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His silence was nearly palpable, like the quiet before a storm, like fire working its way along a fuse. Honey expected an explosion, but instead she felt the muscles of his arm relax and heard him release his breath in a long sigh.
“They’re being washed,” he answered quietly.
“Oh.” She was sorry she had asked. She was mortified, and grateful for the dark to hide the color staining her cheeks. Her voice, so strident before, quavered now. “You...you must think—”
“I think,” he said, cutting her off, “that you’re as stubborn as a weed. Now go to sleep, will you? Or at least just keep that pretty little mouth of yours closed.”
But she couldn’t sleep. Honey lay there for a long time, wide-awake, listening to the sound of Gideon Summerfield’s deep and even breathing. She shifted slightly onto her side to watch the rise and fall of his muscular chest, to study the soft hair that thinned as it neared his belt line, to feel the warmth that radiated from his arm where it touched hers.
A week ago, under the watchful eye of Miss Haven and her staff, Honey wasn’t permitted to promenade with beaux or to have tea alone with a gentleman caller. Now here she was—naked as the day she was born—sharing a bed with a notorious outlaw. The preposterousness of the situation brought a wild little giggle to the back of her throat when she probably ought to have been screaming for help.
But she wasn’t afraid of Gideon Summerfield, even when reason told her she should be. The man had had ample opportunity to do whatever he pleased with her, and the fact of the matter was that he had conducted himself as a gentleman. She remembered the moment on the trail this afternoon when she had thought that he was going to kiss her. But he hadn’t, and there had been that surprising little quiver of disappointment inside her, like air being let out of a balloon.
Honey tilted her head now, the better to peruse his profile in the moonlight. He wasn’t bad looking. In fact, Gideon Summerfield was decidedly handsome. There was strength in his face—from the firm line of his jaw to the deep slashes that parenthesized his mouth to the slight hook of a nose that had undoubtedly been broken once or even twice. But, strong as they were, his features possessed a certain vulnerability now that he was sleeping, now that those gunmetal gray eyes were closed.
His hand twitched. His closed lids fluttered. Honey wondered what sort of dreams a desperado had. Was he planning more robberies? Figuring out how to spend his ill-gotten gains? Somewhere, deep in his sleep, was he lining up innocent bank tellers like tin ducks in an arcade, taking aim and shooting them one by one? Was he...?
His hand twitched again, jingling the chain that linked them, and then—slowly, warmly—his big hand slid over hers and closed. Honey’s heart shifted perilously and her breath snagged within her chest. From beneath her lashes, she watched as his lips parted in a soft, almost desolate moan. Perhaps, she thought, it wasn’t a dream at all inside his head, but a nightmare. Perhaps it was Gideon Summerfield who was the target....
He rolled to his left, casting a heavy arm across her, bringing his face just inches from her own. “Cora,” he murmured in a voice thick with sleep and need. “Hold me. I’m so cold. So goddamn cold.”
Without even thinking, only responding to the husky plea, Honey slipped her free arm around him. Slowly she spread open her hand, over smooth skin, over sleek muscle. She smiled softly. Some desperado, she thought, adjusting her vision to study the face so close to hers.
His breath mingled with hers. Soap. A hint of whiskey. The pure male fragrance she recalled from snuggling in her father’s arms and burying her face in his neck. Aside from him, she’d never really been this close to a man before, even though she’d had more than her share of beaux. It seemed they were always in someone’s shadow, though, or under someone’s watchful eye. When they kissed her—and few had ever dared—it was always brief, fleeting, tentative.
Her eyes focused on Gideon Summerfield’s lips, wondering what they would feel like against her own. Even in sleep, there was a hardness to his mouth. Could such a hard mouth kiss softly? Honey wondered. She moved closer. Then closer still, until her lips felt the warm flutter of his breath.
A deep groan issued from him, and before Honey could shift away his mouth had claimed hers with a warm urgency that sent tremors through her. His lips were softer than she’d have dreamed as they covered hers. His tongue was warm and gentle as it explored, then delved. She moaned helplessly as waves of pleasure surged through her, as new feelings were born in her along with strange and bewildering urges.
It was Gideon who broke the kiss, sighing, shouldering more deeply into the mattress. “Hush, darlin’. Hush, Cora,” he murmured against her wet mouth. “Sleep now.” His hand slid beneath the covers to settle firmly and protectively over Honey’s breast. “Sleep.”
