He shook his head. “You misunderstand. You aren’t leaving. I’ll have one of the boys fetch Mrs. Gorcey.”
“They will terrify her! You cannot do that. At least let me go along.”
She stood nearly nose to nose with him, her voice stern like an irate schoolteacher. Or what he assumed a teacher’s voice sounded like, seeing as how he never went to school. Something about that tone and the color on her cheeks got to him. This woman did not give up or back down for any reason. He could feel his body responding despite his better judgment.
God knew she was hardly his usual type. He liked them bold and buxom. Experienced. Not some uptown princess who’d faint in shock if he playfully slapped her arse while screwing her from behind.
“I should leave.” She started down the remaining stairs. “This was a mistake.”
He darted ahead to block her retreat. He moved two steps below her, putting them almost at the same height. “Giving up already?”
“Adjusting my strategy. I had thought, given your reputation for softness toward the female race, that you’d offer your assistance. I have clearly misjudged you.”
“No, but you have misunderstood the way things work around here. I am both the judge and the jury, Miss Greene. If there is a problem with one of my men, then I hear the facts and render a decision. Me and only me. Do you understand?”
She seemed to absorb this, her irritable expression easing ever so slightly. “That implies you are capable of remaining impartial.”
“I am nothing if not fair.”
“Do you know where Gorcey is at this moment?”
“I have a good idea.”
She sighed and stared at the wall. There wasn’t much to contemplate, as he had the upper hand, but he appreciated her thoroughness. This was a woman who avoided rash behavior, who was careful. He was much the same way.
“If you won’t let me fetch her, then I’d like to send along a note to reassure her.”
A smile overtook Jack’s face, stretching the sides of his mouth. “Of course. Come along.”
Jack Mulligan was full of surprises.
During the hour they waited on Mrs. Gorcey, Justine sat across from him in his office, sipping sherry, while Mulligan made polite conversation. He could speak to any topic, from art and culture to politics and classics. He was well-read, intelligent and charming. She could almost forget they were in a boxing club/saloon/criminal headquarters near the Bowery.
All this was a stark contradiction to Mulligan’s dangerous reputation, one he’d earned by consolidating the criminal gangs downtown into one massive empire years back. How he’d done it was the stuff of legend, stories shared in saloons late at night across the city. Justine didn’t know the details but she could assume that cunning, bravery and bloodshed had each played a part.
She let him do most of the talking. This was nothing unusual. Her two older sisters were gregarious and outspoken. Justine, on the other hand, preferred to listen and observe. Not that she was a wallflower, but her energies were best spent helping others. Gossip and fashion bored her to tears. Parties and social calls were a waste of time. How could any of those things matter when most of the city’s residents struggled to provide for themselves and their families?
“Am I boring you?”
She glanced up at Mulligan’s question. “Of course not.” What had he been talking about? Right, the art he’d seen on a recent trip to Paris. “I haven’t been to Paris since I was a girl.”
He cocked a brow, his handsome face turning curious. “I thought all good heiresses went to Paris each year for their wardrobes.”
“I’m not that sort of heiress.”
“What kind of heiress are you, then?”
“The rebellious kind, I suppose.”
“I am noticing that. Here I’ve been trying to impress you and clearly missing the mark.”
“Why would you be trying to impress me?”
“Because I am vain. Not only am I a man in the presence of a beautiful woman, that woman happens to come from one of the best families in the city.”
Beautiful? She nearly snorted. He’d clearly mistaken her for one of her sisters. “You don’t need to impress me. As soon as Mr. Gorcey agrees to take care of his wife, I’ll be out of your way.”
He drank from his glass of beer. A lager, he’d said, one produced by Mamie’s brother-in-law. “Tell me, what does your father think of your charitable endeavors?”
She shifted on the plush seat of the armchair. “Have you met my father?”