“I want a higher percentage, Madden. I deserve it.” Bill pounded a fist on the armrest. He wasn’t backing down, apparently. The fool.

Clay rose, the cigar clamped between his teeth. “You won’t get it.”

The policeman hefted himself out of the chair. “We shall see about that, won’t we?”

Clay said nothing, his expression stoic as Bill stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him. Quiet descended, yet Florence couldn’t move, her breath coming short and fast, her skin feverish. That had been . . . astounding. Like listening to Mozart compose a symphony. Or watching Michelangelo sketch. She wasn’t familiar with any other casino owners but Clay was clearly a master, a brilliant manipulator focused on getting what he wanted and protecting what he had. Rumor held him to be the best and she’d now witnessed it firsthand.

A hum coursed through her veins, a very inappropriate tingle between her thighs—all symptoms she recognized. Viewing this encounter had affected her, left her shaken and, God help her, aroused. For Clay. A man who intended to ruin her father.

Attraction had no part in this—it couldn’t—at least not on her side.

She’d been burned by lust before, making questionable choices when desire took over her brain. Like showing Billy Palmer her drawers in an alcove at the Metropolitan Opera House. Kissing the Webster twins in the Vanderbilt gardens. Sleeping with Chester McVickar at the Astor Place Hotel . . .

Florence had thought it all harmless fun, a rebellious form of experimentation. The men, however, had formed assumptions based on her actions, and had pursued her. Doggedly. Daddy still couldn’t understand why Florence had turned down several marriage proposals.

Because I cannot allow someone else to control my future.

Indeed, try getting a father to understand that.

Just then, Clay’s gaze locked on the peephole, as if he could see straight through the wood and into her soul. Her breath caught, the blood rushing in her ears.

Oh, my. Would he notice? She nearly shook herself at the ridiculous question. Of course he would notice. Nothing slipped past Clay.

She had to get out of this place. Right now. Before he discovered what she had been thinking.

Shooting to her feet, she lunged for the door. The light in the corridor stung her eyes as she stumbled in the opposite direction from Clay’s office. A hand suddenly wrapped around her arm and she smothered a squeak.

Bald Jack stood frowning at her, his brows knitted. “Miss Greene, everything all right?”

“Fine, fine. Everything is just fine. I’m fine. I need to leave, though. Will you tell him . . . ?” She drew in a steadying breath. “Please tell him it was late and I had to return home. I’ll visit again in a few days.”