by Joanna Shupe
Clay pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. Agreeing to this meant he was giving Mulligan a foothold uptown. Mulligan would use it to try to take over, expand his empire north of Forty-Second Street. Run Clay out of business.
The possibility sat between his shoulder blades like a boulder, pressing down on his spine. Goddamn this city. It was crawling with grifters and thieves, a cesspool of filth and crime from which there was no escape.
Was Clay really expected to go into business with Mulligan and risk his enterprise in return?
He knew the answer. For Florence, yes. He would sell his soul to the devil to get her free of Mulligan. He didn’t like it, but what choice did he have?
He shoved aside his frustration and hopelessness. “Fine. It’s still a few years off, however.”
“I can wait.” Mulligan folded his hands behind his head and rocked back in his chair. “You’ve really got a thing for this girl, haven’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want her hurt. It’s dangerous for her down here and the last thing any of us needs is Duncan Greene whipping up the police against us as retribution for his daughter.”
“Hmm.” Mulligan sounded like he didn’t believe that, but didn’t argue. He stood and came around the desk. Putting his hands in his pockets, he faced Clay. “Seems to me, the last time that woman was hurt was when she was with you. I’ll let you speak to her, but the ultimate decision will be hers. If she doesn’t wish to go with you, then you’ll respect her wishes.”
“Fair enough.” Clay could convince her. Florence was reckless and pushy, but not unreasonable. “Send a note the next time she returns and I’ll come down.”
“No need. Give me a few minutes and I’ll send her in.”
“Wait, she’s here?” Dark had just fallen. Florence normally hadn’t visited the Bronze House until the middle of the night. What was she doing in the Bowery at suppertime?
“She seems to like the place, Clay. Especially the girls in the saloon.”
“You let her . . .” He forced out a deep breath. Of course Mulligan let her. He’d given Florence free rein of the place and she’d taken full advantage, her safety be damned. “Tell me where she is.”
Mulligan checked his pocket watch. “I don’t think so. You stay here. I’ll find her and send her up.”
Florence sat in the tiny dressing room used by the dancing girls to get ready for the stage. The space was a treasure trove of jewels and feathers, cosmetics and silk stockings. She liked to sit and chat as the girls dressed, then go into the saloon to watch the performance. The dancers were clever and funny, four beautiful and bold young women who loved the stage. There was no shame in their risqué routines or the bawdy jokes. They were well paid and protected by Mulligan’s men.
All in all, it didn’t seem a bad way to make a living as far as Florence could tell.
Here, no one made the girls feel as if they didn’t fit in. There was no one judging them. No one saying they were an unwanted distraction.
Just women, dancing on a stage. Making people happy. There was a certain freedom in that, a necessary joy.
She tried to let some of that joy sink inside and cheer her. But it was hard when she was still angry and hurt.
It’s been a week already. You have to stop moping. Get over him.
A silk scarf suddenly landed on her head. “And what are you frowning about, Miss Florence?”
Smiling, she removed the fabric and handed it back to Maeve. “Nothing important.”
“Hmm. That means a man.” Maeve sat down next to Florence. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
Katie leaned toward the mirror to touch up her lip paint. “I bet he’s one of those fancy uptown swells, the kind that ride their big horses in the park.”
“And stare down their noses at everyone,” another girl said as she rolled on her stockings.
“I never cared for fancy uptown swells,” Florence said. “They’re . . . boring. And vain.”
“Well, you could do a lot worse than Mulligan, if that’s who you have your eye on,” Katie said. “He’s as close to a gentleman as we’ve got in these parts.”
“And an absolute beast in the bedroom from what I hear,” another girl said, fanning herself.
“True,” Katie said. “I wish he didn’t have a rule against screwing the dancers. I’d love to ride him hard.”
“My friend Amanda screwed him,” Maeve put in. “Said he tongued her for so long that she had to ice her bits afterward. Sore for days.”
The girls collectively groaned and sighed, a sound of both horror and longing.
“I don’t have my eye on Mr. Mulligan,” Florence said, stroking an ostrich feather headpiece. “He’s just tutoring me.”
“Yeah, I wish he’d tutor me,” Katie said, drily. “At least three or four times a night.”
Everyone laughed, including Florence. “I’m serious,” she said. “Our arrangement is strictly business.”
“Because your heart is already spoken for.” Maeve searched Florence’s expression. “I’ve seen that lost look in your eyes over the past few nights. Who was it?”
“Someone I cared for quite a lot, actually. But he told me I was a distraction he didn’t need.”
“What a rotten bastard,” Katie said as she slipped on a wig of red hair. “You’re better off. Men are more trouble than they’re worth.”
“He told me this right after we were, you know, together.”
The room erupted in outrage, feminine sputters and shouts filling the air. Something about the reaction soothed Florence. These were women who understood her, women who didn’t expect her to mind her manners or watch her words. It was refreshing.
Florence loved her sisters, but they had been brought up with the same Greene legacy hanging over their heads. Mamie was the heir, the one to carry on the family name. Justine was the baby, the do-gooder who was kind and sweet. That left Florence as the irresponsible, shocking one. The sister who disappointed everyone.
