Gideon, Robin - Desire of the Phantom [Ecstasy in the Old West] (Siren Publishing Classic) (15 page)

“The money’s not in the safe,” Phantom said aloud.

Pamela moved a little closer to him, looking into his
eyes. “How do you know?” she asked quietly.

Phantom looked at her, stunned once again by her allure,
especially when she was making no effort at all to be
appealing. He immediately cast the thought aside, forcing
himself to concentrate on the gun-toting guards below.

“Darwell wants us to think the money is in the payroll
office.”

“Right,” Pamela replied, her tone indicating that anyone
who thought Jonathon Darwell wouldn’t keep the payroll in
the safe was irrational.

“But he also knows that I opened his safe at home,
doesn’t he? And he’s got no reason to believe I couldn’t
get into his safe here.”

“Right. I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“So if he’s got the payroll in the payroll office, why is
there a guard on that rooftop over there and another guard
on the ground, when that building itself seems to be un
used?”

Pamela looked at the building he’d pointed out. After a
moment, she was able to spot the guards he’d indicated.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across her mouth, and her
respect for Phantom took another giant leap forward.

“The payroll office is a decoy. The money’s in that
building, isn’t it?” she asked. She found it difficult to
whisper because of the burst of excitement going through
her.

“That’s my guess. He tried to trick us, and it would
have worked if he hadn’t hedged his bets. That’ll cost him
the payroll.” He looked into Pamela’s eyes and, at that mo
ment, wanted very much to kiss her. His throat felt tight
as he said, “That’s my guess. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a genius,” Pamela replied.

Phantom looked away, not wanting her to see how greatly
the comment pleased him.

She’s just a girl,
he thought.
She’s very young, very
impressionable
.

They made their way down the bluff slowly, careful not
to dislodge any rocks that would roll down and announce
their presence. The sliver of moon cast only a little light,
but this helped them. The guards were alert, but they were
anticipating that the Midnight Phantom would approach from the south and would head for the payroll office.

It wasn’t long before Pamela and Phantom were pressed
against the side of the darkened bunkhouse. Listening to
the footsteps of the guard on the ground as he walked
slowly back and forth, Phantom motioned for Pamela to stay
where she was. Then he moved away from her, his boots
silently touching the ground. He disappeared around the
corner of the building, and Pamela quietly placed her hand on the grip of her Colt, her heart racing. She was now more
afraid for Phantom’s safety than for her own.

In the darkness, she heard a dull
thump
.
It sounded like
flesh striking flesh. Just that sound then nothing else.
Overhead, she continued to hear the soft tapping of the
guard there. The man was absentmindedly tapping his
boots against the roof. The cadence of the tapping didn’t
change at all, and Pamela breathed a sigh of relief, confident
that she alone had heard the
thump
.

A moment later Phantom returned, a too-confident grin
on his too-kissable lips. On the tip of his finger dangled
a large key ring. Without saying a word, he went to the side door, tried several keys, and then swung the door open.
With a bow and a theatrical sweep of his arm, he indicated
that he wanted Pamela to enter first.

She waited until he’d closed the door behind them be
fore she hissed, “You’re absolutely incorrigible. Aren’t
you afraid of anything?”

“Of course I am. Only a lunatic knows no fear. I just
don’t let my fear stop me.”

Pamela wanted to be angrier with Phantom than she
was. But when he smiled like that—and his words, in
some strange way, made a certain amount of sense—she
just couldn’t maintain her anger toward him.

Within the building, Pamela could barely see
, but under the circumstances, she didn’t dare
strike a match. Apparently intended to be used only once
a month, the shed was poorly built, with holes in the walls
that let glimmers of moonlight in.

Phantom managed to make his way around, though she did
hear the telltale
thunk
of a shinbone striking a wooden chair
and the muffled curse that immediately followed it.

“Over here,” Phantom said.

