And fifteen minutes later, the bedroom was empty.
Clay slapped the stack of papers in his palm and narrowed his eyes on the deliveryman. “You shorted me fifteen bottles this week.”
The young man, probably not older than twenty or twenty-one, started visibly shaking. “No, Mr. Madden. That can’t be right. I double-checked the order myself. Everything was accounted for.”
“And yet,” Clay said with icy detachment, “we are missing five bottles of rye, four bottles of whiskey, three bottles of burgundy and three bottles of brandy.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.” The young man began backing up toward the door they used as a loading dock. “Bald Jack himself counted it when it came off the truck.”
“Is that so? You watched him count every bottle?”
The man’s throat worked as he swallowed, his skin gone pale. “No, I didn’t but I’d never try to cheat you. Neither would my employer.”
“Someone cheated me—and I hate cheaters.”
“Whoa, what’s going on here?” Jack was now at Clay’s side. He reached over and began dragging Clay away from the delivery boy. “No one cheated anyone. There’s no reason to get upset.”
Clay gritted his teeth. “We are fifteen bottles short.”
Jack tossed an envelope of cash to the delivery boy. “We’re fine. Thank you for your hard work. We’ll see you next week.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jack.” The young man scurried for his cart, not sparing Clay another look.
“What the hell?” Clay asked.
Jack retreated a few steps and frowned. “Anna needed more booze this week. I gave her the bottles and forgot to mark it down. And I should be asking you what the hell. You just caused that boy to piss his pants in fear.”
Frustration and remorse throbbed in his temples. Damn this eternal headache. “Send him an extra fifty with my apologies. I didn’t know about Anna.”
“That’s the last time I let you handle deliveries, at least until Florence Greene returns.”
Clay didn’t comment, merely turned on his heel and started for the stairs. Heavy footsteps behind him signaled he wasn’t alone. Jesus. He hurried in the hopes Jack would give up.
“She is going to return, isn’t she?” Jack asked. “It’s only been three nights but your mood is worse than a wounded bear’s. Not sure how much more we can take around here.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” At the landing, he headed for his office. His empty office, without delivery boys and nosy partners.
“Too fucking bad. The deliveryman was the last straw. Tell me what’s going on with you.”
Clay tried to shut the door on Jack, but his friend was quick for a man over two hundred pounds. “Don’t bother trying to outrun me,” Jack said as he pushed right through. “You should know better by now.”
“I have a headache. Can’t I drink alone?”
“No.” Jack grabbed a bottle from the sideboard along with two glasses. He slapped everything on Clay’s desk right before dropping into a chair. “Talk.”
Clay sighed and sat down. He hadn’t slept since that night with Florence and exhaustion weighed heavily in each part of his body. You were a prick to her. You hurt her, you goddamn coward.
Yes, a coward.
Because fucking Florence Greene hadn’t been anything like he’d expected. His usual encounters were fun, mutually satisfying. A release and nothing more. But with Florence, he’d actually felt something for her. Something deeper, meaningful. A connection no other woman had ever triggered inside him.
And it had scared the ever-loving shit out of him.
He reached for the bourbon. It was his favorite, from a tiny distillery in the mountains of Kentucky. He normally savored it, but not tonight. By the time he was done pouring, the glass was nearly full.
“Why bother with a glass?” Jack muttered.
Clay ignored him and took a long swallow. Perhaps if he drank himself into a stupor, he’d get some rest. Too bad he hated the loss of control that came with being drunk. Plus, overimbibing never solved anything.
Might as well spill the news. “She isn’t coming back.”
Jack’s dark brows rose and he studied Clay’s face. “Did something happen?”
Clay tapped his foot on the floor, unable to stay still. With his notoriously soft heart, Jack would be furious over how Clay had treated Florence, even if there was a very good reason for Clay’s actions. He’d dodged Jack for two full days to avoid this very conversation.
It hadn’t done any good. Clay was on the edge of losing his mind. Perhaps admitting the truth might ease the boulder of guilt lodged between his shoulder blades and allow him to get some sleep.
Trust you? Indeed, I’d rather not. I tried it once and didn’t care for the results.
He downed more bourbon. “She snuck into my apartments the other night.”
“Yes, I am aware. I’m the one who told Red to open the door for her.”
Ah, that explained how she’d gained access to his private quarters. Red was Jack’s favorite errand boy at the casino. “Why in the hell did you do that?”
“Because she asked me.”
“You know I don’t want anyone in there. Ever.”
“Did you kick her out?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“Obviously you don’t. I slept with her.”
Jack’s brows knitted, as if he couldn’t understand why Clay was being obtuse. “Yes, that’s what I assumed. Though I had thought it would improve your mood.”
“Does it seem like it’s improved my mood?”
“No. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Three nights . . . but who was counting? “I told her not to come back.”
“Why? I know you hold affection for her. It’s obvious whenever she’s around.”
Clay clenched his jaw. Affection. That was a tame word for what he felt for Florence. More like crippling need. Or obsession. Absolutely gobsmacked. He’d stared into her greenish-brown eyes as he slid inside her and something had unlocked in his chest. Emotions he’d thought long burned and buried had come rushing forth, and all he’d been able to think was, Mine.
He had to have her again. And again.
He’d never get enough of her.
There was just one problem. She was not the woman for a man like him. Criminals, even wildly successful ones, did not end up with high-society ladies. Though she was rebellious at heart, Florence couldn’t change the circumstances of her birth, no more than Clay could change his own. Duncan Greene would slice Clay’s throat with a dull, rusty blade before allowing Clay to have Florence.
Years ago, Clay swore never to allow anyone to take his choices away from him. He would remain in control, no one else.
When his family’s house was bought out from under them? When they were forced to move into a tenement, thanks to Duncan Greene? Those things had been out of Clay’s control. As had been his brother’s death, as well as his father’s up and leaving one day. Clay would never allow himself to be powerless again.
So, yes. Florence had to stay away. As much as he longed to see her smile, to hear her laugh or to kiss her mouth once more . . . he couldn’t. He refused to want something he could never have. It was an exercise in madness.