The Prince of Broadway

by Joanna Shupe

  “Trust me, you should try the house cocktail. It is all the rage, apparently.” He leaned in. “And how many women may lay claim to having tried it?”

  She bit her lip. Was she so transparent? “This is the perfect gift, Clay. How did you know to pick something so unusual for me?”

  His lips twisted into a smile, the scars on his face less obvious in his humor. “A woman who longs to open her own casino, who could possibly beat even me in a hand of cards, requires an unusual gift.” He lifted her hand, brought it to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “And you haven’t even seen the best part.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Before Florence could ask what Clay meant by that, the waiter returned with their drinks. A cocktail was placed in front of each of them, along with an empty wineglass. Another waiter began opening the bottle of Bordeaux.

  Clay lifted his cocktail and waited for her to do the same. “To you. As the old saying goes, ‘May your pockets be heavy and your heart be light. May good luck follow you each morning and night.’” He touched his glass to hers.

  “Thank you.” Charming man. She couldn’t stop grinning as she brought the glass to her mouth and took a sip. The cocktail was strong, with gin and orange flavor, but delicious. “What is this?”

  “Gin, dry vermouth and orange bitters. Do you like it?”

  She nodded. “I do. I’ve never had anything similar before.”

  When their wineglasses were full, the waiter paused. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No,” Clay said, coming to his feet. He withdrew a wad of bills from his jacket pocket and passed them to the waiter. “If you could ensure we’re not disturbed for the rest of the evening, we’d appreciate it.”

  “Thank you, sir. Consider it done.”

  The waiter led the rest of the staff out of the saloon and into the hotel. The doors snapped shut behind them, leaving Clay and Florence completely alone.

  “I don’t understand,” she said as he sat down. “You bought out the place for the night?”

  “Yes. Are you suitably impressed?”

  “Very.”

  “So I shouldn’t open that velvet curtain?” He pointed to the red cloth under the canopy on the wall in front of them.

  Excitement raced through her veins, causing her to tingle. “Is that the painting?”

  “It is. Are you certain your innocent eyes can handle it?”

  “After the bedroom scene inside Anna’s brothel, do you really need to ask?”

  “No, I suppose I don’t. And I realize this won’t be quite the same but perhaps close enough.” Leaning in, he kissed her cheek, and his scent—tobacco and pine—enveloped her. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. He was as potent as the cocktail in her hand.

  When the cocktails were finished, he rose and made his way to the curtain strings. She marveled at how much Clay had come to mean to her. He was more than her friend and lover. More than a mentor. He was . . . everything.

  The first person she wished to talk to each day.

  The person she longed to kiss morning, noon and night.

  The person she missed with a physical ache in her heart.

  Lord above, am I falling in love with him?

  Oh, no. The timing couldn’t have been worse for those sorts of thoughts. Her entire future depended on remaining independent, on making her own choices. On operating her own casino. She couldn’t allow anyone to take that away, not even Clay.

  And it wasn’t as if he’d expressed undying love for her. In fact, he’d said the exact opposite. I am interested exclusively in casual. He’d warned her and she hadn’t listened.

  So no, she wasn’t foolish enough to fall for a man who would never love her back. Was she?

  She set all that aside for tomorrow. Tonight was her birthday. They were here, together, and she would enjoy the evening.

  Recriminations could wait until the morning.

  He tugged the curtain’s cord and the fabric parted. A huge painting came into view, the piece over eight feet high. It was a lot to take in. Brilliant light from the chandelier illuminated the considerable amount of naked flesh in front of her.

  “Goodness. That is indeed something.”

  Instead of taking his own seat, Clay came around to her side. He tugged her up, only to slide underneath her and pull her onto his lap. She settled into his broad chest, her back to his front, and they stared at the painting together.

  Four voluptuous naked women surrounded a satyr at the edge of a river. They teased him, trying to pull him into the water, but he resisted. There were breasts and buttocks, but most of the genitals were covered. All in all, it didn’t seem so scandalous. She had playing cards under her bed more erotic than this. It was beautiful, however, with both male and female strength displayed.

