by Robin Gideon
“Yes, of course,” the journalist said, but his old eyes indicated to Garrett that he did not entirely believe everything he’d just heard. After a brief pause, he asked, “What will be the first office you seek? Give a hardworking 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 dangerous 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 fascinating 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, traitorous, 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 Randolph 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 businessman, 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 impact 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 governor. She wanted to be at his side. To marry Garrett Randolph would give her a prestige she could not have while she still carried the Darwell name. Being Mrs. Garrett Randolph 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 under 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 witness to that, he was chilled to the marrow of his bones.
He noted several people standing discreetly aside, waiting 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 appropriat
e 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 reason 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 seeking 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 everyone 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 firecracker 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 precisely 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 carriage 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.”
* * * *
Crack!
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 decided, would help to cover up any noise she might inadvertently 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 bedroom, 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 single 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 experience as an avenger, she already knew that nightstands, tables, or desks near a person’s bed usually contained valuable items. Inside the drawer was a small ledger, new and completely 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 worried 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. Furthermore, 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 easily. 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 skeletons 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.”
A second later, Pamela heard conversation as the door to Jonathon Darwell’s bedroom opened. In walked Darwell, along with the man she recognized as Andy Fields, the businessman who had tried and failed to be elected territorial governor during the last election, and the well-known Judge Robert Dahlmann.
The hand was still clamped tightly over Pamela’s mouth. She grabbed the stranger’s wrist with both of her hands, trying to free herself without moving too much. The strength of the man who had taken her from her mission was astonishing.
“Stop fighting me, or we’ll both get caught,” the stranger whispered. “Just stop.”
What could she do? She relaxed finally, and when she did, she began thinking more lucidly. This man couldn’t be one of Darwell’s bodyguards because, if he were, he wouldn’t be hiding on the balcony.
Pamela released her hold on the stranger’s wrist and let her hands fall loosely to her sides. She was facing the bedroom, able to look inside through a slight parting of the balcony curtain. The stranger, directly behind her, kept his hand over her mouth, though not clamped as tightly as earlier. His left arm was around her middle, resting easily against her stomach just beneath her breasts, though still forcing the full length of her body to press against him.
Who was he? Though she tried to pay attention to what was happening inside the bedroom, the presence of the man was so overpowering she could think of nothing else. She realized as she stood there, feeling the heat of his body seeping into her own, he had saved her from being caught by Jonathon Darwell. She hadn’t heard Darwell approach with the judge and Andy Fields, but the stranger had, and he’d carried her out onto the balcony—lifting her as though she weighed nothing at all, though Pamela was most definitely not a small woman—so she wouldn’t be discovered.