“Sweetheart, count your stars you escaped a man like that,” Maeve said. “Bed’s not even cold and he’s treating you that way? Only gets worse from there. Take it from me.”
One of the girls shook her head. “I had a man once ask me to get up and make him a sandwich. Sweat hadn’t even dried on my skin.”
Katie caught Florence’s eye in the mirror. “Did you at least get an orgasm or two out of him?”
“Yes, I did.” Florence’s skin heated at the memory. Clay had been . . . inventive. Dirty. Fun.
“That’s the best you can hope for nowadays,” Maeve said. “We don’t need men half as much as they think we do.”
Florence wondered about Maeve’s background. She sensed heartache behind the dancer’s words and advice. Something they had in common, at least.
A knock sounded at the door and everyone paused. No one was allowed in the dressing room, per Mulligan’s orders. He ensured that it was a safe space for the dancers, even from his own crew. “Yes?” Maeve called.
“It’s Mulligan. Is Miss Greene in there? I need to speak with her.”
“Lucky thing,” Katie whispered to Florence before glancing at Maeve. “Please, let him come in.”
“Is everyone decent?” Maeve asked around the room. When it was clear each girl was covered, she called, “You may enter.”
The door cracked and Mulligan filled the doorway. Hair swept back and perfectly attired, he was quite a striking figure. Florence swore she heard a few sighs from the dancers. “Ladies, bonsoir.”
The women offered greetings, while Katie leaned against the table, her robe slipping to reveal a bit of shoulder. “Mr. Mulligan. Good evening.”
He ignored all the looks he received and kept his gaze fixed on Florence. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Me?” Who in the blue blazes was here for her? A horrible thought occurred. “Is it my father?”
“We should discuss it in the hall.”
She didn’t care to wait another second to learn who’
d tracked her here. Besides, the women had offered unconditional support. “It’s all right. You may speak freely.”
“It’s Madden. He’s upstairs in my office.”
Maeve sucked in a breath. “Clayton Madden? Is he the one who—” Florence shot her a look and Maeve promptly closed her mouth.
Florence exhaled slowly and tried to calm her racing heart. How had Clay learned of her whereabouts? Furthermore, why was he here? He’d made his position clear the last time she was at the Bronze House. What more was there to say? “I don’t wish to see him.”
“I think you’re going to want to hear him out.”
“Why? What did he say?”
Mulligan thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. “I think he wants to apologize.”
“Did he tell you that?”
He paused before he said, “Not in so many words.”
In other words, no. Clay had no intention of apologizing. Undoubtedly, he’d believed her quest to learn about the casino business would end when he kicked her out. Now he’d discovered her involvement with Jack and didn’t like it. Well, too dashed bad. She’d found someone else to help her. She didn’t need Clayton Madden any longer. “You may send him away. I have nothing to say to him.”
Maeve patted her arm, a sign of female solidarity that Florence appreciated.
“Listen,” Mulligan said and held up his hands. “If you don’t see him now, he’ll only keep coming back, bothering me, until you do.”
“You don’t have to be alone with him,” Katie told Florence. “I’ll come with you, if you want.”
“Thank you,” Florence said, genuinely touched by the offer. She’d met these women only recently. “But that’s not necessary. I don’t plan on speaking to him ever again.”
“Be reasonable, Florence,” Mulligan said. “I can’t have Madden darkening my doorstep. Please, for me? Hear him out and then get rid of him.”
Guilt twisted Florence’s stomach. Mulligan had been very kind to her. She could do this one small thing, couldn’t she? She’d spend a few minutes with Clay then get rid of him.
But was she ready? Clay had caught her by surprise, coming down here and demanding to see her. Why must she jump to his tune? The great Clayton Madden asked and the world rushed to do his bidding. Well, not Florence. Not anymore.
She’d learned her lesson. She was a distraction to him. A bother. A nuisance. He could wait, as far as she was concerned. Perhaps that would teach him a lesson about how to treat people.
In fact, maybe that lesson needed to include showing him that she no longer cared what he thought. That she was happy, thriving here in Mulligan’s care.
And maybe Clay needed to see what he was missing. Namely, her.
Her gaze landed on the colorful skirts hanging on the metal bar. Indeed, all those lessons were definitely in order. “Fine, I’ll see him,” she told Mulligan. “Tell him that I’ll speak to him after the performance.”
Maeve asked, “Are you saying . . . ?”
“Yes. Do you have an extra costume for me?”
Katie hooted and Maeve laughed. “Let’s get her ready, girls!”
Chapter Fifteen
“She needs a moment.”
Clay stopped pacing to glare at Mulligan, who’d just come through the door. “What does that mean?”
Mulligan stepped inside the office and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. “She’s busy right now. When she’s free, you may speak with her.”
“Busy doing what?”
“It won’t take long. Come with me.” Mulligan appeared on the verge of laughing, his mouth twitching, lips pressed together tightly.
Irritation prickled over Clay’s skin, tiny bursts of annoyance. “Do I have a choice?”
“No, so stop complaining and follow me.”
Mulligan left the room and Clay trailed him into the corridor. They continued toward the back of the building, where a hall led to another set of stairs. Once on the bottom floor Clay could hear the sounds of laughter and talking, the clinking of glass. Were they approaching the saloon?
“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.”