  “It’s called Nymphs and Satyr. Painted by a Frenchman, Bouguereau,” Clay said. “Do you like it, my little voyeur?”

  “It is beautiful. Not sure what the hue and cry is about, though. This painting is not as shocking as I expected.”

  “They never are.”

  “So why not let women in here to see it?”

  “Perhaps they don’t wish to give them any ideas.” His hands stroked her waist through her clothing, almost as if he couldn’t help himself.

  “To capture a satyr, you mean?”

  “No, of fighting back. Don’t you see what is happening here?”

  She studied the scene more closely. “It looks like the nymphs are trying to have their wicked way with the satyr and he’s resisting them.”

  “Not quite. In mythology, nymphs presided over streams and woods. Satyrs are creatures of self-indulgence and male pleasure, usually depicted with erections. This satyr has been caught spying on a group of bathing nymphs. You can see the other nymphs in the background, observing. The braver ones, in the foreground, are going to pull him into the water to cool him off.”

  That certainly made sense. “They’ve joined together to punish him.”

  “Exactly.” His hot breath teased the sensitive flesh of her throat an instant before his lips caressed the same spot. “One nymph can do nothing, while many can be an invincible force.”

  “Ah, that’s why you think this painting will give women ideas.” She sighed as his mouth trailed her skin, her entire body heating and melting.

  “Does it give you ideas?” He slid a hand over her ribs and up to her chest. A palm cupped her corseted breast and she arched into his touch. Curse the amount of clothing they both wore at the moment.

  His shaft had begun to thicken under her backside. She rolled her hips once just to tease him. “I think it’s given you ideas.”

  “Hmm, indeed. But then, around you, I never cease coming up with them.” He licked her throat then sank his teeth into the tender skin. “What do you think happens next in the scene?”

  She gasped and gripped his forearms to steady herself as her lids fell closed. “They push the satyr in the water.”

  “Come now. Is that the best you can do?” He dragged a fingertip along the edge of her bodice and her breasts grew heavy under the gentle touch. Arousal beat like a drum in every part of her, centered between her legs. He nipped her earlobe. “Are the nymphs left unsatisfied or does he have his wicked way with them?”

  “All of them?”

  “Perhaps not all of them.” Clay’s mouth hovered near her ear as his hands went to her skirts. He gathered the fabric in his fingers and pulled, revealing her legs. “Perhaps there was one blonde nymph who caught his eye, one with hazel eyes and no fear whatsoever.”

  Oh, God. She sucked in air, nearly light-headed from the spell he was weaving. Hard to remember they were in a restaurant and not his bedroom. When her skirts came past her knees, she caught his hand. “What if the waiters return?”

  “The doors are locked. No one is disturbing us. Relax, beautiful girl.” Air washed over her thighs as he pushed her skirts to her waist. “Now, where were we?”

  “The blo
nde nymph,” she whispered.

  “Yes, the brave nymph, unafraid of the satyr’s hideous looks and lusty ways. For some strange reason she seemed to prefer him to all others.” Reaching down, he placed her legs on the outside of his thighs. She was spread wide, her body displayed for him. “And she was so very beautiful that he felt unworthy of her.”

  That penetrated the lust fogging her brain. “That’s ridiculous—”

  “Hush,” he said, his hand gliding between her legs to find the part in her drawers. “This is my story.” Long fingers slid through the coarse hair on her mound. “Fuck, I can smell your arousal.” Growling, he sank his teeth into her throat once more and she moaned.

  “You were saying?”

  “I apologize. This blonde nymph was clever, much smarter than the satyr.” Blunt fingers traced her folds, never touching where she ached most, tormenting her. “She took him away from the other satyrs and nymphs, knowing the satyr couldn’t resist her.”

  A fingertip glanced over her clitoris and she jumped. More of that, please.

