by Robin Gideon
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 released 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 previously 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, forcing 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, muttered 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 accurate 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 concealment that the bullets had not been directed at him. Pamela’s error had cost Daisy’s life. The mistake, she promised herself, would not be repeated.
Phantom returned carrying Pamela’s saddle, blanket, and bridle. 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 anymore.”
“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. Wondering 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 human, 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 h
e 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, allowing him to drink, praising the animal quietly for his stamina, 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 mysterious 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 nearness 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 something 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 craftsmanship 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 almost 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.
He’s just drying my hands, Pamela told herself. It’s not like he’s caressing me.
But a caress was exactly what it felt like.
“What are you doing?” she asked softly. I’m babbling like an idiot.
“Just drying your hand for you,” he replied, false innocence ringing in every word.
Pamela pulled her hand out of his grasp. She finished drying her hands on her Levi’s. “It felt like much more than that,” she accused softly. “And don’t talk to me in that I’m-as-innocent-as-the-night-is-long tone. I know you too well to believe that.”
“Too well?” He moved a half step close. “I’m not so sure that’s true. In fact, I suspect you hardly know yourself, much less me.”
Pamela had been watching Phantom’s mouth as he spoke, and though his words had piqued her anger—a reaction she was certain he’d intended to provoke—she remembered the pleasure she had known from his lips and questioned why she had denied herself even greater pleasure from them.
Why had she denied Phantom his passionate request when they had stood so close together in the darkness earlier? At the time, denying him had seemed absolutely critical. Since then, the “why” of that particular action had become obscured, leaving her with the hazy realization she could not deny Phantom without denying herself as well.
“By not responding, I’ll have to assume you agree with what I have to say,” he said in a whisper, raising his hands to place them very lightly on Pamela’s shoulders.
I don’t agree with you. You assume too much, Mr. Midnight Phantom, Pamela thought, though she could not get herself to speak the words.
The heat of his hands upon her shoulders seemed to burn her flesh. The weight of them, though actually light, threatened to push her to her knees, or perhaps merely to coax her to them.
She moistened her lips and fought the tightness in her throat.
“You shouldn’t touch me,” she managed to say at last in a soft, thin voice.
“Does that mean you don’t want me to touch you?”
They were not the same things, and Pamela just didn’t know what the proper answer was.
“You’re so good at all the wrong things,” she said softly. “I so wish I could criticize you with more conviction.”
“I don’t want to want you to touch me,” she said at last.
The truth of her statement surprised her. This was one of the few times she had been with Phantom that she had spoken the complete truth, and it was shocking she hadn’t realized it until after the words were out of her mouth.
“I’m not really as bad as you make me out to be,” he said, and now his whisper was most definitely seductive. “In fact, I’m not a bad man at all.”
Pamela pulled her gaze away from his mouth, from those too-enticing lips that could mesmerize her with their touch and tantalize with words that played havoc with her senses and with everything she had believed about herself.
“Please…I’m not really the woman you think I am either,” Pamela said, her eyes upon Phantom’s chest. She felt his fingertips moving slowly against the tension-tightened muscles in her neck and shoulders, loosening the pressure. “The last time we were together, and the way I behaved, that wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t something that you normally do? Yes, Pamela, I know that.” His thumbs slipped under her chin to gently but insistently tilt her head back so that she was forced to look into his face. “I also know that you are much more beautiful than you realize, and I fully intend to show you how beautiful you are until you believe it. Believe it deep down in your heart.”
I mustn’t listen to him.
“We should leave before too long,” she said, looking into his masked face, trying hard to convince herself that she was unaffected by the way he looked, by the things he said, by his touch.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because you haven’t kissed me yet.”
The tingling inside her became stronger, and she felt her pussy clench in response to Phantom’s words. “What would you do if I said I don’t want your kisses?”
“I would say you’re lying and kiss you anyway.”
She stood there, looking at him, wanting him to kiss her, wanting him to take her into his arms. How could she be so brash, so wanton and bold, as to ask for his kisses or, worse, to initiate them? So she waited, hungry for his touch, thirsty for his kiss.
Phantom took off his Stetson and cast it aside, and then very slowly, he bent down, his fingers sliding around the back of Pamela’s neck to angle her face up toward him.
“Kiss me,” Pamela whispered a moment before his mouth came over hers.
It had been important for her to say those words. She was a strong and forceful woman, and she would flaunt convention if need be to get what she wanted. At that very moment, more than anything else in the world, she wanted Phantom’s kisses, wanted them to be intimate, so she parted her lips invitingly and received his enticing tongue.
She melted against him, her arms slipping around his body beneath his cape. When that first long, deep kiss finally ended, Pamela sighed, leaning against Phantom, her heart thrumming, her body alive.
Phantom pushed Pamela away from his chest just far enough so that he could kiss her again, and when he did, it was a fiercely arousing, almost bruising kiss.
She felt the passion in it, sensed the burning desire that flowed in his veins. As the kiss deepened, his tongue filled her mouth and danced with her own, every part of her responding, coming alive, opening like the petals of a flower to the warmth of Phantom’s desire.
She felt his hand at her shoulder, sliding between their bodies. And when at last he cupped her breast, catching the nipple between his fingers to pinch it firmly, she sighed against his mouth.
“You’re stunning,” Phantom whispered, his lips against Pamela’s as he fondled her nipple into a state of erect, fevered excitement.
She turned her face away, ending the kiss, knowing this was the time for her to put an end to their lustful madness. As Phantom touched her, his hands strong and demanding, one on her breast, the other at her buns, she shivered with rapidly escalating excitement. It was time to tell him to stop, but she couldn’t.
One and then two buttons on her shirt were unfastened. Then a third one inexplicably refused to release under Phantom’s experienced fingers. For several seconds Pamela feared he would stop, that the stubborn button on her old cotton shirt would deny her and Phantom what they both desired.
The sound of the button being ripped from her shirt was both shocking and exciting. She hadn’t expected him to be so brash and bold. Certainly not after he’d simply walked away from her earlier, when she’d refused to untie her chemise for him. Though there was something disturbing about his tearing a button off her shirt, it was also exciting to know she could arouse him so that he would follow his instincts. Her clit tingled wickedly at the thought of being submissive to his masterful domination.