“I don’t have time for a drink,” he told Mulligan’s back.
“You do, actually.”
What did that mean? Before he could ask, Mulligan threw open a door and they ended up inside the saloon. Round wooden tables dotted the floor, men clustered around each one. A stage took up the far end of the room.
“Beer?” Mulligan asked over the noise.
“It seems I have no choice.”
Mulligan lifted his hand and signaled to the man behind the bar. Within seconds two glasses of beer arrived, the well-endowed server peering at Mulligan hungrily, as if he were a lobster tail slathered in butter. He didn’t return her interest, merely thanked her and turned his attention to Clay. “Next show’s about to start. We’ll watch while you wait.”
“Mulligan,” Clay growled. “I want to see Florence. Now.”
“Patience, Clay.” He propped a shoulder against the wall. “It wouldn’t hurt you to relax.”
Clay couldn’t relax, not while Florence Greene was somewhere on the premises. Had she any idea of the hazards inside this club? Mulligan hadn’t risen atop a criminal empire by twiddling his thumbs. He had fingers in all sorts of illegal activity, all of it dangerous and organized under this roof.
Clay studied the men in the audience, the thieves and cutthroats, dockworkers and laborers that made up Mulligan’s crew. Had Clay not hustled and schemed to get out of this neighborhood, he might have been one of these men, desperate for a respite from the drudgery of his life. Desperate to see beautiful women reveal their drawers on stage.
Notes from a piano started from somewhere off stage and the crowd cheered. Every eye swiveled to the front, except for Clay. He stared at the beer in his glass and debated how to apologize. She wouldn’t be anxious to forgive him, no matter what he told her.
But he’d faced long odds before. He would persevere—
“You might want to look up,” Mulligan muttered. “You won’t want to miss this.”
The girls were coming out on stage. They wore colored skirts that matched their wigs, their lips painted a bright red. Each wore a low-cut bodice with ruffles. He struggled not to sigh with impatience. This was a waste of his—
He froze. One dancer, a girl in a bright orange wig, caught his eye. The curve of her mouth, the sparkle in her eye . . . Fucking hell. He knew that curve and that sparkle. It couldn’t be her, though. The uptown princess, dancing on stage? She wouldn’t dare.
Would she?
Then he remembered this was Florence. Of course she would.
Each dancer thrust a hip out and lifted her skirts to reveal a shapely calf. The men went wild, shouting and pounding their glasses on the tables. He kept his gaze on the woman in orange, captivated by her movements. Every kick and turn, laugh and smile, heated his blood. There was no doubt she was Florence. He had studied her so long and so often, she could wear a disguise in a dark room and he would still recognize her.
Seeing her so happy and vivacious, when he missed her with a debilitating ache, wrecked him. His stomach twisted. How had he ever thought he could let her go?
The truth was he couldn’t. This wasn’t about rescuing her from Mulligan’s clutches. This was about the two of them. He no longer cared about their differing backgrounds. Or about her father. He wanted this remarkable woman for as long as she’d have him. One day, one year . . . It didn’t matter.
He wouldn’t push her away again. If she forgave him, he’d enjoy whatever time they had together.
The pace picked up and the dancers began kicking in unison, skirts swinging. Florence’s eyes met his and he saw the defiance there, the way she dared him to stop her. Yet, he wouldn’t dream of it. Trying to control Florence Greene was like holding the wind in your hands. He’d much rather support her than smother her.
And watching her dance, her teasing and flirting, had blood pulsing in his groin, his cock growing thick. She was a surprise at every turn.
“You aren’t angry?” Mulligan jerked his chin toward the stage. “I thought you’d run up there and cause a scene. Try to drag her off stage.”
He imagined her reaction if he even attempted such a thing. “If you think I could then you don’t know her.”
“I was right. Knickers in a bunch,” Mulligan muttered.
The dance ended and the girls gave the crowd their backs. After a quick flick of their skirts—showing a peek of drawers to the audience—they dashed off the stage. The men clapped wildly, and Clay whistled loudly. “I want to see her. Now.”
“I assumed as much. I’ll bring her up to my office.”
The dancers were crammed in the dressing space, trying to catch their breath after the performance, when someone arrived at the door.
This time Florence had expected the knock. Everyone looked at her and she nodded. The sooner she saw Clay the sooner he would leave.
“Yes?” Maeve called.
“I need Florence.” It was Mulligan’s voice.
“Coming.” Taking a handkerchief, Florence blotted beads of sweat off her forehead. She’d never had so much fun in her life. Dancing on the stage was glorious.
And every kick, twirl and twist had been aimed at Clay’s cold and bitter heart.
“Are you going to change first?” Katie asked when Florence started for the door.
Florence glanced down at herself. She liked this outfit. Furthermore, she suspected Clay would hate it. “No, I’m going just like this. If he doesn’t like the way I’m dressed, then he may kiss my arse.” The room broke out in laughter.
“Oh, he’ll like it,” Katie said.
“Did you see his face when he realized it was Florence?” one of the girls asked. “Like he’d been struck by lightning.”
“I thought it was sweet. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.” Maeve came over and handed Florence her original gown. “Clayton Madden. I can hardly believe it. But don’t take him back if he won’t treat you right.”
Florence smiled and placed her gown on a chair. “No need for concern. I’m not taking him back. I’ll return in a moment to change.”
She opened the door and found Mulligan there, his shoulder propped against the wall, a glass of beer in his hand. He took in her attire and grinned. “If he screws this up, I feel it necessary to say you are always welcome here, cara mia.”
Who would have believed this gangster spoke four languages and was so well-read? Mulligan was a contradiction. Furthermore, he’d been kind to her. “Thank you. I don’t intend on leaving, however.”
“We’ll see. Follow me.”
He turned and led her to the back stairs. As they moved through the club, she concentrated on her anger, nursed the hurt, instead of entertaining any nerves over Clay’s arrival. Undoubtedly, he planned to lecture her about the danger and impropriety of her presence here, a lecture she had no intention of sitting through. She did not answer to Clayton Madden.
One mistaken evening together didn’t give him the right to tell her what to do. Tonight’s dance should have proven that. She’d half expected him to jump up on the stage and carry her off. Surprisingly, he hadn’t. Instead, his dark eyes had followed her every movement, his expression so intense that shivers had run down her spine.