Florence tried not to feel disappointed as cool air rushed over her naked skin. The erotic novels she read talked about cuddling after the act. Snuggles and soft kisses in the warm afterglow. To date, however, such tenderness hadn’t been her experience at all. Chester had barely bothered to remove his shoes during their encounters—and Clay had just rushed out as if the room were on fire.
Perhaps she was overromanticizing these interludes. Men supposedly viewed sex as strictly for physical pleasure, not for any emotional connection with a partner. Somehow, she’d scared both her lovers into hurrying through the rendezvous.
You’re not happy unless you’re causing a stir or the center of everyone’s attention.
A lump formed in her throat at the memory of her father’s words. Was that how everyone saw her, desperate for affection? Craving the limelight like some stage actress feeding her vanity?
She stared at the closed washroom door and swallowed all these ridiculous feelings and doubts bubbling up inside her. There was no reason to believe any of this was her fault. She’d done nothing wrong. In fact, he was the one who’d left her here, naked and vulnerable, in his bed.
So what was she waiting for, a man to come and save her?
Grabbing the bedclothes, she wiped her skin clean. This was why she must become independent. Relying on others was a foolhardy mistake and guaranteed to fail. Lord knew how long he would leave her here before he returned.
Rising off the bed, she gathered her things and began dressing. She would find a way to put this right. They would return to their business arrangement, and she would prove this changed nothing between them. She could act just as a man would in this situation.
The washroom door finally opened. Now wearing trousers, Clay emerged with a wet cloth in his hand. He frowned at the sight of her and apprehension slithered across her cold skin.
He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “Should I help you dress, or . . . ?”
She pulled her shift over her head. “I am able to manage.”
While she struggled with her corset, he stood frozen, staring off at nothing. His jaw was hard, his eyes vacant. She had no idea of what he was thinking, but she had to get him back on level footing. “Shall we spend an hour on your accounting practices? I have questions about—”
“No.”
The word was sharp, final. She blinked at him, her grip on the corset strings tightening. “If you’re too busy tonight I could return tomorrow.”
“No, not tomorrow. Not next week. You cannot come back.”
Cannot come back? Surely he didn’t mean it. Her mouth dried out and her tongue grew thick. Still, she forced out, “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t give you any more lessons. This”—he motioned toward the bed—“was a mistake.”
“Is this about trust again? Because I thought I explained myself.”
“This isn’t about trust. It’s about you. And me. What happened tonight was a mistake.”
She fought the embarrassment currently gathering like a storm in her chest. “You keep saying tonight was a mistake. But you aren’t saying why.”
He dragged a hand down his face, the muscles in his chest and arms bunching. Clay normally appeared so cool and controlled. This was the most rattled she’d ever seen him. “I don’t need to provide reasons, Florence. We screwed. It was good. Really good. Now it’s over and we shouldn’t repeat it.”
She sucked in a breath, the pain lancing her insides. Anger was there, too, and she grabbed on to the emotion with both hands, unwilling to let him see the hurt. “Is this how you act with all of your conquests? Treat them like dirt afterward and kick them out?”
He winced. “I don’t mean to be cruel. I am trying to explain this to the best of my ability.”
“Well, you are doing a terrible job at it.”
“I . . .” He blew out a long breath and finally met her eyes. What she saw there surprised her. Panic. Clay was . . . scared. Of what? She was about to ask when he said, “When I first agreed to give you lessons, I thought it would be amusing to help Duncan Greene’s daughter descend into the darkness of New York’s underbelly. I was attracted to you but never thought anything would come of it. Women like you, those of your station, aren’t raised for casual liaisons. And I am interested exclusively in casual.”
Had she given Clay the impression she wanted a lifelong commitment? Was that why he’d left her in bed? “I am not asking for marriage, Clay.”
“I realize that. Even if you were, we both know it’s impossible. You’re not made for men like me.”
Why must you be different? Why can’t you fit in?
The familiar questions resurfaced at Clay’s rejection. How many times had her mother and father asked her this over the years?
She pushed her disappointment aside for a moment to focus on the future. “What does this have to do with teaching me how to operate a casino? Can’t the lessons continue even if our personal relationship does not?”
“No, they can’t. You are a distraction I don’t need.”
A distraction. He saw her as a distraction. Not a partner or a colleague. Not a mentee. Not a lover or even a friend. She was a nuisance, a bother.
God, why did that hurt so badly? Her lungs burned with unshed tears, the lump in her throat so large it was hard to breathe. She had always been the outcast, never quite fitting in with her family, but she thought she’d finally found someone who understood her. A place where she’d gained acceptance.
She’d been wrong, apparently. She didn’t fit in here, either.
Bending over, she collected more of her clothing off the floor and struggled not to cry.
Poor little society princess.
It was what Justine, her younger sister, said every time Florence complained about feeling like an outsider. There are people in this city with real problems, life-and-death struggles, Justine liked to say, not just hurt feelings. In other words, keep perspective on what really mattered and do something about whatever is bothering you.
Fine. If Clay didn’t want her then she wouldn’t chase him. She had her pride. Never mind what had occurred in his apartments tonight. She would forget about it—and about him, in time. There were other casinos in the city, other men who were experts on how to operate outside the law. She’d find one and continue on with her plans.
Because she was in charge of her own future. No one else.
She drew on that strength, nurtured it, until her armor was back in place. Straightening, she faced him. “Don’t let me keep you. I am able to find my way out.”
“No, I should . . .” He looked around as if just realizing where they were. “Help you into a hansom.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. One of the guards at the door will see me off. I don’t need your help any longer.”
He bent to snatch his shirt off the floor and threw it over his head. “I know you’re angry and I’m sorry. Trust me, you’ll thank me later on.”
“Trust you?” She gave a bitter laugh as she crossed to the washroom. “Indeed, I’d rather not. I tried it once and didn’t care for the results.” When she reached the washroom door, she paused. “Please be gone when I come out of here.”