Pamela followed the sound of his voice, her hands groping
before her in the darkness. She still couldn’t see a thing, and when strong fingers closed around her calf, just be
neath the knee, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She
was glad that she’d put her Colt back in the holster, or
she might have accidentally pulled the trigger.

Phantom was on his knees on the floor, and as soon as
Pamela composed herself, she got down beside him.

“What is it?” she asked, feeling something on the floor
in front of him.

“A strongbox. The payroll’s in here.”

“How do you know?”

“The room’s almost empty. Who would put a locked
box in a vacant building then station armed guards out
side if there wasn’t something very valuable in that box?”

Pamela was beginning to realize she still did not have the
ability to think like a thief. Inexperienced as she’d proven to be,
she realized she would have to learn very quickly to
think like a thief or she would have to
stop
being one.

It was as simple as that.

“Here. Light one of these when I tell you,” Phantom
whispered.

His hands surrounded hers. He had shoved a handful
of sulfur-tipped wooden matches into her palm, and now
their fingers touched for a moment longer than was nec
essary. Once again the now-familiar tingles went through
Pamela.

Wasn’t she ever immune to the thrill of Phantom’s touch, not even when danger was all around? Or did the danger heighten her pleasure? Before she could give this much
thought, Phantom asked her to light a match.

The flare of the burning match was blindingly bright in the dark bunkhouse. Phantom had closed his eyes tightly
until the sulfur had burned away and only the wood was aflame.

She kept blinking until she could focus. When
at last she could see clearly again, she noted that he had
out his little leather kit, the one that looked so much like
a cigar case. The strongbox was sturdily built, its lid se
cured with an enormous lock. Phantom was deciding which
particular instrument he should use to pick that lock.

When the match burned down almost to her fingers, it was Phantom who blew out the flame before it singed her
fingertips.

“You have beautiful hands,” he whispered in the dark.
“When the match burns away, just blow it out and light
a new one. Whatever is inside the strongbox isn’t worth
burning your lovely fingertips for.”

Pamela lit another match, but her thoughts were not centered on what she was doing. Rather, she was thinking about Phantom’s comments. He had the most peculiar way
of making her feel absolutely precious and feminine.

At least thirty to forty cowboys would come to this
station to receive their monthly pay, which, as Pamela had
heard, ranged from twenty to thirty-five dollars a month.
For
that
kind of money, she’d gladly singe her fingertips
by holding a match too long.

Several matches later, Phantom opened the old, heavy
lock and raised the lid of the strongbox.

“Oh, my,” Pamela exclaimed when she saw the thick
stacks of paper money.

Phantom was not so easily impressed. He picked up one
of the stacks and fanned it with his thumb, scanning the
denominations. The bills were all small ones, designed to
appear hefty to an illiterate cowboy and to feel good in
his pocket. The strongbox looked
as if it contained a fortune, but Phantom guessed there was no more than fifteen
hundred dollars in it.

Jonathon Darwell had not become a wealthy man by pay
ing his employees any more than he absolutely had to.

“We’ll split it up later,” Phantom said, shoving several
more matches into Pamela’s palm.

She watched as he took the bundles of money and began
stuffing them into the pockets of his trousers and inside
his boots. He opened his cape to reveal several more pock
ets into which he stuffed stacks of money.

“It’s not nearly as much as it looks,” he said, his pockets
now bulging as Pamela lit yet another match.

“I can carry some,” Pamela volunteered.

Phantom grabbed a stack of money and reached for her,
about to shove the bills into the breast pocket of her shirt.
Had she been a man, the move would have been perfectly
innocent. But she wasn’t, and the powerful response each
had to the other could never be denied. For several seconds, Phantom’s hands hovered near Pamela’s breast pocket,
so very near the breasts he had kissed through her chemise
, the breasts she had refused to reveal to
him by untying her chemise as he’d requested—as he’d
demanded.

As they looked at each other for what seemed an eter
nity, the match burned down to Pamela’s fingers. She gasped
softly, shook it out, and lit another. But the gap in time
had destroyed the moment of sexual tension between
them.