She wished that didn’t appeal to her, that she didn’t feel a strange pull in the pit of her stomach . . . but she did. It wasn’t every day she encountered a man so dangerous and shrewd, interesting and complex.
She met his gaze and it was clear he was not-so-patiently waiting for her to finish her assessment of him. Had she been staring too long? Clasping her hands, she wiped any hint of expression off her face. Don’t react. Give him nothing. After all, she’d perfected a blank look over the years, thanks to hiding her misadventures from her parents. It worked every time.
Madden’s lips quirked as if he instantly saw through her ruse. Impossible. She’d perfected that blank stare at each ball, dinner party and social gathering since the age of eighteen. No one had ever suspected otherwise.
“Miss Greene.” He stepped forward and closed the door behind him. Trepidation slid along her spine, a cold chill of warning. She was alone with him, a man reportedly no stranger to violence.
He wouldn’t be stupid enough to hurt Duncan Greene’s daughter. Would he?
Florence didn’t care for being afraid. She lived her life boldly, outside the lines of what society considered normal female behavior. Tea parties and sewing circles were not for her. She had more exciting plans in her future. Dice and roulette wheels. Cards and craps games. Fear was some other woman’s problem.
She lifted her chin. “I presume you are Mr. Madden.”
“Have a seat.” Now behind his desk, he indicated one of the armchairs.
“Not until you answer my question.”
He paused and stared at her just long enough to make her uncomfortable. His eyes were dark and unfathomable, no hint to his thoughts whatsoever. “Was there a question, Miss Greene? Because I didn’t hear one.”
“Are you Mr. Madden?”
“I am, which means this is my casino. And you are trespassing.” He lowered himself into his large leather chair without waiting for her to be seated.
“No one has asked me to leave.”
“You are aware that women are forbidden from crossing our threshold. Yet, you’ve flouted that rule. Many times. Care to tell me why?”
“I assumed your policies had changed.” A lie. Her first visit she’d entered through the kitchens, sneaking into the main casino. On subsequent visits, she’d flashed a smile and pressed a large bill into the hand of the man at the door. The staff recognized her now, though she knew Madden’s benevolence was the reason for her continued admittance.
“Let’s do away with the pretense. My curiosity is the only reason you’ve gained access to the Bronze House. I’m requesting you satisfy that curiosity now.”
Though he spoke politely, it somehow sounded like a threat. “Or?”
“Most people are smart enough not to refuse my requests.”
“You won’t hurt me.” It came out with more confidence than she felt. Inside, doubt twisted her stomach into knots.
One dark brow shot up. “Won’t I?”
“I don’t intimidate easily, Mr. Madden.”
A flash of something passed over his face, a glimpse of appreciation, perhaps. Had her answer pleased him?
“I’m beginning to see that. After all, someone nearly drugged your sister here and yet you return.”
Florence waved her hand. Mamie hadn’t been fooled. The man’s clumsy attempt at pouring an unknown liquid into her champagne had been as obvious as the heat in Hades. Besides, Florence felt eyes on her every time she visited the Bronze House—a protective presence that wouldn’t dare allow anything terrible to befall her within these walls.
Had it been Madden looking out for her? Watching her?
She wasn’t certain if the idea excited or frightened her.
“I’m perfectly safe inside your casino.”
He didn’t bother to confirm or deny it. Instead, he said, “You show a remarkable skill at the tables. How did an uptown debutante learn such things?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Practice.”
He threw his head back and laughed. The sound was rough and genuine, the mirth transforming his face into something . . . lighter. Younger. She hadn’t realized. He couldn’t be more than thirty or thirty-one years old. Tingles coursed through her, as if she’d been dealt an ace and a king while playing twenty-one.
Goodness. Was she attracted to him?
She recognized the feeling. There had been various young men in her life over the years. Florence liked kissing and touching and all the things that went with it. She hadn’t ever considered saving herself for marriage, not when a whole wide world awaited her. She was a modern woman in charge of her own destiny—and her future did not include being under the thumb of a husband. She wanted an equal, not a jailer.
But an attraction to Clayton Madden would complicate things.
Madden collected himself, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I can see you’re no novice. You’ve walked out a winner each time you’ve visited. Yet, your presence here is disruptive. My patrons are unaccustomed to seeing a woman in their midst. You are . . . distracting.”
It would seem a compliment if not for his frown. “That is not my fault. Admit more women and they won’t notice me.”
“Impossible. No man would miss you, even in a crowd.”
Her throat dried out. That was most definitely a compliment. However, she didn’t think he was flirting with her, merely being honest. Clayton Madden didn’t seem like a man who flirted. “Your policy is antiquated. You should allow women to gamble.”
“Not a chance. If men are watching the women then they aren’t losing money to me.”
She bit back a smile. His attitude served her plans perfectly. Let him ignore half the population of New York, the women who were bored and looking for entertainment. Florence would soon take their pin money in her female-only casino. Still, she couldn’t resist adding, “So women must suffer for the stupidity of men. Again.”
He blinked, his expression full of both confusion and admiration. “I see you are a woman who speaks her mind. That’s a quality I appreciate. So let’s answer this once and for all. Why do you continue to visit the Bronze House? What are you after?”
It’s now or never, Florence. “I’m here for lessons. I wish for you to teach me how to operate a casino.”
Chapter Two
Clay paused, certain his ears had failed him. “I beg your pardon?”
She strolled closer, her silk skirts rustling with every step, a whisper of femininity that slid over his skin. Florence Greene was even more stunning up close. She looked like a blonde angel, only with teasing eyes and a wicked mouth. Long, elegant limbs combined with a proud bearing born of privilege and wealth. He desperately wished to dislike her . . . but quite the opposite. She was provoking and intelligent—a dangerous combination.
Especially when Clay planned revenge on her father.
Duncan Greene had sealed his fate twenty years ago when he’d razed an entire block of homes on the east side to build a factory. One of those homes had belonged to the Maddens. They hadn’t received fair market value for the property—Greene was a greedy bastard—and therefore hadn’t been able to locate equitable lodgings. Their family had ended up in a slum, where Clay’s younger brother died of cholera and his father walked out.