Sleep! She couldn’t breathe. Her entire body was thrumming and her mind was snapping like a telegraph wire whose messages were positively scandalous. What was she doing in bed with a bank robber and enjoying it? Honey closed her eyes and clamped her lips together, shocked at her behavior, stunned and surprisingly warm beneath Gideon Summerfield’s big, gentle hand. But sleep? She might never do that again, she thought. And who in the world was this Cora?
* * *
When she woke, the room was golden and warm with sunshine. The light of day revealed a tawdriness in the room she hadn’t been aware of the night before. Above her head, the ceiling was cracked and peeling. The wallpaper was patterned with stains and poorly rendered roses, all of them stuck to the wall at a queasy tilt. There was a scuffed wooden dresser with a missing drawer, a cracked mirror and a chipped pitcher and bowl. It was the worst-looking room Honey had ever been in. And to think last night, lying in the outlaw’s arms in this bleak iron bed, it had all seemed quite elegant.
The outlaw, she realized dully, was gone. The handcuffs were gone, too. And so was the canvas money bag from Logan Savings and Loan. Honey groaned. Then, after casting a woeful look down at her exposed bosom, she groaned again. What was she supposed to do now?
And what was that red-and-black satin concoction draped over the foot of the bed. He didn’t expect her to wear that, did he? She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. Well, all in all, she supposed, it was better than wearing handcuffs and a sheet.
After she had gritted her teeth and pulled it on, the dress turned out to be nearly a perfect fit, even if it did leave little to the imagination in the vicinity of her chest. Honey glared in the mirror over the dresser, tugging at the rigid stays in the bodice, then watching the weight of her breasts drag the satin fabric down once more. Good Lord, she’d be glad when she got her own civilized clothes back. She’d be even gladder when she got her father’s money back, which was what she was aiming to do.
There was a hairbrush beside the pitcher. She scowled at it viciously enough to kill any critters that might be lurking in its bristles, then dragged it through her dark, tangled locks. After a sigh at her less-than-fetching reflection in the mirror, Honey stalked to the door.
She pulled it open and walked smack into an enormous plaid shirtfront.
“Well, now, ain’t we in an all-fired hurry to find another man.” The rough voice assailed her ears as the breath that carried it assaulted her senses.
Honey pushed both hands hard against the greasy flannel. “Get out of my way.”
“Hold on there, sis. You don’t have to go all the way downstairs looking for your next poke. I’m right here. And right ready, too.” Saying that, the huge man grabbed Honey’s wrist and plastered her hand, palm side down, against the front of his trousers.
A little squeak of shock broke from her throat, and then Honey Logan did the only thing she could manage to think of in the name of decency and in the way of self-defense. She squeezed—hard.
“Lemme go, you she-devil,” the giant howled. He raised his hand to strike her.
“You do that and you’re a dead man.”
Coming from the stairwell, Gideon’s voice was low and lethal, the devil’s own. At that moment, though, to Honey it sounded better than any choir of angels.
The big man twisted his head toward the warning. “What’s this little bitch to you?” he grunted, his arm still poised to loose a powerful blow.
“She’s my wife.”
The arm came down, and now the giant’s voice was closer to a sob than a howl. “Well, hell, fella, your wife’s got my...”
“Let him go, Edwina,” Gideon commanded.
It was only then that Honey realized her hand was still clamped like a vise on her assailant’s private parts. She wrenched it away immediately, allowing the man to retreat at an awkward lope down the hallway, nodding curtly to Gideon as he passed.
Honey crossed her arms and sagged back against the wall, closing her eyes briefly, trying to absorb the liquid shaking that had begun in her knees. Gideon covered the distance between them in two long strides.
“You’re going to get one of us killed if you’re not careful, bright eyes,” he admonished her in the same lethal tone he had used a moment ago.
Honey’s eyes flashed open. She was prepared to burn him alive with a look of hot and righteous indignation, but when she saw the glint of cool amusement in Gideon Summerfield’s eyes she felt a sudden and uncontrollable urge to giggle. She clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle it.
Gideon grinned, briefly. Then his gray eyes clouded. “Lucky for you I just happened along.”
Suppressing the remnants of her laughter, she raised her chin into his somber face. Whatever she had intended to say escaped her momentarily as she caught a whiff of shaving soap and spied the tiny nick beneath his ear. He’d had a shave and a haircut, too. Yesterday’s shaggy cinnamon locks barely brushed his collar now.
