The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

She cleared her throat. “Poker.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Roulette?”

  “Wrong again. Twenty-one has the best odds for winning, at about fifty-fifty. It’s also an easy game to learn.”

  Light moved over his harsh profile, the scars dark slashes in the gaslight. She liked listening to him. Watching him. Soaking in his vast amount of knowledge. Pay attention, Florence. You’re here to learn, not to ogle. “Should I be writing this down?”

  The side of his mouth hitched as he cut her a glance. “Having trouble keeping your attention on the topic at hand? Is that a female problem . . . or am I too distracting for you?”

  “Female problem?” Fury sparked in Florence’s gaze, just as Clay had known it would. He liked seeing her riled up, a cool blond beauty instantly transformed into an avenging angel. Fierce. Ready to eviscerate. A lesser man might even cover his balls at that look.

  Not Clay. He preferred his women with a backbone.

  He paused, muscles locked in disbelief. His women?

  Clayton Madden, gone soft for a fancy uptown debutante.

  He frowned at the reminder of Anna’s words. He was better than this, a man slavering after a woman he’d never have. Yes, he was attracted to her, but any man of a certain age would find himself feeling the same after spending a few moments with Florence. She was magnetic. However, she was also young and from a class that forbade casual liaisons.

  Clay had nothing but casual liaisons.

  Get this over with. Teach her and then send her home. “It was a jest,” he told her. “Do you know how to play?”

  “Of course.” She appeared affronted that he’d even asked.

  He hid a smile as he moved behind the table to stand across from her. He dealt them each two cards, one down and one faceup. “Then let’s play. Those chips are yours.” A wooden box of Bronze House chips had been placed on the table, per his instructions.

  “If I win, will you abandon this idea of ruining my father?”

  Cocky girl. “No, that’s not up for discussion. However, if you do end up besting me, the house, then the money you win is yours.”

  “What if I lose?”

  Thoughts of her naked, spread out on his bed, her golden hair like a halo around her head, flickered in his mind. Holy Christ, he wanted that. His skin heated just imagining it. But he wouldn’t take her quickly. He’d torture her for hours until she begged—

  Jesus, what was he doing? He had to be at least ten years her senior and much too rough for the likes of an uptown heiress. Perhaps he should’ve taken Anna up on her offer last night. That way, he could have fucked off some of this . . . steam and kept his wits about him tonight.

  “No harm if you lose,” he forced out.

  “Even better.” She rubbed her hands together. “Come now, dealer. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  The cards moved quickly. She won the first two hands then lost the next six, down in her stake by twelve dollars. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “If the odds are nearly even, I must be due for a winning hand.” She pushed a twenty-dollar chip into the pot. “There.”

  Biting off a comment, he dealt the cards. Dealer had sixteen. She ended up with twelve. She took two more cards and busted at twenty-two. She drummed her fingers on the table, irritation on her face. “Dash it. I’m normally better than this.”

  He put the deck down. “Your mistake is trying to reason each hand based on the last. Each hand has the same odds, no matter what came before it. You’re never ‘due’ for a win or a loss. Now, how might a player gain an advantage over the house in twenty-one?”

  “Tracking the cards.”

  “Yes, but that takes considerable skill and is rare. How else?”

  “A dealer on the take?”

  “Good, yes. That is why we have several men walking the floor at all times. They watch the games to ensure our dealers and croupiers are on the level and that players are not working in conjunction with another guest. Anything else?”

  She stared at the cards, an adorable crease deepening on her forehead. “I don’t know.”

  He dealt himself two cards, keeping one facedown. “Stand there.” He pointed to the seat farthest to the right. “Watch the bottom card.” When she was in position he lifted the hidden card to check it.

  “I saw it,” she exclaimed. “Six of clubs.”

  “Correct.” He flipped the card over. “Some dealers are sloppy and check their cards before the betting ends. It’s not malicious, just idiotic. Now, let’s move on to the craps table.”