  He licked her throat and pressed an openmouthed kiss there. He cupped her sex with his hand and she lifted her hips, trying to get him where she needed. “Clay—”

  “And when they were alone,” he continued, “the nymph was playful and wicked, the spark of joy his lonely life had been missing.” One finger penetrated her, the thick digit filling her slowly.

  “Oh, God,” she breathed and closed her eyes, her head resting on his shoulder. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think; she could only crave. Her legs trembled, the muscles straining for more as he thrust a finger in her channel.

  “Finally, the nymph allowed the satyr to touch her and it was the sweetest, most erotic experience of his life.” He pressed his palm to her clitoris, grinding, while his soft, panting breaths brushed her ear. “The satyr was hard, so impossibly hard for her, when she spread her thighs and took him inside her body. He nearly died from the pleasure, she was so hot and tight. The walls of her cunt gripped his cock as he rode her, driving deep to touch her womb.”

  Clay worked another finger inside her, and her hips rose to meet him. The pressure felt so good, so necessary. He continued to thrust, faster now, his palm stroking her clitoris. Electricity built in her veins, a storm gathering inside her.

  “The nymph came so hard and her nails raked the satyr’s back. She tightened around him, her body milking his shaft for his seed. Pleased he’d serviced her, he let himself chase his own orgasm, pumping his cock until his spend shot from the tip.”

  Wicked words and wicked fingers did not relent, and Florence was clutching at him, mindless. Then he curled his finger high inside her and she couldn’t withstand it. The orgasm rushed up and over her, taking her to the highest peak and obliterating everything else. She convulsed, her body dragging out the bliss, until she collapsed in a heap against him.

  He nuzzled her neck, his kisses soft and tender despite the obvious erection he still possessed. “Happy birthday, beautiful girl,” he rasped against her skin.

  She made a sound that was a cross between a wheeze and a chuckle. “Thank you, Clay.”

  “You’re welcome, though that was for me as much as it was for you.” He withdrew his fingers from between her legs and brought them up to his mouth. Pushing the digits past his lips, he moaned, his face slackening as his lids fell shut. Like he was savoring her taste.

  She adjusted her limbs so she could angle toward him. Color tinged his cheeks and neck, his muscles tight. He appeared like a man on the edge. Placing a hand on his chest, she dragged it toward his groin. “Should I tell you a story now?”

  “No.” He blew out a long breath. “I’d love nothing more were we in private at the club. But since we are in public and I cannot do all I want to your naked body then we should get you home.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Very.” Setting her on her feet, he stood. “Besides, I wanted to spoil you on your birthday.”

  “Then I will return the favor on your birthday.”

  A strange look passed over his face, one she couldn’t decipher. He lowered his head and pressed a quick kiss to her mouth. “I look forward to it. Now, let’s get you back uptown.”

  Clay helped Florence to the exit. She was adorably disheveled, lips swollen from his kisses and her hair slipping out of its pins. Never had she appeared more beautiful to him. If he could keep her, have her remain at his side for all eternity, he would.

  And no man deserved her less. He’d skated the edges of the city’s criminal class for most his life. Had done many things he wasn’t proud of in the name of survival. He presided over an empire of greed and corruption, one that hundreds depended on for their livelihoods.

  Someday, once he had his revenge against her father, perhaps then he could leave the enterprise and casinos behind. Forget the policy shops and card games, the cheaters and the bookkeeping. Find a normal way of life where he wasn’t looking over his shoulder all the time.

  Florence would be long gone by then.

  He ignored the tightness in his chest and led her to the door. Before he could open it, however, she tugged him to a halt. Her hand caressed his cheek and they stared at one another for a long moment. He’d never felt more at peace, more understood, than with this woman. A bizarre urge was mounting inside him to bundle her up, hop on the next train west and escape the life he’d created for himself.

  She licked her lips, her voice rougher than before. “Clay, thank you. This was . . . It was absolutely perfect.”

  “I wanted you to have something unique and memorable. I hope you never forget it.” I hope you never forget me.

  Rising on her toes, she kissed him quickly on the mouth. “Impossible. I’ll always remember it. You have made this the best birthday of my life.”

