a wife. The
voters just don’t trust a bachelor,” Angie reminded him, her
tone businesslike now.

“I’m aware of that.”

“And everyone knows you’ve slept with more than just
a few fine women in Whitetail Creek.”

“Not everyone knows that,” Garrett said, an edge to his
tone. “In any case, you’re hardly one to talk about the number of lovers a person may have had.”

“I’m not criticizing you, darling, I’m merely pointing
out certain salient facts that you should be aware of.”

“What exactly are you getting at, Angie?”

She moved just a little closer to Garrett, close enough
now that he could feel the heat of her body. Though
she was beautiful, Garrett knew she was treacherous, trai
torous, and if there was anything he could not accept, it
was a traitor within his ranks. That, and that alone, was
what had kept Angie from working her way into his arms,
despite her continued efforts.

“I’m telling you that a marriage of a Darwell and a Ran
dolph would be wonderful for everyone. Think of it. The
power of your family combining with the power of mine.
Who could stand in our way? Who’d dare? We could crash
all opposition.”

“But, Angie, I don’t love you. Frankly, I’m not even sure I like you. And you don’t love me. Besides, your father
would go right out of his mind at the mere mention of
such a preposterous notion.”

Angie’s luscious mouth curled into something akin to a
smile. “You let me worry about my father. He’s a busi
nessman, and he’ll do what makes money. And as for
love, what difference could that possibly make? I am
the one woman who can tame you, Garrett Randolph. The
one who can satisfy you like no other woman ever has,
or ever will. Once you’ve tasted my charms, you’ll never again
want to fuck anyone else. Isn’t that something to think
about?”

“Yes, but not for long.” Garrett smiled to soften the im
pact of his words. “Really, Angie, you must be more careful
about how much champagne you drink. It makes you say
the silliest things.”

Garrett knew that most women would have been offended and
stormed away. Not Angie Darwell. She smiled sweetly at Garrett
and raised her glass in a subtle, silent toast.

“We’ll talk about this again later,” she said, then
turned on her heel and walked into the crowd of guests.

Chapter Two

Though she appeared perfectly calm and poised, Angie was seething inside. Garrett Randolph was going to be the
next mayor of Whitetail Creek and, after that, the territorial gov
ernor. She wanted to be at his side. To marry Garrett Ran
dolph would give her a prestige she could not have while
she still carried the Darwell name. Being Mrs. Garrett Ran
dolph would give her the power of elected office, too. And
perhaps best of all, it would infuriate her father to no end.

Angie knew she had lost this battle, but the war was a long way from over. If there was anything in this world
she knew about, it was men—and sex. Garrett was
handsome, virile, and she’d heard from a good friend of hers that he was magnificently endowed. She would bring him un
der her control if it was the last thing she did.

* * * *

Garrett, freed from Angie’s presence, breathed a small sigh
of relief. He had known her for years, and though she was
no longer a little girl, the savagery of a child was still
within her. She had never really learned the difference
between right and wrong, and whenever Garrett was wit
ness to that, he was chilled to the marrow of his bones.

He noted several people standing discreetly aside, wait
ing for the chance to talk to him. On another night, he
would have given them the chance, but not tonight. There
was too much to do, and this time was a perfect one to
make his exit.

He saw Jonathon Darwell standing with the mayor of some tiny town near Whitetail Creek. The appropriate move would have
been to say good-bye to Jonathon, then leave, giving the guests the impression that he and the elder Darwell were not
the enemies rumor made them out to be.

Garrett just didn’t feel up to forcing an insincere smile
on his face. He had a passion for justice. It was the reason
he had become an attorney in the first place and the rea
son he devoted so much of his time to protecting the rights
of people who lacked the financial clout to stand up to a
man like Jonathon Darwell. Tonight, Garrett was going to see
if justice could be served. Only this time, he wasn’t seek
ing to find justice in a courtroom.

He eased his way through the crowd, smiling and shaking hands whenever necessary, delivering comments such
as, “Too much work to do at home yet tonight,” “Is eve
ryone having a good time?” and “I’ll be right back as
soon as I get my glass refilled.” He wanted at least a dozen
people to have stories to tell of exactly when and why
Garrett Randolph had left the celebration, all of them just
different enough to make absolute verification impossible.

He ordered his carriage to be brought around. When it
appeared, Garrett slipped inside after giving a final wave
to an elderly, potbellied banker who’d requested “just one
more minute” of his time.

Though it was a warm evening, Garrett kept the carriage completely closed up. The instant the horses began to pull
away from the curb, he reached into the pocket of his
jacket and extracted a firecracker with an especially long
fuse. He pulled a match from his pocket and, a second
later, opened the curtain and tossed the lighted fire
cracker out of the carriage.

“Six…five…four…” Garrett counted aloud as he
rushed to tie the midnight-black cape around his shoulders
and to wrap the black mask over his eyes. From beneath the leather-covered cushion, he withdrew a black holster
containing a well-oiled Colt revolver and strapped it
around his hips.

When the firecracker exploded on the north side of
the carriage it drew the attention of those people nearby. At pre
cisely that moment, Garrett, dressed now as the notorious
Midnight Phantom, slipped silently out of the south-side
door of the carriage, melting into the shadows, unseen,
even by the coachman.

As Phantom moved toward the mansion, keeping to the
shadows, putting distance between himself and the car
riage he’d just left, he heard one of the guards near the
front doors curse, “Damn kids are at it again. You’d think
they’d all be in their beds by now.”