  Over the next two hours, they moved between the other games. She was an adept pupil, asking all the right questions and giving him her full attention. He stopped thinking of her as Duncan Greene’s daughter, a rich Knickerbocker princess, and more like a comrade. A confidante that understood the inner workings of a casino. He hadn’t been this frank with anyone other than Jack in a long time.

  When they finished, he wasn’t quite ready to end their intimate lesson. He propped a hip against the roulette table. “I’m curious. What do you do with your considerable winnings? Buy a new dress or hat or diamond?”

  Delicate fingers curled around the edge of the empty roulette wheel and flicked it. The wheel spun, a mesmerizing blur of red, black and metal. “No, I donated it to a charity that helps families in the tenements.”

  His jaw fell open. A . . . charity? Of course. God knew she didn’t need the money. Her family was obscenely wealthy. No doubt Duncan spoiled his three daughters.

  Only, Florence didn’t seem spoiled. A spoiled girl didn’t go into business for herself—a dangerous business that certainly would cause her ruination. A spoiled girl didn’t donate her casino winnings to charity. And a spoiled girl didn’t hire the king of the city’s gambling trade to corrupt her.

  A rare exception, indeed.

  “Have you always wanted to own a casino?”

  Her question caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected her to return his personal inquiry with one of her own. “No, but I had an aptitude for it. My uncle operated one of the most popular saloons east of the Bowery. When my family moved to Delancey Street, I spent a lot of time in that saloon, learning numbers and doing the books. I started organizing games on the street around thirteen. At sixteen, I expanded to poolrooms and policy shops. By twenty-two, I’d found Jack and the two of us went into business together.”

  “And the rest of your family?”

  Clay paused, unsure how to respond. His mother now lived in Philadelphia, away from the filth and bad memories of Manhattan. His father had walked out when Clay was eleven, after their house had been stolen and destroyed by Duncan Greene. A year later, cholera stole Clay’s brother, Franklin, from them. But he didn’t wish to share that with anyone, especially not Florence Greene. To her, gambling was a lark. Something exciting and forbidden to dabble in.

  For Clay, gambling was everything. His very lifeblood. Hundreds depended on him to keep the games running, the drinks flowing, the cards turning. And he’d done it, happily, for more than a decade to gather wealth and power. Soon he’d have enough of both to ruin Duncan Greene.

  Once he did, he’d be free of his need for revenge. Free to pursue a future just for himself, perhaps one not so dangerous.

  Absolutely free.

  The possibility of it was dizzying.

  “Clay.”

  Clay’s head snapped up to find Jack in the open doorway. “What is it?”

  “Big Bill is here.”

  “Shit.” Why would the assistant superintendent visit tonight? Payouts had been taken care of yesterday, Clay’s network of coppers and politicians well compensated for looking the other way on his empire. This was the very last thing he wanted to deal with now. “Where?”

  “I put him in your office.”

  “Any ideas?”

  He and Jack had been friends for so long they were able to communicate in a few words. Better for Clay, as he’d never been exactly loquacious. Jack shook his head.
“None. No reports of any trouble yesterday.”

  So all the payments had been made, no complaints shared by their couriers. “I’ll come down.”

  “What would you like to do . . . ?” Jack tipped his chin toward Florence.

  Clay clenched and relaxed his hands, thinking. If she was going to open a casino, she’d need to know how to deal with those in power. New York City was a cesspool of corruption and one must wade through the muck to get anywhere here. There was no downside to giving this lesson so early. Hell, it might even scare her off this entire venture.

  “Let’s give her the eyehole.”

  Jack’s gaze widened then he scowled. “Are you certain? That seems like a bad idea.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  Jack cast a pointed look at Florence, then back at Clay, as if to comment on how close the two of them were standing. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Florence asked.

  “Allow me to apologize for Mr. Madden,” Jack said to her. “He sometimes forgets his manners.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’ve heard worse.”

