“Yes.” He picked up a deck of cards from the green baize and began shuffling, his thick, blunt fingers moving deftly.

“But I won every time I played here.”

“You are a rare exception, Miss Greene.” He flicked his eyes over her face. “But then, you are an exception in many ways.”

Was he calling her exceptional? With any other man, this banter would come across like flirting. With Clay she couldn’t tell. “I was lucky.”

He gave a dry, hoarse laugh, a sound torn unwillingly from his throat. “There is no such thing as luck. No, you are extremely talented.”

Warmth suffused her chest. She didn’t know why his praise affected her like this, but her insides were quickly turning to jelly. If there’s an opportunity to get you in my bed I won’t hesitate to take it. Was this part of his effort? If so, she feared it might work. Flowers and jewelry from admirers hadn’t ever wooed her, yet a man who noticed her gambling skills? That was dangerous.

She might end up dragging him to bed if he kept it up.

“Now,” he said, “you’ve always looked at the games from the guest’s perspective. I am going to teach you to look at the games from the house’s perspective.”

Why was he so appealing like this, with his stern voice and exceptional card-shuffling skills? His hands were nimble and steady, the cards moving swiftly through his fingers. He bent them, flipped them, spun them around. Cut the deck with just a flick of his wrist. Clever man. She could watch this for hours.

“Which game has the best odds for a guest to win?”

She cleared her throat. “Poker.”

“Wrong.”

“Roulette?”

“Wrong again. Twenty-one has the best odds for winning, at about fifty-fifty. It’s also an easy game to learn.”

Light moved over his harsh profile, the scars dark slashes in the gaslight. She liked listening to him. Watching him. Soaking in his vast amount of knowledge. Pay attention, Florence. You’re here to learn, not to ogle. “Should I be writing this down?”

The side of his mouth hitched as he cut her a glance. “Having trouble keeping your attention on the topic at hand? Is that a female problem . . . or am I too distracting for you?”

“Female problem?” Fury sparked in Florence’s gaze, just as Clay had known it would. He liked seeing her riled up, a cool blond beauty instantly transformed into an avenging angel. Fierce. Ready to eviscerate. A lesser man might even cover his balls at that look.

Not Clay. He preferred his women with a backbone.

He paused, muscles locked in disbelief. His women?

Clayton Madden, gone soft for a fancy uptown debutante.