* * * *

C
rack!

Pamela thought for certain her heart had stopped
beating. Was that sharp noise the report of a small-caliber pistol? Within a few seconds she was convinced the sound was that of a firecracker, not a handgun.

She rose and went to the bedroom door, her heart still
pounding against her ribs. Instinctively, she kept expecting
to hear a gunshot then to feel the numbing effect of a
lead slug striking her. So, each second that passed without
her being struck, she considered a small victory both for herself and for all the people who had been damaged in
one way or another by Jonathon Darwell.

She opened the door just an inch and peered out into
the dimly lit hallway. The celebration downstairs was even
more raucous than earlier. The effects of alcohol, Pamela de
cided, would help to cover up any noise she might inad
vertently make.

The hallway was still empty. Why? Perhaps security
guards weren’t allowed on the second floor. If that was
so, her chances for success were considerably greater.

She moved into the hallway and tried the next door in
line. Sooner or later, she would find Jonathon Darwell’s bed
room, and when she did, she would undoubtedly come
upon some of the riches she was seeking, riches that would
help the poor souls in no position to help themselves.

The instant she closed the door, Pamela knew she had at last found Darwell’s bedroom. It was twice the size of any other she had been in, and over the bed was a portrait of Jonathon’s first wife, the one he called, simply, the
Sainted One. Pamela had heard that wives Number Two and
Number Three had been unable to live with the ghost of the original Mrs. Darwell and had left the mansion without a trace. Some rumors had it the women sought divorces, other rumors whispered about nameless graves.

Though the rest of the estate had been adorned with
the trappings of wealth, Jonathon’s bedroom was crowded
with them. Against one wall was a couch of burgundy
leather. It was the longest couch Pamela had ever seen, about
ten feet in length.

The bed, too, was vastly oversized. And against the north wall stood a massive fireplace with two wing-backed chairs angled toward it.

The room would be warm and comfortable when the
cold winter winds came howling, and in the summer, with
the balcony doors opened wide, a gentle breeze would keep it cool.

Every item within the room seemed created for the sin
gle purpose of making Jonathon Darwell as comfortable as possible.

Pamela forced this awareness aside. This was not the time
to dwell on the comforts others were able to afford.

She went first to the table at one side of the bed and
opened the slender drawer. Though this was her first ex
perience as an avenger, she already knew that nightstands,
tables, or desks near a person’s bed usually contained valu
able items. Inside the drawer was a small ledger, new and com
pletely unused. Pamela made a mental note that on her next
visit she would check it, hoping then it would be filled
with information capable of destroying Jonathon Darwell. She put the ledger back where she’d found it, checked a
few slips of paper in the drawer, and was disappointed to learn they contained random ideas Jonathon perused
while trying to get to sleep.

She went around the huge bed to inspect the desk on the other side. That, too, proved fruitless.

“Where do you keep your money, then, Darwell? Where would a thief like you keep…”

Pamela caught her lower lip between her teeth. Talking
aloud was a habit of hers whenever she was deep in
thought. Never before had it been something she was wor
ried about, but never before had she slipped quietly into the mansion of her most hated and powerful enemy.

She checked a larger desk in one corner of the room.
Clearly this was where Jonathon worked when he wanted
complete privacy. It contained plenty of papers and files,
but nothing Pamela could use to destroy Jonathon Darwell. Fur
thermore, there was nothing in or on it a hungry man could sell to feed his children.

Frustrated and angry, Pamela looked around the room. When she had first planned to steal from Jonathon Darwell, she had believed getting inside his mansion, inside his
sanctum sanctorum,
would enable her to destroy him eas
ily. In her mind’s eye, she had pictured money and gold piled up high in a closet, there for the taking. She realized now how naive she had been.

“Damn you, Jonathon,” she murmured. At least it
would infuriate him to have her, a commoner, call him by
his first name. The thought brought a smile to her lips once more.

She placed her hands on her hips and looked around the bedroom, imagining what it would be like to have Jonathon Darwell’s status. How did he think?

The portrait of the “sainted” Mrs. Darwell seemed to be eyeing Pamela, keeping a careful watch on her, no matter
where in the room she moved. Was it guarding the skele
tons safely locked away in the Darwell closet?

“So where’s the money?” Pamela asked the portrait. “Where does your husband keep…”

Pausing, she approached the portrait slowly, as though
the woman in the painting was alive and might call out to the guards. Kneeling on the bed to touch the ornately
carved frame of the portrait, Pamela was shocked when she
inadvertently tripped the hidden spring of a latch, causing
the painting to swing out smoothly on well-oiled hinges,
revealing a wall safe.

As she was looking up at the safe, wondering how she
could get past the thick steel door to the valuables nestled inside, a hand clamped tightly over her mouth! An instant
later an arm, strong as steel, wrapped around her waist, squeezing her so tightly she could hardly breathe.

She was hoisted off the bed, and though she kicked and flailed, her own grasping hands could not loosen the hand
over her mouth or the one around her waist.

As she was carried quickly across the room and through
the curtained balcony doors, a thousand chaotic ideas
raced through her brain. Once on the balcony, she was
lowered enough so that her feet at last touched the marble
floor.

She
felt the
warmth of
a man’s breath against her cheek and
heard a flinty whisper, “Don’t make a sound. Don’t
move.”