The sight set off a swirl of butterflies in her stomach. But when she noted that that collar was attached to a clean and apparently brand-new shirt, Honey squelched the confounded fluttering inside her. New clothes cost money, and she had a pretty good idea where it had come from.
“Thank you for rescuing me, but it really wasn’t necessary, I assure you.”
“I could see that, Ed,” he drawled, shifting his hips lazily and leaning a shoulder into the wall. His mouth slanted into the smallest of grins. “You had the, um, situation pretty well in hand by the time I came along.”
The color that suffused her cheeks forced her to avert her eyes. Where she’d be right now if Gideon Summerfield hadn’t come along just when he had, Honey didn’t even want to consider. But then again, he didn’t have to treat her like a helpless, witless child either.
“What have you done with my money?” she snapped, going on the offense.
“Your money?”
She glared up into his face. “I suppose you think it’s yours now that you’ve stolen it from decent, law-abiding, hardworking people.”
He chuckled softly. “Possession is nine points of the law, bright eyes.”
“And what about me, Mr. Summerfield? Do you believe that you possess me as well?”
His slate gaze skimmed her face, then lowered to the black lace edge of her skimpy bodice. “Nope. I just think you need a little looking out for, at least as long as you’re filling out that dress the way you are.”
She tugged up on the red-and-black satin. To no avail, she realized. “Well, don’t look, dammit.”
“Hard not to.”
The sudden and unbidden thought that this man had undressed her made Honey’s heart begin a brisk, panicky tattoo. Had those dark pewter eyes caressed her then as they were now? And—the thought shocked her—had they liked what they had seen?
“Are you hungry?” he asked her.
“What?” For all the images skittering through her brain just then, Honey barely heard him and could only vaguely comprehend his meaning.
“Come on.” He nudged himself away from the wall, towered over her a moment, then curled his fingers around her upper arm. “Let’s get some food in you and then we’ll see about getting you back to Santa Fe.”
Honey pulled away. “With or without my money?” she demanded hotly.
“Without. You’ll be lucky to get back there with your virtue, let alone your life.”
“I’m not leaving without my money.” Honey crossed her arms and widened her stance.
“Fine with me, lady.” Gideon threw up his hands. “When you find it, you let me know. I’ll be down the street eating breakfast at the café.” He turned on his heel, stalked down the hallway and left her standing there.
“Fine,” she called after him, shaking a fist for emphasis, even though he couldn’t see it. “I hope you choke.”
She was going to get that money back if it was the last thing she ever did. She’d hand that canvas sack to her father, proving once and for all, beyond the shadow of a doubt, just how capable and responsible she was. He’d be so grateful as a consequence he’d probably trade in his desk for an enormous partner’s desk, then install her in a big leather chair right across from his. She smiled wistfully at the prospect.
Beneath her crossed arms, Honey’s traitorous stomach churned and growled. She’d find that canvas sack if she had to turn the hotel and the whole town upside down. In the meantime, though, steak and eggs and steaming coffee was beginning to sound like a king’s ransom. Starving to death wasn’t going to accomplish anything anyway, she thought.
She gave another quick upward tug to the red-and-black bodice of her dress and trotted down the stairs in Gideon Summerfield’s wake. She’d find the money—right after breakfast.
Chapter Four
The big plate glass window in the café was thick with grit, inside and out, but still Gideon could see across the street where the lady in the skimpy red-and-black dress was facing off against a young prospector. The boy looked to be about seventeen, thin as grass, and just about as green. Gideon didn’t see a need to intervene—yet.
He sipped from his mug of coffee as he continued to gaze out the window. Lord, she was a beauty. The morning sun blazed like wildfire through her deep mahogany hair. Her skin—plenty of which was showing—was smooth as cream. Her legs—and plenty of those showed, too—were long and slim. From this distance he couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but he figured they must be burning like blue flames, judging from the cowed stance of the young prospector. The poor kid looked as if he was about to use his shovel to dig himself a hidey-hole right there on the planked sidewalk.
Gideon felt his mouth slide into a crooked grin. Edwina. The grin got a little more lopsided. Ed. A hell of a woman, he thought. One of these days that little bank teller was going to make some man’s life pure heaven—and sheer, unadulterated hell—on earth.
He’d had a brief taste of her heaven this morning, waking as he did with his hand curved over her lush, sleep-warm breast. He was surprised he hadn’t awakened her the way he had wrenched his hand away, then bolted from the bed feeling like a kid caught raiding the candy jar. Not candy, Gideon thought now. There was no candy that had ever filled his hand the way her firm flesh did. More like sweet, ripe, sun-warmed fruit. Like late summer apples. And just as dangerous in their allurement, for this was no Garden of Eden and he had already fallen farther than Adam had ever dreamed.