  His chest expanded at the praise, his skin growing hot. He had to get her out of here quickly—or else he’d rent them a suite and they’d never leave. Reaching for the door, he held it open and she passed through. When he moved to follow, he found her blocking the door. “Florence—”

  And then he saw why she’d paused.

  Duncan Greene and Big Bill were standing on the walk next to Clay’s carriage, waiting. Duncan’s face was twisted with rage, a fearsome thing to behold, while Bill’s smirk made it clear he was enjoying this. The bastard had gone and told Duncan about Clay and Florence.

  This was the end, then. Tonight ended his association with her. The realization made him want to punch something.

  You knew this day was coming.

  Yes, he’d known. There had never been any hope of avoiding it, really.

  I wanted more time.

  That thought floated into the cool Manhattan air like mist, unattainable and ethereal. He might as well have asked to sprout wings.

  Clay stepped around Florence and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. He locked eyes with Duncan. “Evening, gentlemen.”

  “Turn around and go back inside,” Duncan said from behind gritted teeth. “I won’t have this conversation on the street.”

  “Daddy—” Florence started, seemingly coming out of her stupor.

  “Inside!” her father snapped. “Now, Florence.”

  Spinning, she lunged for the door and disappeared into the saloon. Clay waited, unmoving, as Bill sauntered by. “I warned you,” the assistant superintendent said. “But you didn’t listen.”

  Clay didn’t bother responding. He’d deal with Bill later. Right now Duncan was more important.

  Duncan stalked forward, his hands curled into fists. His body was tight and angry as he advanced on Clay. “Get inside before I break your goddamn jaw,” her father snarled.

  “I’d like to see you try,” he taunted. “Fair warning, I don’t fight by your Queensberry rules. My rules were learned on the streets of the Lower East Side, where men like you wouldn’t last a fucking day.”

  Duncan pointed a beefy finger in Clay’s face. “Inside, Madden. Or I’m having Bill arrest you right
here on the street.”

  “For what?”

  “Does it matter? He’ll do whatever I ask and you’ll spend a few weeks in the Tombs. Is that really what you want her last memory of you to be?”

  Clay glared, unblinking, furious that Duncan had played the one card Clay couldn’t refuse. Florence. Turning, he yanked on the door handle and went in. Florence stood in the middle of the room, her skin as pale as flour, arms wrapped around her waist. Her eyes darted between Clay and Duncan, who had just closed the door behind him.

  Duncan’s brows pinched as his gaze swept the saloon, taking in the intimate table for two, cocktails and wine. Any fool would know what had transpired here tonight—except for the part where Florence came on Clay’s fingers.

  That memory belonged to Clay, and he planned to savor it in the long nights ahead.

  “Daddy, I can explain.”

  Duncan crossed his arms over his huge chest. “Is that so, Florence? Because I have to warn you. I am not in the mood for your lies. Again.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. She seemed to shrink in size and something in Clay’s chest twisted. He shifted to block Duncan’s view of her. “Be angry with me, Duncan. Not Florence.”

  “Oh, I am indeed very, very angry with you, Madden. You had no right to touch my daughter!” His voice increased in volume until he ended on a roar, his face nearly purple.

  Clay remained calm, his shoulders relaxed. He had faced down enough furious men to know he needed to keep a level head. “Whatever you think this is, I promise you, it’s not. I care for her.”

  “Liar. This is another way for you to exact revenge on me, by using my daughter. By ruining her.”

  “No, Daddy.” Florence moved to Clay’s side. “I’ve been going to Clay for lessons. He’s been teaching me how to run a casino.”

  Her father flinched. “You sought out this criminal for lessons? Have you lost your mind?”

  Clay’s muscles locked and he took a step closer to Duncan. “If you yell at her one more time I will punch you in the mouth, father or not.”

  Duncan focused on his daughter. “Think, Florence. Don’t you realize who is trying to tear down your grandmother’s house so he can build another casino? Have you not put it together yet?”