His lips met the shell of her ear. In the faintest of whispers, he said, “No sound in here. You must remain absolutely still and not speak.” She jerked a nod and he released her. “Good girl.” Then he disappeared into the corridor and Florence sagged, the air leaving her lungs. Sakes alive, he was potent.

Perhaps knowing he found her attractive made her more comfortable around him. There were no secrets, his motives entirely transparent. He saw her for exactly who she was . . . and hadn’t judged her. When was the last time that had happened, if ever?

Clay’s office door opened and the man himself walked in. Florence pressed her eye to the hole, not wishing to miss a moment of this interaction.

“Bill. This is unexpected,” Clay said on his way to his desk.

“Evening, Madden.” The man rose and she immediately saw why they called him “Big Bill.” He was well over six feet and the buttons of his vest strained around his torso, as if he had gained weight but hadn’t bothered to adjust the size of his clothing.

They shook hands before Clay settled himself in his desk chair. She could see his face clearly and Bill’s profile. “Was there an issue with yesterday’s payment?”

“You know the issue. When I agreed to invest in the Bronze House we had an understanding about the profits.”

“That’s correct. I agreed to revisit your percentage after the first year based on how the casino performed.”

“And I still haven’t received that revisited percentage. This is the most profitable casino in the city, possibly the state, and you’re holding out on those profits.”

Clay reached for a humidor on the desk, flipped open the lid and offered Bill a cigar. The other man selected one then Clay took a cigar for himself, and soon they were both exhaling smoke. “Bill, if I had intended to swindle you I would’ve done it already.”

“Not when you need the city’s police department to look the other way. If it weren’t for me, you’d have been raided and shut down already.”

“And if it weren’t for me your wife would not have that new vacation house in the Poconos.”

“How did you . . . ?”

“I know everything about you.” Clay pointed at Bill with his cigar. “You bought her the house in the Poconos and renovated your old brownstone in Brooklyn off our money. The problem is that she’s now clamoring for another vacation house, this time down in Virginia, which you don’t quite have the sawbucks for, do you?”

“Jesus. Do you have a spy in my house?”