“Or . . . ?”
“Or you can kiss this casino goodbye. You’ll find yourself sitting in a nice cell in the Tombs instead.”
Prison? Goodness, the idea of Clay behind bars felt wrong, like those wild bears chained up at circuses.
Clay reached inside a drawer, flipped through some papers, then tossed a packet onto the desk. “And what do you think will happen to that nice renovated brownstone if the Bronze House folds?”
Bill leaned in but she couldn’t see his reaction to whatever was on the papers. “You . . . You hold the banknote on my house?”
A sound of surprise erupted from her throat, so Florence covered her mouth with her hand. Checkmate.
“I consider it an investment in my investment.” Clay took a drag on his cigar and blew out a long stream of gray smoke. “Now, you’re going to stand up, walk out of here and we’re both going to forget this conversation ever took place.”
“I want a higher percentage, Madden. I deserve it.” Bill pounded a fist on the armrest. He wasn’t backing down, apparently. The fool.
Clay rose, the cigar clamped between his teeth. “You won’t get it.”
The policeman hefted himself out of the chair. “We shall see about that, won’t we?”
Clay said nothing, his expression stoic as Bill stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him. Quiet descended, yet Florence couldn’t move, her breath coming short and fast, her skin feverish. That had been . . . astounding. Like listening to Mozart compose a symphony. Or watching Michelangelo sketch. She wasn’t familiar with any other casino owners but Clay was clearly a master, a brilliant manipulator focused on getting what he wanted and protecting what he had. Rumor held him to be the best and she’d now witnessed it firsthand.
A hum coursed through her veins, a very inappropriate tingle between her thighs—all symptoms she recognized. Viewing this encounter had affected her, left her shaken and, God help her, aroused. For Clay. A man who intended to ruin her father.
Attraction had no part in this—it couldn’t—at least not on her side.
She’d been burned by lust before, making questionable choices when desire took over her brain. Like showing Billy Palmer her drawers in an alcove at the Metropolitan Opera House. Kissing the Webster twins in the Vanderbilt gardens. Sleeping with Chester McVickar at the Astor Place Hotel . . .
Florence had thought it all harmless fun, a rebellious form of experimentation. The men, however, had formed assumptions based on her actions, and had pursued her. Doggedly. Daddy still couldn’t understand why Florence had turned down several marriage proposals.
Because I cannot allow someone else to control my future.
Indeed, try getting a father to understand that.
Just then, Clay’s gaze locked on the peephole, as if he could see straight through the wood and into her soul. Her breath caught, the blood rushing in her ears.
Oh, my. Would he notice? She nearly shook herself at the ridiculous question. Of course he would notice. Nothing slipped past Clay.
She had to get out of this place. Right now. Before he discovered what she had been thinking.
Shooting to her feet, she lunged for the door. The light in the corridor stung her eyes as she stumbled in the opposite direction from Clay’s office. A hand suddenly wrapped around her arm and she smothered a squeak.
Bald Jack stood frowning at her, his brows knitted. “Miss Greene, everything all right?”
“Fine, fine. Everything is just fine. I’m fine. I need to leave, though. Will you tell him . . . ?” She drew in a steadying breath. “Please tell him it was late and I had to return home. I’ll visit again in a few days.”
Jack nodded and released her. “Stairs are around the corner, behind the third door. Boys at the front will fetch you a hack. Don’t wander the streets alone at this hour.”
“I won’t. Thank you.” She hurried along the hall, eager to find some peace and put her thoughts back together. Because the next time she faced Clay, she had to be in control of herself.
Clay heard the keyhole door open and he paused, waiting. Had he driven her away for good? Half of him prayed that yes, she’d been appalled at the nature of his business. God knew it would make his life easier. Florence’s presence in his club only complicated everything.
And yet . . .
Well, there was no reason to finish that thought. Only fools wished on stars.
He exhaled a long stream of smoke, enjoying the sting to his eyes, when the outer door opened. Only, it wasn’t who he expected.
Jack strode in, his face thunderous. “What in Hades did you say in here?”
Clay hadn’t a clue as to why Jack was so angry. “Bill demanded a larger share. Thinks he’s got me over a barrel.”
“I assume you set him straight.”
“Of course. Showed him the banknote.” He took a long puff. “He was displeased.”
Jack lowered himself into the armchair vacated by Bill. “No doubt that’s true. He’s been spending money as soon as it comes in.”
“You mean his wife has been spending money.”
“She does love to shop, apparently. Add her store bills to the renovations and the vacation house, and Bill’s skating on thin ice.”
“Well, I’ve made our position clear. I suspect he’ll calm down.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Let’s worry about it if the time comes. Was that why you stormed in here like you wanted to punch me? Because of Bill?”
“Hell, no. I saw Miss Greene tear out of here like the building was on fire. Couldn’t imagine what you’d done to affect her in such a manner.”
He braced himself. This was the part where Jack relayed how much Clay had scared her. “Horrified, then.”
“No, it didn’t seem like it. She didn’t come across as scared. Just anxious to get out of here.”
Clay picked through the papers on his desk and tried to sort out the jumbled mess inside his brain. “So she’s not coming back.”
“Wrong. Said she’d return in a few days.”
Clay couldn’t wrap his head around it. He hadn’t scared her off? At every turn she had surprised him.
“The two of you certainly were cozy in the training room.”
Clay leaned back in his chair and glared at his friend. “Worried for her virtue, Jack?”
“Seeing as how you’ve sworn off women, no, not particularly. But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
“She’s asked me to mentor her. I cannot do it by letter or telegram.” He shrugged. “No one’s forcing her to come here.”
“I know there’s no convincing you to do the right thing and refuse her entry, so I won’t even try.”
“Good. Let’s move on and discuss more important matters. Where are we with the architect?” On the advice of one of the city’s top attorneys, Clay had decided to carry on building his casino on East Seventy-Ninth Street, whether Mrs. Greene sold her house to him or not. Surely once construction started, she would wish to escape the neighborhood—at which point Clay would swoop in and buy the house for far below what he’d first offered.
Then he’d smash the house to the goddamn ground.
Everything comes full circle, Duncan, you miserable bastard.