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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.
“My wife.”
And now it was her turn to feel bewildered. Stunned, actually. His answer had struck her like a blow and sent her thoughts reeling. Why the fact that this man had a wife should have any impact at all on her feelings was a mystery to her. Honey drew in a sharp little breath. “Oh.”
He just sat there then, silent as a stone, staring out the window.
“Where...where is she? Cora. Mrs. Summerfield, I mean,” Honey inquired, her voice lower now, bereft of its former sunny lilt. “I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned where you’re from.”
“Missouri.”
“Ah.”
Her comment met with a blank wall of silence, but Honey was determined to claw her way over it.
“Then she’s back there? In Missouri?” It wasn’t all that easy, she decided, posing questions to a stone. “Whereabouts? I know something of the state because my fath—” She broke off in the middle of the word, reminding herself that Gideon Summerfield wasn’t the only one at the table who had secrets. She had one or two of her own.
“I have some relatives—distant ones—who used to live in Westport. Near Kansas. On the border, isn’t it?”
He offered no comment, but nodded slightly, leading Honey to presume he had at least heard her. “Gideon,” she persisted, “I asked you where...”
“I don’t know,” he snarled, his steel gaze at last leaving the window and finding her face.
Her