She strolled closer, her silk skirts rustling with every step, a whisper of femininity that slid over his skin. Florence Greene was even more stunning up close. She looked like a blonde angel, only with teasing eyes and a wicked mouth. Long, elegant limbs combined with a proud bearing born of privilege and wealth. He desperately wished to dislike her . . . but quite the opposite. She was provoking and intelligent—a dangerous combination.

Especially when Clay planned revenge on her father.

Duncan Greene had sealed his fate twenty years ago when he’d razed an entire block of homes on the east side to build a factory. One of those homes had belonged to the Maddens. They hadn’t received fair market value for the property—Greene was a greedy bastard—and therefore hadn’t been able to locate equitable lodgings. Their family had ended up in a slum, where Clay’s younger brother died of cholera and his father walked out.

A family destroyed. Lives changed for the worse. Clay would soon repay that favor and move on with the next phase of his life. But not if Florence kept distracting the House’s patrons. He had to find a way to get rid of her for good.

She lowered herself into the armchair across from his desk and met his gaze. “I plan to open my own casino. I would like to learn from you on how to do it.”

A rough sound escaped his throat, a weak chuckle of sorts. Christ, that was twice she’d caused him to laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time before tonight. She really was remarkable. “Miss Greene, women of your . . . status don’t go into business for themselves. They get married. Have children. Summer in Newport and the like. I think you should return home and—”

“Please do not use that condescending tone with me. Believe me, I’m aware of my status and what girls my age are supposed to do. But I have absolutely no interest in marriage and children and Newport. I wish to open a casino for ladies.”

Now he knew she was cracked. “Gambling is illegal.”

She gave him a bland look. “Anything is legal for the right price.”

So true. He tried another tack. “Ladies don’t gamble. Lower-class women might occasionally dabble at cards or lottery, but ladies do not.”

“You’re wrong. Ladies most definitely gamble.”

Her stubbornness was beginning to grate on his nerves. “No, they don’t,” he snapped.

“Really? How many ladies do you know?”

Admittedly, not many. None, actually. “Even if you’re right, this is not a school. I have neither the time nor the inclination to mentor someone.”

“Why not?”

“Because my time is valuable and I’m not running a charity.”

“So I’ll pay you. Whatever hourly rate you set.”