He frowned at the reminder of Anna’s words. He was better than this, a man slavering after a woman he’d never have. Yes, he was attracted to her, but any man of a certain age would find himself feeling the same after spending a few moments with Florence. She was magnetic. However, she was also young and from a class that forbade casual liaisons.

Clay had nothing but casual liaisons.

Get this over with. Teach her and then send her home. “It was a jest,” he told her. “Do you know how to play?”

“Of course.” She appeared affronted that he’d even asked.

He hid a smile as he moved behind the table to stand across from her. He dealt them each two cards, one down and one faceup. “Then let’s play. Those chips are yours.” A wooden box of Bronze House chips had been placed on the table, per his instructions.

“If I win, will you abandon this idea of ruining my father?”

Cocky girl. “No, that’s not up for discussion. However, if you do end up besting me, the house, then the money you win is yours.”

“What if I lose?”

Thoughts of her naked, spread out on his bed, her golden hair like a halo around her head, flickered in his mind. Holy Christ, he wanted that. His skin heated just imagining it. But he wouldn’t take her quickly. He’d torture her for hours until she begged—

Jesus, what was he doing? He had to be at least ten years her senior and much too rough for the likes of an uptown heiress. Perhaps he should’ve taken Anna up on her offer last night. That way, he could have fucked off some of this . . . steam and kept his wits about him tonight.

“No harm if you lose,” he forced out.

“Even better.” She rubbed her hands together. “Come now, dealer. Don’t keep me waiting.”

The cards moved quickly. She won the first two hands then lost the next six, down in her stake by twelve dollars. “What will you do now?” he asked.

“If the odds are nearly even, I must be due for a winning hand.” She pushed a twenty-dollar chip into the pot. “There.”

Biting off a comment, he dealt the cards. Dealer had sixteen. She ended up with twelve. She took two more cards and busted at twenty-two. She drummed her fingers on the table, irritation on her face. “Dash it. I’m normally better than this.”

He put the deck down. “Your mistake is trying to reason each hand based on the last. Each hand has the same odds, no matter what came before it. You’re never ‘due’ for a win or a loss. Now, how might a player gain an advantage over the house in twenty-one?”

“Tracking the cards.”

“Yes, but that takes considerable skill and is rare. How else?”

“A dealer on the take?”