by Robin Gideon
“Who else have you brought here?” Pamela asked, fervently hating the jealousy in her voice. Still, she was impelled to discover whether she was the only woman to have cooled her love-heated body in the pool after passionate lovemaking with Phantom.
Clouds had diminished the scant moonlight, but with Phantom now facing her from the pool, Pamela placed one hand over her vagina and the other across her breasts.
“Are you jealous?” He sounded amused at the prospect. His attitude did nothing to assuage Pamela’s newborn fears or to bridge the distance that now separated them when only a few minutes earlier they had been as one.
“Of course not,” Pamela shot back, sounding as haughty as possible under the circumstances. “I just want to know if there are spirits of past lovers lurking around, that’s all.”
“Spirits,” Phantom exclaimed.
He seemed to suddenly realize that Pamela was open, tender, and much too vulnerable for further jokes. His expression turned contrite.
“Well?” she demanded.
“No, Pamela, I’ve never taken anyone here but you,” he said with absolute solemnity. “And to ensure that your spirit retains its privacy, you can rest assured in knowing that I will never bring anyone here but you.”
“That’s a promise?”
“With all my heart.” Phantom offered her a dazzling smile that made her want to trust him.
My weakness for this man will be my undoing, she thought, though at that happy moment, she had no desire to be anything but “undone” by Phantom.
With her hands still strategically placed, Pamela walked into the pool then knelt in the water to conceal herself. The bed was solid rock, somewhat slippery with plant life. The water’s temperature was cool enough to be refreshing and cleansing, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable.
They bathed in silence, he at one end of the pool, she at the other. Pamela ran her hands over herself, washing away her own perspiration and Phantom’s, washing away semen. After their lovemaking, the scents of their bodies had hovered about her, continually reminding her of what they’d done with each other, of what she’d felt. Pamela had never before experienced that peculiar, unmistakable aroma—that of man and woman fresh from energetic loving. She filed it away in her memories.
She turned at last toward Phantom, shocked to see that, while she’d been bathing, he’d taken off his mask to wash his face. But he had turned away from her and was just now tying the black silk over his eyes once more. Pamela had been lucky enough to get a glimpse of him without his mask, though for such a brief time and in such poor light she still could not guess his identity.
“Doesn’t the mask make it difficult to swim?” she teased, feeling more refreshed now that she’d spent ten minutes splashing about in the cool water. Phantom, it seemed, had again been right.
“I haven’t gotten it wet,” he replied, and Pamela could hear a bit of tension in his voice. “I keep it on for your protection, not my own. I explained that to you already.”
“I can protect myself,” Pamela replied softly. Trying to convince herself that it didn’t matter whether he revealed himself to her or not hadn’t worked. After all she’d shared with him, she wanted more than ever to know who he was.
“Sure you can,” Phantom teased, moving closer to where she knelt, concealed in the shallow water.
“I can,” she replied petulantly, disliking her strength or courage questioned after having had to prove herself for much of her life.
“Even against me?” he asked, gliding toward her, only his head and those much-too-broad shoulders visible, his smile wolfish.
Now it was Pamela’s turn to smile. She retreated in the water, trying without much success to move away from the advancing Phantom while at the same time staying low enough to remain concealed.
When he closed in, reaching for her, she giggled playfully, trying to move faster. Her feet lost traction against the hard, slick bed of the pond, and she went under the surface.
“Oh, you!” she sputtered, bobbing up, without any of the anger she really wanted to display. “I didn’t want to get my hair all wet.”
Pamela raised her hands and, twisting her thick blonde tresses into a roll, piled them atop her head. With her arms raised, her breasts were elevated above the surface of the water, where they glistened and glowed in the moonlight, the areolas soft pink, the nipples peaked from the cool water.
The sight of them froze Phantom. He knew he should not respond so forcefully to the sight of a woman’s breasts. Pamela’s most certainly were not the first he had seen. But experience did not matter. Pamela’s breasts were the most beautiful he’d seen, big and round, riding high on her body, and in perfect proportion to the width of her shoulders, the narrowness of her waist, the erotic curve of her hips.
