by Joanna Shupe
“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.
He looked at Jack, who was watching Clay’s internal debate with great interest. “Whatever I feel for her is not the issue. She doesn’t belong here.”
“Seemed to me like she fit in just fine. And you aren’t worried about her reputation. You’ve never cared for that nonsense. So what really happened?”
“I just told you. I slept with her then ordered her not to come back.”
Jack’s jaw dropped open, astonishment and disappointment washing over his features. “In that order? Jesus, Clay. Not one for tenderness after the fact, are you?”
Clay poured himself another glass of bourbon, just as tall as the first. “No, I’m not, which is what I’m trying to explain. Women like her, they want promises and jewelry. Rides in the park. Can you actually picture me in a carriage during the fashionable hour?” He snorted.
“Yes, I could see that. You’re more comfortable here in the club, that’s obvious to anyone, but you won’t catch fire in the daylight. And what makes you so certain she wants promises and jewelry? Did you ask her?”
“I don’t have to. You know her father, her family’s privilege and wealth. We could not be more ill-suited, even for a short-term affair. I’m one slim step ahead of the police, and only because I pay them so well.”
Jack scratched his jaw while he appeared to consider his answer. Clay suspected he wouldn’t like it, but he valued Jack’s counsel. Always had. Jack’s life hadn’t been an easy one, but he was intelligent and levelheaded. He wasn’t good with numbers, but he was excellent at reading people and knowing how to look at a problem from all sides. It was what made them successful partners.
“You think you aren’t good enough for her.”
“That’s absurd,” Clay said weakly. He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t even compose a proper argument, he was so dashed tired.
“No, that’s it. You believe you’re a black-hearted criminal and she’s an uptown angel. You’ve placed the two of you in those ledger columns of yours and come to the conclusion they don’t add up.”
“Are you saying we do? The idea is ridiculous.”
“I’m saying you’re underestimating her. She’s trying to open a casino, Clay. She’s more criminal than society princess. And you have your ambitions beyond the Bronze House and our enterprise. People are not one thing or another. People are layered. They also change, adapt. Not to mention, you’ve made a lot of assumptions about her. Something tells me Florence wouldn’t care for your conclusions.”
No, Jack was wrong. Fundamentally, people remained the same. Though Florence wished to open a casino, she was a lady underneath the rebellion, along with the trappings that went with her status. Clay wasn’t a gentleman, hadn’t the first clue on what that entailed. He lived in a world of intimidation and revenge, pain and bribery.
“Furthermore,” Jack said, “you’re acting as if she wanted to marry you. Did she say something
to imply it was more than the one night?”
Clay shook his head. “But you know how women like her think—”
“I’m hearing you say what she thinks, but that’s guesswork on our parts. I’d rather hear why you needed to push her away.”
“I just explained why. Were you not listening?”
“Oh, indeed. I was listening. What I heard was a handful of excuses, not the truth.” Jack leaned over and poured bourbon into his glass. Picking up the crystal, he rose and stared down at Clay. “Which leads me to conclude that Miss Greene has gotten under your skin, so far under your skin it scared you. Am I right?”
Yes. “Do not try to romanticize this.”
Jack lifted his glass in a toast. “Why would I bother, when you’re doing such a damn fine job of it yourself?” With that, Jack started out of the room, whistling the whole way.
Chapter Thirteen
Florence handed a stack of coins to the driver, who took the money and glanced around, his eyes darting nervously. She understood. Her nerves were dancing, as well. There was a chance this would be the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
But she had no choice.
You are a distraction I don’t need.
She swallowed the lump threatening to choke her. Clay didn’t want her around and she had to move on, find someone else to help her. She wasn’t giving up on her dreams merely because a surly casino owner no longer wished to help her.
Another man in New York City could teach her. One who ran as many, if not more, casinos, poolrooms and policy shops than Clayton Madden. Granted, most were on the rough side, places where violence occurred nightly. But this man ran gaming establishments and could answer all her questions. If she could convince him to see her, of course.
“Miss, I don’t feel right leaving you in this neighborhood at this hour,” the driver said. “Maybe you should let me take you back uptown.”
“I appreciate the concern, sir,” she said. “But I’ll be fine. I am not going far, just down that street.” She pointed.
“But, miss,” the driver whispered. “That’s where—”
“I know all about it. I swear, I’ll be careful. Thank you for the concern.” She slipped him an extra coin. “Good night.”
Lifting her skirts, she stepped around the horse and off the curb. A dead animal lay in the middle of the street, rolled over by some cart or carriage, and she gave it a wide berth. Night had long fallen in the city, the revelry downtown in full swing. Taverns and saloons were crammed with sailors and dockworkers, tradesmen and students. They would drink all night, fights and liaisons spilling into the streets in the wee hours.
Florence wasn’t headed to a tavern or a saloon, however. Her destination was the New Belfast Athletic Club, Mr. Mulligan’s headquarters.
Mulligan owned Donnelly’s saloon and gaming operation, the place that had accused Florence of cheating. He’s likely the only person in the city who knows as much about gaming as I do. High praise coming from Clay, who wasn’t one to pay false compliments. No, he was more likely to bed you then send you packing.
She shoved all those memories aside, far down into the dark pit with all her other unpleasant thoughts. There were more important things right now. Like convincing Mulligan to help her.
Two guards flanked the door to the club, their expressions grim in the yellow gaslight. They eyed her warily as she approached, her head covered by a thick cloak. She hadn’t worn expensive fabrics tonight, but her outfit wasn’t shabby, either. No doubt she stood out as a curiosity in the gloom.