  Jack’s expression held a note of warning as he looked back to Clay. “I’ll return to the floor, if you don’t need me.”

  “No, you’ve done enough.” Clay waited for Jack to leave before glancing at Florence. “Do you still plan to open a casino in the city?”

  “Of course.” Her brows drew together. “I’ll not change my mind.”

  Time would tell on that. “Then you’ll need to learn the most important lesson, one that isn’t taught in any book.”

  “Oh? And what lesson would that be?”

  “How to successfully bribe the police. Come along. You’re about to get a demonstration right now.”

  Chapter Five

  Florence shifted on the uncomfortable stool then looked up in Clay’s general direction. She couldn’t see him, but she knew he was there. She could feel the heat of him, smell the cigar on his clothing. He was large and intimidating, and they were all alone in this tiny dark closet. A shiver went through her.

  But not from fear. Oh, far from it.

  Stop. Lord, her imagination was getting away from her around this man. She needed to focus. Her increasing lust would need to wait until she was back home, undressed and under the covers. Right now she had to learn about the inner workings of a casino.

  Though she definitely looked forward to that under-the-covers time.

  Clearing her throat, she folded her hands in her lap. Look the part. She could do whatever was required, even pose as a respectable uptown lady when necessary.

  Without making a sound, Clay shifted something on the wall and a tiny sliver of light was revealed. The eyehole, he’d called it. She leaned forward and pressed her eye to the opening. Goodness, it was Clay’s office. She could see his desk and the chairs quite plainly. A large man in a brown suit occupied one of the chairs. Bushy red sideburns covered most of his face, a matching mustache drooping over his lip. Big Bill, Jack had said. She tilted her head toward Clay. “But who—”

  A large hand covered her mouth, his skin rough against hers. These were not the hands of an uptown swell used to yachting and horse racing. These were a man’s hands, thick and toughened from hard work. Capable hands. Her heart pounded, and a rush of excitement caused her nipples to stiffen inside her underclothes. As if he sensed her reaction, his fingers tightened on her skin, the tips pressing slightly deeper into her flesh before easing off. A huff of breath gusted over her temple, the sound remotely like frustration. Was he annoyed with her?

  She suddenly longed to see him wild and unbuttoned, his cool demeanor ruffled for once. What did it take to rattle this enigmatic man?

  His lips met the shell of her ear. In the faintest of whispers, he said, “No sound in here. You must remain absolutely still and not speak.” She jerked a nod and he released her. “Good girl.” Then he disappeared into the corridor and Florence sagged, the air leaving her lungs. Sakes alive, he was potent.

  Perhaps knowing he found her attractive made her more comfortable around him. There were no secrets, his motives entirely transparent. He saw her for exactly who she was . . . and hadn’t judged her. When was the last time that had happened, if ever?

  Clay’s office door opened and the man himself walked in. Florence pressed her eye to the hole, not wishing to miss a moment of this interaction.

  “Bill. This is unexpected,” Clay said on his way to his desk.

  “Evening, Madden.” The man rose and she immediately saw why they called him “Big Bill.” He was well over six feet and the buttons of his vest strained around his torso, as if he had gained weight but hadn’t bothered to adjust the size of his clothing.

  They shook hands before Clay settled himself in his desk chair. She could see his face clearly and Bill’s profile. “Was there an issue with yesterday’s payment?”

  “You know the issue. When I agreed to invest in the Bronze House we had an understanding about the profits.”

  “That’s correct. I agreed to revisit your percentage after the first year based on how the casino performed.”

  “And I still haven’t received that revisited percentage. This is the most profitable casino in the city, possibly the state, and you’re holding out on those profits.”

  Clay reached for a humidor on the desk, flipped open the lid and offered Bill a cigar. The other man selected one then Clay took a cigar for himself, and soon they were both exhaling smoke. “Bill, if I had intended to swindle you I would’ve done it already.”

