by Robin Gideon
Ecstasy in the Old West
Desire of the Phantom
Pamela Bragg is a woman on a mission to destroy Jonathon Darwell, a corrupt businessman. What she never counted on was falling in love with the Midnight Phantom, a masked man who rescues her from certain arrest. As the masked Midnight Phantom, he seduces her mind and body. Pamela doesn’t know her lover’s real identity, only that his caresses make her feel more alive and passionate than ever before in her life.
When Darwell hires Pamela’s brother, a bounty hunter more known for the criminals he’s killed than arrested, to track down the Phantom and kill him, Pamela’s world is thrown into chaos. Can a love founded on double identities and secrets survive when the truth is revealed? Can the Phantom avoid death at the hands of a bounty hunter known for bringing back his prey strapped over the saddle of a horse?
Note: This book was previously published with Kensington Zebra and has been extensively revised and expanded.
Genre: Historical, Western/Cowboys
Length: 118,642 words
DESIRE OF THE PHANTOM
Ecstasy in the Old West
Robin Gideon
EROTIC ROMANCE
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
DESIRE OF THE PHANTOM
Copyright © 2012 by Robin Gideon
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62241-729-2
First E-book Publication: November 2012
Cover design by Harris Channing
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DEDICATION
For Kitten.
DESIRE OF THE PHANTOM
Ecstasy in the Old West
ROBIN GIDEON
Copyright © 2012
Chapter One
Dakota Territory
Pamela Bragg stood in the dark, her back pressed against the high brick wall surrounding the finest mansion in all of Whitetail Creek. Her heart was thundering in her chest, and her palms were moist with fear. What she was about to do was illegal, and if she were caught, she knew she hadn’t a prayer of getting a fair trial.
She heard laughter from inside the mansion. Gathered in the enormous, lavishly appointed ballroom, the cream of Whitetail Creek society, made wealthy with cattle contracts for both the Army and the Cavalry, probably sipped chilled champagne. Making deals to expand their already considerable personal fortunes, the gentlemen undoubtedly laughed among themselves and pretended that life for everyone was as deliciously satisfying as it was for themselves.
Easing cautiously along the wall, Pamela felt a loathing for the people in the ballroom. She resented their wealth and their smug condescension as she imagined them standing with cool champagne glasses in manicured hands, congratulating each other on how magnanimous they were to have planned, then financed, the charity hospital for those less fortunate.
But these folks didn’t fool Pamela for a second. She knew the charity hospital was just a ruse to promote themselves. Worse, the journalists who chronicled the event were willing pawns duping the public into believing the wealthy weren’t simply manipulators of society’s good nature.
Another carriage rattled down the street. Pamela moved to her left, stepping into the darkest part of the shadows. She could hear a woman laughing inside the carriage. Who was having such a wonderful time on this sultry summer evening?
Pamela forced the question from her mind. She didn’t care who occupied the carriage. The only person she was interested in was the mansion’s owner, who was already partying inside. And that man Pamela Bragg would destroy.
Jonathon Darwell.
A bitter smile compressed Pamela’s lips. Darwell and his family had been linked to every major criminal enterprise in the territory for the past thirty years, from bribery of elected officials to cattle rustling and extortion. Pamela and the authorities knew of Darwell’s involvement, yet he’d never spent so much as a single day in jail.
Tonight Pamela would even the score however. Tonight, Jonathon Darwell and his thieving family would be the victims, not the villains. They would finally get a taste of their own medicine.
Inhaling deeply, filling her lungs with the night air scented with wildflowers, Pamela jumped up to reach the top of the stone wall with her right hand. Strong and agile, she quickly pulled herself atop the two-foot-thick barrier, paused to reassure herself that she hadn’t been seen, then leaped soundlessly to the thick green grass below.
The mansion was surrounded by two hundred and fifty feet of lawn on all sides. Crouching, Pamela covered the gap in less than a minute, her gaze darting right and left, searching for the multitude of gunmen parading as guards who always surrounded the Darwell residence. Whenever Jonathon Darwell left his fortress, some of these men served as his bodyguards.
Pamela pressed herself against the mansion wall, waiting, forcing herself to be patient, willing her erratic heartbeat to become steady and slow, her breathing normal. To her left, the darkness was
heavy, though she’d spotted two guards walking slowly back and forth along the perimeter of the wall. She would avoid that area. To her right was the main entrance to the mansion, which, though well lit, lacked the armed guards who were the greatest threat.
As more people moved in and out of the huge, double front doors, Pamela was glad she had spent the money to purchase new Levi’s for herself. They were dark blue, and they helped to conceal her in the shadows. She didn’t care that the so-called good people of Whitetail Creek scoffed at her because she wore men’s denim trousers, and she didn’t care that the local preacher had once given a sermon using her as an example of the moral decay infecting womanhood, citing the fact that she was never seen without a Colt revolver at her hip.
The metal grid placed along the south wall of the mansion to encourage the vines to grow upward was suitable for a makeshift ladder, so within seconds, Pamela was scaling the wall and pulling herself onto the balcony of a second-floor bedroom.