His grin hardened into a scowl. He was going to fall even farther, too, as soon as he located Dwight Samuel. The plan, as the banker Logan had outlined it, was to lure his cousin and former partner into a doomed bank robbery. The reward for that betrayal was supposed to be Gideon’s parole. But Gideon had other plans, and the only reward he sought was revenge. After that, it didn’t make much difference what happened. He planned to cross the border into Mexico with enough money to see him through however many days remained in his sorry life.
Now through the dirty window he watched the little bank teller tossing her proud head, slashing the young prospector with the sharp tilt of her chin, dashing the boy’s hopes for good as she sashayed away from him toward the café. Gideon held her in his gaze while his breath changed rhythm, his heart suddenly pressed hurtfully against his ribs, and the rest of him grew heavy and hot with desire. There was no denying that he wanted her. And there was also no denying that there was no room for Miss Edwina Cassidy in his plans.
She shot through the café door and strode to his table, standing there, haughty and a little breathless, glorious in her ire, a lady demanding her due. Well, not from him, he thought. He was glad she was riled because that anger would serve her as a weapon now. It would help see her through. Because he couldn’t. He tamped down on his natural inclination to rise to seat her, and instead slid his foot to shove out a chair.
“Have a seat,” he said almost gruffly.
She sat, her spine stiff as a rod, her legs tucked primly to the side, her slim ankles crossed.
“Want some coffee?” he asked, taking a sip of his own, foolishly believing the hot liquid would somehow douse the hotter flames rising inside him.
Honey bit her lower lip. She was dying for coffee, but Gideon Summerfield always made her feel so contrary she almost told him no. “Yes. Please.”
He signaled the lumpish Mexican cook, who seemed loath to leave his griddle to approach their table.
“Coffee for the lady,” Gideon told him. He angled his head toward the sizzling griddle. “And we’ll each have a plate of whatever it is you’re fixing back there.”
“Huevos,” the cook said.
“Whatever,” Gideon replied. Then, after the cook had turned and shuffled away, he looked at Honey. “Do you speak Spanish?” he asked almost sheepishly. “What the hell did I just order?”
“Rattlesnake,” she snapped. “I hope you like it.”
He swallowed, hard, and drummed his fingers on the table. “Yeah. Oh, sure. How’s it fixed?”
“With onions usually. Or sourweed. Sometimes they mix in frogs’ eggs.” She shrugged. “It depends on the cook.”
Honey had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling as she watched the outlaw wince and cast a quick, suspicious glance toward the kitchen at the back of the café.
“Pretty tasty, is it?” he asked. “You eat it often?”
Honey fashioned her sweetest smile. “Oh, my, yes. It’s considered quite a delicacy, even out here where rattlesnakes are so prevalent.”
The cook brought Honey’s coffee. “Algo más?” he asked Gideon, whose brow was furrowed now and whose voice cracked just slightly when he replied, “Huevos, huh?”
The Mexican smiled and bobbed his head affably. “Sí, señ or. Huevos.”
Gideon nodded and, with a soft sigh, lowered his worried gaze to the tabletop.
“No más, gracias,” Honey told the cook. When the man left, she sipped her coffee. Between sips, she smiled sunnily at her nervous breakfast companion.
Good, she thought. She didn’t mind making him uncomfortable one little bit. It pleased her enormously to watch Gideon Summerfield sweat. The man had been much too cool and controlled behind those ice gray eyes. He deserved a little spoofing, in Honey’s estimation. Then, quite suddenly, she remembered the night before, when he had turned to her in his sleep, pleading for warmth. So cold. So goddamn cold.
“Who’s Cora?” she asked him now.
His gaze shot up from the stained oilcloth that covered the table. “What?”
Honey managed a casual tone. “I asked you who Cora is.” She’d never seen such a surprised or bewildered expression on anyone’s face, which piqued her curiosity to the extreme. The man could barely put two words together when he tried to speak.
“What...? How do you...”
She sipped her coffee again, then shrugged indifferently as she set the cup back on the table. “It’s just that you mentioned her name in your sleep last night. I was merely wondering who she was.”
A muscle worked furiously in Gideon’s cheek and his teeth seemed clenched so tight, Honey despaired that he would even get a word out.
But he did.
Two words. A harsh, hard-bitten phrase.