“Good evening.” She came to a stop in front of the doors. “I wish to see Mr. Mulligan.”
One guard snorted and returned his gaze to the street. The other guard frowned heavily at her. “He’s got no need of servicing tonight. Move along, dove.”
Servicing? They thought she was . . . ? Oh. “No, you misunderstand. I wish to hire him.”
Both men snickered. “I bet you do. He don’t do it for money, either. Now, get out of here or—”
“This is not related to sexual favors,” she snapped, and both young men straightened, their brows shooting high. Unclear whether the words or her tone surprised them, but at least she had their attention now. “Tell him I’m the one Donnelly accused of cheating the other night. He’ll know who I am.” She prayed that was true. After all, Bald Jack had sent Clay’s regards on to Mulligan. Surely the message had been passed along, right?
The guards exchanged looks. Probably deciding if she was telling the truth or not. One finally nodded and crossed his arms. The other guard slid between the doors and disappeared inside the club.
Florence checked over her shoulders. She hadn’t expected to be left standing on the stoop, exposed, while awaiting an audience with the kingpin. Thank goodness she kept a pistol in her tiny handbag for sojourns downtown. To date, she’d never had to use it, but carrying the weapon gave her a small bit of reassurance.
Sooner than expected the other guard returned. He held open the door. “Come along, miss.”
Ignoring the fluttering in her belly, she climbed up the small steps and entered the club. The inside was huge, much larger than it appeared from the outside. Noise assaulted her, from the jeers and calls of the men watching a boxing match, to the music and laughter coming from the rear of the building. Was there a dance hall back there?
The guard veered away from that noise and led her to a staircase off to the side. They climbed two sets of ornate stairs, the walls decorated with green-and-white-striped paper. Eastern carpets lined the floors, cushioning her footfalls. Brass sconces on the walls and a fancy gasolier overhead lit the way. Quite a contrast to the Bronze House’s sparse inner sanctum.
The young man arrived at an oak door. He knocked twice.
“Enter!” a deep voice called from within.
The guard flung open the door, then stood aside to let her pass. Gripping her hands tightly, she entered the room, unsure of what she might find. What did a criminal kingpin look like? Did he have a desk resting on illegal stacks of money? Or was it worn and practical, like Clay’s?
Stop thinking about Clay.
A man rose from behind a huge ornate desk littered with papers. Not overly tall, he was sharply dressed, with a bespoke navy suit and green silk vest that had to cost a fortune. Gold watch fob and polished shoes. Goodness, he was handsome, with wavy dark hair and blue eyes. And young. Was he even over thirty?
She hadn’t expected any of this. By reputation, Mulligan was a hardened criminal who ate enemies for breakfast. The man in front of her could pay afternoon calls on Fifth Avenue.
She lowered the hood of her cloak. The young guard sucked in a breath and Mulligan seemed to freeze in his tracks. She patted her cheeks and smoothed her hair. Was there something wrong with her appearance?
Mulligan quickly recovered and approached. “I understand you are the woman caught counting cards inside Donnelly’s saloon the other night.”
“I was not counting cards.”
Mulligan jerked his chin to the guard, who tipped his derby and disappeared. The door clicked shut. Florence focused on her breathing, trying not to show her trepidation.
Show no fear until you feel no fear.
He bowed at the waist. “Enchanté, Miss Greene.”
Her jaw dropped. “You know who I am.” And he spoke French?
“I make it a habit to know things. May I?” He held out his hand, ready to escort her, as his other hand gestured toward the chair.
She placed her hand in his and he assisted her to the empty seat. When she was settled, he walked around his desk and dropped into the wide leather chair.
Who was this criminal with the manners of a courtier and the looks of an Adonis?
Shaking off her thoughts, she said, “But I never told them my name.”
“Do you honestly believe I wouldn’t try to learn the name of the uptown beauty being tutored by Clayton Madden? That is like dangling a red cape in front of a bull, Miss Greene.”
“Then you might as well call me Florence.”
The edge of his mouth hitched, softening his features, and she knew that smile must drive the ladies out of their minds. “Florence it is. Most people just call me Mulligan.” He folded his hands. “Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thank you.” She had no idea where to start. He reclined in his chair and waited patiently, seeming as if he had all the time in the world. She cleared her throat. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
“Curiosity is one of my weaknesses. I can’t imagine why a woman such as yourself would come down to my club in the middle of the night, especially seeing as how you usually spend your time at the Bronze House.”
She took a deep breath for courage. “I wish to hire you.”
“Yes, the boys mentioned as much. May I ask for what?”
Did anything rattle this man? He reminded her of Clay, both calm and methodical men. Stop thinking of Clay. “I wish to open a casino. For ladies. And I need someone to help me learn the business side of things.”
Mulligan’s eyes sparkled as if he was amused. “Hence why Clayton Madden was tutoring you. May I ask what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“With Clay. I realize he’s a prickly bastard, generally hates people and likes to be alone. But I cannot imagine he hated you.”
Wrong. He hadn’t wanted her around. However, she couldn’t tell Mulligan that. “It seemed he was too busy and couldn’t spare the time.”
Mulligan’s brows knitted as he studied her. “Are you pulling my leg? He couldn’t spare the time for you?”
“So it seems. Now, I’d be willing to pay you for your time—”
Mulligan sat forward and waved his hand. “I have more money than I’ll ever spend. Clayton said what, exactly?”
“That I was a distraction he didn’t need.” Why was Mulligan hammering the point home? She felt terrible enough after Clay’s dismissal. “It’s understandable. I learned quite a lot from him, but it was time for the arrangement to end.” Because he’d acted like a prickly bastard, as Mulligan had described.