Finally, she turned back to him. “What if I wished to play somewhere else, a place where no one knows who I am?”
“Then ask me. There are several small places I own where you’d be safe and could remain anonymous.”
“Were you truly worried about me?”
Hadn’t he already said as much? Was Florence digging for compliments? “You know that—”
A sharp piercing whistle cut through the air like a sword. Every eye swung toward the exit, where Jack stood, his eyes wild. He whistled once more then circled his arm over his head, which caused all the dealers to begin moving at a breakneck pace.
“Goddamn it,” Clay growled.
“What’s happening?”
He moved toward the stairs. “We’re being raided.”
Chapter Eight
Everything happened so quickly.
One minute, she and Clay were on the balcony, arguing, and in the next the place was thrown into chaos. Though it was organized chaos. The staff had rehearsed this, obviously, because everyone knew what to do to hide any evidence of gambling. Chips and money were shoved in locked boxes. Tables flipped and secured into place. Jack opened a panel of wainscoting to reveal a secret passage, and patrons quietly streamed through the door like rats scurrying off a sinking ship.
“Florence!”
Clay’s hiss reached her ears and she hurried after where he’d disappeared. He was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, a frown on his face. “Were you going to stand there and wait for the police to question you?”
“No. I was watching your staff remove any traces of a casino. It was fascinating.”
“It’s an annoyance,” he snapped. “And we need to get out of here.” He pushed open a door and ushered her down a long corridor. Just as she was about to turn the corner, he stopped. The section of wall here was brick, not plaster. Feeling under a sconce, he flicked what must have been a release mechanism because the bricks separated from the wall. Another secret passage.
He pulled open the wall and she slid through. When he followed, she asked, “Are you not going to stay and talk to the police?”
“No. Jack is far more reasonable in situations like this. If I stay, I’m likely to punch a copper.”
He closed the wall and darkness descended. Before she could grow concerned he took her hand. “Come along. It’s not far. Watch, these are stairs.”
Down they went. At the bottom of the steps, he held her hips briefly to steady her. Almost as soon as his touch appeared, it vanished and another door opened. A few steps later he closed them in. Then she heard a pull chain. Soft yellow light illuminated a tiny passageway, one so small that Clay had to bend over to fit. She plucked a cobweb off her sleeve and followed him steadily through the gloom. His large shoulders shifted under his black topcoat, his movements lithe for a man so large. It was a routine he was well familiar with, clearly. “Where are we going?”
“To the brothel next door.”
A brothel? Excitement simmered in her veins. This was turning into some remarkable evening. “Do you go back and forth often?” She held her breath, unsure why his answer mattered. Yet somehow, it did.
“No, not since I had it built. Annabelle uses it often, however.”
Annabelle. There was that name again. Florence’s lungs deflated like a popped balloon. Of course he would have women come to him. The great Clayton Madden wouldn’t visit a brothel like a common plebeian.
Why do I even care?
She didn’t. Just because her heart beat a little faster in his presence didn’t mean there was anything between them. She wasn’t foolish enough to develop an interest in him—or any man—when her goal was in sight. In less than two years her choices would disappear, along with her independence. So good that Clay had a paramour. The information would help her maintain perspective throughout her tutoring.
“If you do run your own casino,” he said, “remember to build in an escape route just in case.”
“Of a raid by the police?”
“That or anything else that might require a quick getaway. You’d be surprised the number of people who’d rather not part with their money—even after losing it fairly.”
Another set of stairs awaited. At the top, he gave three short raps. A click sounded just before the wall opened. “Took you long enough,” a feminine voice said.
Clay grabbed Florence’s hand, his skin rough and warm against hers, and pulled her into what turned out to be a tiny closet full of clothing. A woman with a gorgeous head of red hair and large blue eyes shut the panel behind them. “So much for having Big Bill under control,” she muttered before facing Florence. “Miss Greene, a pleasure. I am Annabelle Gallagher, the owner of this fine establishment.”
Florence blinked at the familiar greeting. How did this woman know her name? Had Clay been speaking about her? “It is nice to meet you, Miss Gallagher.”
“Just Annabelle will do. Now, follow me and let’s get you two safely hidden away.” She waved them into the hall.
“We can get out through the alley,” Clay said.
“Not tonight. Police are all over the neighborhood. You’d best hide here.” At the end of the hall she swung open a painting to reveal a handle, which she turned. The bookcase on the other wall popped open.
“Clever,” Clay murmured and widened the opening for Florence to slip through. Darkness enveloped her once again. She had no idea where they were, but she was grateful to be safe. Getting questioned or arrested in a casino would certainly not go over well with her father.
“You aren’t the only one with secret rooms,” Annabelle said. When Clay followed inside, Annabelle whispered, “Be quiet in here and enjoy the show.”
“Wait, is this—”
“I’ll come and fetch you when Jack says it’s safe.” Her hand flicked near Florence’s head and a wooden panel the size of a small painting slid on the wall. Goodness, it was an opening. Was this like Clay’s peephole?
Before Florence could ask, the door closed and latched shut. Soft yellow light in the opening caught her attention and she leaned in.
“I wouldn’t look in there, were I you.”
She ignored Clay and peered into the rectangle of light. Good God. She could see into the bedroom next door. And there were people in there. She jerked back, startled.
“I warned you,” he said, his voice laced with superiority. He reached to close the partition. “Those activities aren’t for a lady’s eyes.”
The fine hairs on the back of Florence’s neck stood up. How dare he decide what she could and could not see? Her hand darted out to catch his wrist, stopping him from closing the slat. “You said you wouldn’t play the part of a gentleman around me. Don’t change your mind now.”
“Florence,” he said on an exasperated sigh, “there are people fucking in there. Do you really want to see that?”
Yes, she sort of did, actually. “I suppose it’s rude to watch them.”
“Not from their perspective. They want others to watch. If they didn’t, the partition on their side would be closed.”
Oh. “You mean . . .”
“That some people like to perform sexual acts while others observe? Yes, that’s what I mean.”