For several weighty seconds, Pamela and Phantom remained motionless, looking into each other’s eyes. She wanted to dip beneath the surface of the water to hide herself once more, but she also wanted to stand up so he could see all of her. Torn between what was right and what was wrong, she stood absolutely still, her hands holding her hair above her head.
“Pamela…” Phantom whispered breathlessly, closing the distance that separated them.
He moved close enough so that, beneath the water, his knees surrounded her hips. His gaze went down just briefly to her exposed breasts, and he felt his cock coming to life in the water, expanding in response to Pamela’s unpracticed sensuality.
As she felt his thighs against her own, she saw the hunger for her in his dark eyes. So soon to make love again? she asked herself. She looked at his mouth, wanting his kisses once more, though not certain she could accept lovemaking once more. Contrary to her earlier denial, she felt a little sore now.
“So beautiful,” Phantom whispered.
He raised his hands to her face. Pamela closed her eyes, still keeping her arms over her head. She felt him touching her, starting at her forehead and trailing his hands down over her face, the contact of his fingertips barely more than a whisper of feeling yet shattering in their impact upon her senses.
A warbling sigh was emitted from Pamela’s throat as he circled her lips with a fingertip. The touch was so light and soft, yet it aroused her deeply and made her feel she was being kissed. When his hands moved lower, she angled her chin upward, exposing her throat to receive his strange, feather-soft caresses.
Over her throat, chest, and shoulders, Phantom’s fingers moved and then lower still, into the valley between her breasts, at first stroking in large circles, circles which became tighter and tighter until at last he used only the tips of his forefingers to follow the outline of her areolas.
He watched as her nipples elongated and knew that her passion had been reborn, as had his own.
On her knees in the cool, clear water, her hands were above her head. Every nerve in her body was tingling, waiting for the ecstatic moment when Phantom would once again touch her nipples in ways she found so exquisite she could hardly breathe. Any second now, she told herself. Any second now. And even though she had very little experience in these matters, she knew in her heart he could make sweet love to her once again and that she could receive his passion.
The sound of loose rocks disturbed at the water’s edge jarred them from the moment.
Instantly, Phantom was on his feet, high-stepping it to shore where his Colt rested in its black holster. He drew the weapon and pulled back the hammer, his eyes searching the darkness for the enemy he was certain was upon them.
When Pamela had heard the rocks moving, scraping against stone, she had not reacted as swiftly. To her left, she saw what had caused the sound—a jackrabbit, having come to get a drink from the oasis, had become on evening meal for a fox. The struggle was short, and the fox quickly carried her meal off into the darkness of the night with nothing more than a backward glance at the two unusually large creatures in the water.
Sadness struck Pamela at the jackrabbit’s fate. Though she knew that tonight the fox and h
er babies would eat well, the laws of nature could be tragic.
Why was it impossible for all living things to have what they needed? wondered Pamela.
Phantom turned toward her after realizing what had caused the brief commotion.
“I guess I don’t need this,” he said, presenting his Colt as an object of humor. He tucked the pistol back into the black, form-fitting holster. He seemed oblivious to the enormous erection jutting out from his loins.
Even when he is embarrassed, his movements are so smooth, so graceful, Pamela thought, watching him.
She loved looking at his body, with all its dormant power. Only the mask marred this picture of the American male at his finest. She never could ignore its significance.
Did he trust her? And where exactly in Phantom’s life would Pamela Bragg fit? She tried to elude the question, but it hung with her.
It was time to get out of the water. Pamela took a deep breath for courage, silently cursing herself for being a prude because she wished Phantom was not watching her. Then she straightened up.
He had seen her body before, of course. He’d seen her, touched her, tasted her, but that didn’t stop him from staring at her as though he’d never before viewed a naked woman. Though she was uncomfortable with her nudity, he could not oblige her modesty by taking his gaze from her.
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. Something 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, fighting 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 awakened 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 perspective. Right now, with sunrise a few hours away and standing 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 anything 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 his 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 untied 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 occasionally 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.