Dropping to one knee, she then crouched low, her eyes narrowing as she looked in the window to search the interior darkness. Her ears were now attuned to the slightest sound that did not belong. Several times she resisted the urge to pull her revolver from the holster. She feared that, tense and nervous as she was, she might shoot too quickly or inaccurately and could not chance that.
This war—her personal, private war against Jonathon Darwell and the evil he represented—would be one fought intelligently. And in the end, when Pamela failed—she had no doubt that she would fail, because the Davids of this world defeated the Goliaths only in the Bible—she would be able to say honestly that she’d never hurt an innocent person.
Satisfied at last that no one was in the dark room, she stepped inside, easing her way past the immaculate white curtains.
An eerie sensation overcame Pamela the moment she was inside the Darwell mansion. She’d dreamed of this moment for so long that she’d expected the air would smell different, foul in some way, as though the greed ingrained in all the Darwells had an odor to it. The room, in fact, had the pleasant aroma of cleanliness and freshly cut flowers.
Pamela was a little disappointed. She had, in her mind, imbued Jonathon Darwell with so many foul traits that it disturbed her to discover, in even a small way, he was really just a man—though perhaps more clever than most, certainly more treacherous and greedy. Just the same, Jonathon Darwell was only a man, and as such, he could be defeated, even by a frightened but determined young woman like Pamela.
She looked over the room, wishing she could light a candle but not daring to. It was pleasantly, though certainly not elaborately, appointed, with a few feminine touches. Pamela suspected the room belonged to one of the servants, perhaps an upstairs maid. Having made this determination, she moved to the door. She had nothing against the servants working for the Darwells, only the Darwells themselves, and those willingly involved in the Darwells’ criminality.
She slipped out of the room and peered left and right down the hallway. Two lamps, one at either end, gave off pale yellow light. Pamela heard music filtering up from downstairs. She smiled. The twelve-piece orchestra Jonathon Darwell had hired for the evening would help cover any sounds she might make.
She checked the next room down the hall, pressing her ear to the door briefly to listen for sounds from inside. Opening the door slowly, she found this room, also dark, was clearly a man’s. Much larger than the first bedroom Pamela had entered, it contained, along one wall, an enormous glass-walled gun case.
She paused a moment to look at the weapons, hating the fact that she herself found it necessary to constantly keep the Colt with her. But the Darwells did not keep guns to provide needed food for their table. They were so-called sport hunters, which meant they killed indiscriminately and, after decapitating their quarry for display, left the carcass behind.
To Pamela’s thinking, it was a sinful waste of an animal’s life not to eat it or use its hide.
She walked over to the dressing table and sat on the small bench seat. The brushes and combs she saw were inlaid with the gold initial D. Although it could be either Richard Darwell or Jonathon, Pamela suspected it would be the son, Richard.
Absurdly proud of himself, the elder Darwell would have a much more elaborate bedroom, she suspected.
Her hands shook slightly as she searched through the chest of drawers. Countless fine shirts, snowy white and made of the finest silks and cottons, neatly filled the drawers. Pamela found a small box containing cuff links, and for several seconds, she thought of stealing it. She replaced the box. The cuff links were probably one of a kind and, as such, would be difficult to sell. Most likely if she did sell them to reimburse victims of Darwell’s greed, the sale would be traced back to her.
She closed the last drawer, careful that everything appeared exactly as it had when she entered the bedroom. Pamela looked around. She was surrounded by wealth, from the exquisite silver candleholder to the gold-plated Remington revolver on the nightstand beside the bed.
Another bitter smile pulled at Pamela’s lips. Why on earth would Richard sleep with a revolver on his nightstand table? Did he really need it for defense? The mansion was protected by a high stone wall, and there were always guards on duty. Could it be that the Darwells, understanding how much pain and suffering they had caused over the past thirty years, knew that sooner or later someone would try to even the score?
Pamela hoped, in fact, that Richard Darwell did sleep fitfully, always worrying whether some honest soul would decide enough was enough and enter his bedroom with gun in hand, intent on murder, not theft, as Pamela was now.
She thumbed through a small book on the bedstand, hoping that she might find something of value there. The book contained the names of women, apparently those Richard was intimate with, or hoped to be.
“What a swine,” Pamela murmured aloud when she read the name of a young woman she knew. Beside the name, Richard had written that the woman’s father was having financial difficulties. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Richard was hoping to exploit the father’s unfortunate situation and coerce the woman into his bedroom.
On a writing table in the corner of the room, Pamela found a small leather pouch, with fifteen or twenty gold coins inside. Without determining exactly the value of the coins, she stuffed the pouch into her back pocket. Not a fortune, but a start, she told herself, moving on, glad that she had been able to strike out at Richard. But it wasn’t the son who was the evil heart of the Darwell family. It was the father, and Pamela wasn’t going to stop until she had metaphorically drawn blood straight from the heart of the Darwell criminal dynasty.
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 together 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 resented 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 conversation had turned from Jonathon Darwell, a subject that always 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.”