  “Not when you need the city’s police department to look the other way. If it weren’t for me, you’d have been raided and shut down already.”

  “And if it weren’t for me your wife would not have that new vacation house in the Poconos.”

  “How did you . . . ?”

  “I know everything about you.” Clay pointed at Bill with his cigar. “You bought her the house in the Poconos and renovated your old brownstone in Brooklyn off our money. The problem is that she’s now clamoring for another vacation house, this time down in Virginia, which you don’t quite have the sawbucks for, do you?”

  “Jesus. Do you have a spy in my house?”

  Clay’s lips twisted in what Florence suspected was satisfaction. “Bill, you don’t seem to understand how this works,” he said. “You were brought on as an investor to protect my casino from the police and political meddling. Which makes you my investment, one that I watch over very carefully. Because the second you are no longer useful to me, or you work against my interests, I will replace you with someone else.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” the other man shot back. “There’s only one man higher at the entire department and he’d never sell himself out to the likes of you.”

  Clay shook his head, as if Bill wasn’t understanding. “There’s also the commissioners. Do you honestly believe I don’t already have influence there, as well?”

  Clay had bribed one of the police commissioners?

  “And that’s not even touching City Hall and the judges. I need you, Bill, but you are not irreplaceable to me. No one is.”

  Gooseflesh broke out on Florence’s skin. He was so cool. Calm. Threats rolled off his tongue the way society men doled out compliments. And why do I find that so appealing? She was riveted, more excited than she’d been in eons. What was wrong with her?

  “I don’t believe you. Without me, you’d be out of business within a week.”

  Clay smiled coldly at that, the look so full of dark menace that Florence couldn’t understand how Bill wasn’t cowering in a corner. “That sounds like a threat. Are you threatening me?” He sounded positively gleeful at the prospect, as if he hoped the answer was yes.

  She licked her lips. The air was stifling in the tiny closet, and a trickle of sweat rolled down her chest and between her breasts. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off Clay. He was utterly fascinating.
/>   “You don’t want to make an enemy of me, Madden.”

  “Or . . . ?”

  “Or you can kiss this casino goodbye. You’ll find yourself sitting in a nice cell in the Tombs instead.”

  Prison? Goodness, the idea of Clay behind bars felt wrong, like those wild bears chained up at circuses.

  Clay reached inside a drawer, flipped through some papers, then tossed a packet onto the desk. “And what do you think will happen to that nice renovated brownstone if the Bronze House folds?”

  Bill leaned in but she couldn’t see his reaction to whatever was on the papers. “You . . . You hold the banknote on my house?”

  A sound of surprise erupted from her throat, so Florence covered her mouth with her hand. Checkmate.

  “I consider it an investment in my investment.” Clay took a drag on his cigar and blew out a long stream of gray smoke. “Now, you’re going to stand up, walk out of here and we’re both going to forget this conversation ever took place.”

  “I want a higher percentage, Madden. I deserve it.” Bill pounded a fist on the armrest. He wasn’t backing down, apparently. The fool.

  Clay rose, the cigar clamped between his teeth. “You won’t get it.”

  The policeman hefted himself out of the chair. “We shall see about that, won’t we?”

  Clay said nothing, his expression stoic as Bill stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him. Quiet descended, yet Florence couldn’t move, her breath coming short and fast, her skin feverish. That had been . . . astounding. Like listening to Mozart compose a symphony. Or watching Michelangelo sketch. She wasn’t familiar with any other casino owners but Clay was clearly a master, a brilliant manipulator focused on getting what he wanted and protecting what he had. Rumor held him to be the best and she’d now witnessed it firsthand.

  A hum coursed through her veins, a very inappropriate tingle between her thighs—all symptoms she recognized. Viewing this encounter had affected her, left her shaken and, God help her, aroused. For Clay. A man who intended to ruin her father.

  Attraction had no part in this—it couldn’t—at least not on her side.