Oh, he’d . . . apologized. That was unexpected.
Florence tried not to feel disappointed as cool air rushed over her naked skin. The erotic novels she read talked about cuddling after the act. Snuggles and soft kisses in the warm afterglow. To date, however, such tenderness hadn’t been her experience at all. Chester had barely bothered to remove his shoes during their encounters—and Clay had just rushed out as if the room were on fire.
Perhaps she was overromanticizing these interludes. Men supposedly viewed sex as strictly for physical pleasure, not for any emotional connection with a partner. Somehow, she’d scared both her lovers into hurrying through the rendezvous.
You’re not happy unless you’re causing a stir or the center of everyone’s attention.
A lump formed in her throat at the memory of her father’s words. Was that how everyone saw her, desperate for affection? Craving the limelight like some stage actress feeding her vanity?
She stared at the closed washroom door and swallowed all these ridiculous feelings and doubts bubbling up inside her. There was no reason to believe any of this was her fault. She’d done nothing wrong. In fact, he was the one who’d left her here, naked and vulnerable, in his bed.
So what was she waiting for, a man to come and save her?
Grabbing the bedclothes, she wiped her skin clean. This was why she must become independent. Relying on others was a foolhardy mistake and guaranteed to fail. Lord knew how long he would leave her here before he returned.
Rising off the bed, she gathered her things and began dressing. She would find a way to put this right. They would return to their business arrangement, and she would prove this changed nothing between them. She could act just as a man would in this situation.
The washroom door finally opened. Now wearing trousers, Clay emerged with a wet cloth in his hand. He frowned at the sight of her and apprehension slithered across her cold skin.
He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “Should I help you dress, or . . . ?”
She pulled her shift over her head. “I am able to manage.”
While she struggled with her corset, he stood frozen, staring off at nothing. His jaw was hard, his eyes vacant. She had no idea of what he was thinking, but she had to get him back on level footing. “Shall we spend an hour on your accounting practices? I have questions about—”
“No.”
The word was sharp, final. She blinked at him, her grip on the corset strings tightening. “If you’re too busy tonight I could return tomorrow.”
“No, not tomorrow. Not next week. You cannot come back.”
Cannot come back? Surely he didn’t mean it. Her mouth dried out and her tongue grew thick. Still, she forced out, “I don’t understand.”
“I can’t give you any more lessons. This”—he motioned toward the bed—“was a mistake.”
“Is this about trust again? Because I thought I explained myself.”
“This isn’t about trust. It’s about you. And me. What happened tonight was a mistake.”
She fought the embarrassment currently gathering like a storm in her chest. “You keep saying tonight was a mistake. But you aren’t saying why.”
He dragged a hand down his face, the muscles in his chest and arms bunching. Clay normally appeared so cool and controlled. This was the most rattled she’d ever seen him. “I don’t need to provide reasons, Florence. We screwed. It was good. Really good. Now it’s over and we shouldn’t repeat it.”
She sucked in a breath, the pain lancing her insides. Anger was there, too, and she grabbed on to the emotion with both hands, unwilling to let him see the hurt. “Is this how you act with all of your conquests? Treat them like dirt afterward and kick them out?”
He winced. “I don’t mean to be cruel. I am trying to explain this to the best of my ability.”
“Well, you are doing a terrible job at it.”
“I . . .” He blew out a long breath and finally met her eyes. What she saw there surprised her. Panic. Clay was . . . scared. Of what? She was about to ask when he said, “When I first agreed to give you lessons, I thought it would be amusing to help Duncan Greene’s daughter descend into the darkness of New York’s underbelly. I was attracted to you but never thought anything would come of it. Women like you, those of your station, aren’t raised for casual liaisons. And I am interested exclusively in casual.”
Had she given Clay the impression she wanted a lifelong commitment? Was that why he’d left her in bed? “I am not asking for marriage, Clay.”
“I realize that. Even if you were, we both know it’s impossible. You’re not made for men like me.”
Why must you be different? Why can’t you fit in?
The familiar questions resurfaced at Clay’s rejection. How many times had her mother and father asked her this over the years?
She pushed her disappointment aside for a moment to focus on the future. “What does this have to do with teaching me how to operate a casino? Can’t the lessons continue even if our personal relationship does not?”
“No, they can’t. You are a distraction I don’t need.”
A distraction. He saw her as a distraction. Not a partner or a colleague. Not a mentee. Not a lover or even a friend. She was a nuisance, a bother.
God, why did that hurt so badly? Her lungs burned with unshed tears, the lump in her throat so large it was hard to breathe. She had always been the outcast, never quite fitting in with her family, but she thought she’d finally found someone who understood her. A place where she’d gained acceptance.
She’d been wrong, apparently. She didn’t fit in here, either.
Bending over, she collected more of her clothing off the floor and struggled not to cry.
Poor little society princess.
It was what Justine, her younger sister, said every time Florence complained about feeling like an outsider. There are people in this city with real problems, life-and-death struggles, Justine liked to say, not just hurt feelings. In other words, keep perspective on what really mattered and do something about whatever is bothering you.
Fine. If Clay didn’t want her then she wouldn’t chase him. She had her pride. Never mind what had occurred in his apartments tonight. She would forget about it—and about him, in time. There were other casinos in the city, other men who were experts on how to operate outside the law. She’d find one and continue on with her plans.
Because she was in charge of her own future. No one else.
She drew on that strength, nurtured it, until her armor was back in place. Straightening, she faced him. “Don’t let me keep you. I am able to find my way out.”
“No, I should . . .” He looked around as if just realizing where they were. “Help you into a hansom.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. One of the guards at the door will see me off. I don’t need your help any longer.”
He bent to snatch his shirt off the floor and threw it over his head. “I know you’re angry and I’m sorry. Trust me, you’ll thank me later on.”
“Trust you?” She gave a bitter laugh as she crossed to the washroom. “Indeed, I’d rather not. I tried it once and didn’t care for the results.” When she reached the washroom door, she paused. “Please be gone when I come out of here.”
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.
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.