She scanned the legend first. The fluttering did not leave her chest.
The journal was a work in progress. There was no way to sort and edit information after the fact, other than to completely rewrite the entire thing. This might be how she would have attacked the problem, too.
Twenty tables, numbered in order of purchase. Once the table numbers were fixed in her mind, she flipped to the rear of the journal for the index of dates.
It was not as difficult to track the numbers as she might have thought. Some tables by necessity were designed to do one thing, such as Faro, but other tables had changed from one game to another depending on its waxing or waning popularity at any given time.
She flipped through the pages of the book as fast as she could to get a sense of its composition.
Daily reports by table were summed at end of week, summed again at end of month, then summed again at end of year.
The daily report was the only place that showed all the numbers in full detail.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly as she handed back the journal.
He raised his brows. “It’s impossible to say?”
“It’s impossible to say at a glance,” she clarified. “You need to refine the numbers.”
He leaned back. “How so?”
“It would be helpful to know what a given table or game earns per hour,” she explained. “Perhaps time of day is a factor. It could be that whist tables are more popular in the afternoon, and casino by night. If that is the case, it could be more profitable to designate early games and late games rather than add additional tables that sit vacant part of every day.”
“But if you had to guess?” he pressed.
“Hazard, I suppose.” She grinned at him shyly. “Even at a glance I can see that game garners more players at higher bids, which implies a higher percentage to the house. But I would still do the other calculations to be certain.”
Max inclined his head. “I rather think you would.”
She was itching to do so, in fact. He kept a tantalizing puzzle in the volume of his journals.
All the necessary observations were right there. With enough time, she could tell him at what hour of what day which games reached peak profitability. Whether their position in the salon had a factor. Was it better to be closer to the bar? Or further from prying eyes?
What about the number of people at each table? Some games could only be played with a certain number of participants, but others were more flexible. Did an artificial cap create a false sense that one was more likely to win, thus encouraging riskier bids? Or did a greater number of competitors increase the pot on its own, encouraging higher and higher bids?
The answers were right there in his journal, waiting to be discovered. Her blood hummed at all the untapped potential. If this were her club…
But of course it wasn’t. She might own the deed to the property, but in a few weeks’ time, their original investment contract would come to an end.
Max would owe her nothing. No money, no monthly reports. Not even his time.
She could either content herself with receiving rents without knowing any other detail, or she could sell him the property outright as he so desperately wished for her to do.
In either case, she would soon belong even less than she did now.
She shifted uncomfortably on her perch on the edge of his desk.
Max glanced up at her. “New trousers?”
“Old trousers,” she said without thinking.
He tilted his head. “They’re different from last time.”
Her heart fluttered. “You’ve been keeping an eye on my trousers?”
He gave her a slow, devastating smile. “I’ve definitely been keeping an eye on your… trousers.”
Her cheeks heated in pleasure. Perhaps extravagant gowns weren’t so important after all. “They’re my brother’s trousers. Or at least, they were.”
