Before Florence could ask what Clay meant by that, the waiter returned with their drinks. A cocktail was placed in front of each of them, along with an empty wineglass. Another waiter began opening the bottle of Bordeaux.

Clay lifted his cocktail and waited for her to do the same. “To you. As the old saying goes, ‘May your pockets be heavy and your heart be light. May good luck follow you each morning and night.’” He touched his glass to hers.

“Thank you.” Charming man. She couldn’t stop grinning as she brought the glass to her mouth and took a sip. The cocktail was strong, with gin and orange flavor, but delicious. “What is this?”

“Gin, dry vermouth and orange bitters. Do you like it?”

She nodded. “I do. I’ve never had anything similar before.”

When their wineglasses were full, the waiter paused. “Will there be anything else?”

“No,” Clay said, coming to his feet. He withdrew a wad of bills from his jacket pocket and passed them to the waiter. “If you could ensure we’re not disturbed for the rest of the evening, we’d appreciate it.”

“Thank you, sir. Consider it done.”

The waiter led the rest of the staff out of the saloon and into the hotel. The doors snapped shut behind them, leaving Clay and Florence completely alone.

“I don’t understand,” she said as he sat down. “You bought out the place for the night?”

“Yes. Are you suitably impressed?”

“Very.”

“So I shouldn’t open that velvet curtain?” He pointed to the red cloth under the canopy on the wall in front of them.

Excitement raced through her veins, causing her to tingle. “Is that the painting?”

“It is. Are you certain your innocent eyes can handle it?”

“After the bedroom scene inside Anna’s brothel, do you really need to ask?”

“No, I suppose I don’t. And I realize this won’t be quite the same but perhaps close enough.” Leaning in, he kissed her cheek, and his scent—tobacco and pine—enveloped her. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. He was as potent as the cocktail in her hand.

When the cocktails were finished, he rose and made his way to the curtain strings. She marveled at how much Clay had come to mean to her. He was more than her friend and lover. More than a mentor. He was . . . everything.

The first person she wished to talk to each day.

The person she longed to kiss morning, noon and night.

The person she missed with a physical ache in her heart.

Lord above, am I falling in love with him?

Oh, no. The timing couldn’t have been worse for those sorts of thoughts. Her entire future depended on remaining independent, on making her own choices. On operating her own casino. She couldn’t allow anyone to take that away, not even Clay.