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.