The Cop and the Chorus Girl (2 page)

“I have to go someplace quiet—where nobody recognizes me.”

“Why? Who are you?”

“Why,” she replied, sounding surprised, “I'm Dixie Davis.”

“Who?”

She leaned closer for emphasis. “
Dixie Davis.
Sugar pie, if you haven't heard of me, you must be the only man in New York who hasn't drooled over my pictures in the tabloids!”

Flynn cut the Harley across a stream of oncoming traffic and pulled into the relative quiet of a tree-lined East Side street. He nosed the bike between a parked moving van and a city Dumpster before cutting the engine. Then he tore off his helmet and craned around to get a real look at his passenger.

She smiled, leaned back and lifted both arms like a chanteuse just arriving in the center-stage spotlight of a burlesque show. “Well?” she asked, blue eyes atwinkle. “See anything you recognize?”

Her low-cut gown revealed the perfect symmetry of her bosom, and no man alive could have mistaken that famous cleavage. Flynn peered closer at the equally curvy shape of her smile and the saucy light in her eyes, and he knew she was the genuine article. “I can't believe it,” he said. “You're—”

“So it's finally sinking in?”

“You're—”

“Yes,” she replied, lifting her nose to show off her famous profile. “Dixie Davis, who's taken New York by storm—a Texas Tornado, to be exact. Although I must say I'm disappointed it took you so long to recognize me. My publicist says I should be bigger than Marla Maples by now!”

It all made sense now.

Dixie Davis was the sexiest woman on earth. Even the
New York Times
said so.

Everything there was to know about the infamous Miss Davis had been screamed in giant headlines and suddenly here she was—perched on Flynn's motorcycle as happily as a rodeo rider on a pinto pony. In the past few weeks no red-blooded American male could pass a newsstand without seeing Miss Davis's exquisite figure posed on every front page. A month earlier she'd been an unknown dancer from some Podunk town in Texas. She'd blown into New York to dance in the chorus of a brainless Broadway show—
The Flatfoot and the Floozie.
But in a matter of days she'd been elevated to star status by the show's smitten producer—one of New York's most notorious mobsters, Joey Torrano.

And how could Joey Torrano avoid falling head over heels for Dixie? She wore sex appeal the way most women wore perfume. She was sexier than champagne, chocolate and satin sheets combined. Everything about her screamed
female
in big neon letters. Even the city's toughest, grouchiest columnists couldn't avoid writing about her.

The New York tabloids loved a sexy gold digger almost as much as they loved mob bosses. But this story had both—so Dixie had gotten press all over New York City. The so-so Broadway show looked as though it might become a megahit, thanks to all the publicity generated by a well-endowed showgirl.

“Dixie Davis,” he murmured, wondering how many men on the planet would trade places with him in that moment just to get an up-close-and-personal look at the delectable Texas Tornado.

She was everything the press claimed she was and more. Her high-voltage kiss still burned in Flynn's memory. She was the real McCoy, all right—a blond bombshell who was part Marilyn Monroe and part Dolly Parton. An all-American sexpot with a heart of gold.

Flynn could only exhale. “Wow.”

“That's me,” she drawled, giving him her trademark sideways grin—a flirtatious half smile complete with batting eyelashes and an impish wink from beneath the brim of her white hat. At the same time she managed to flaunt her breasts with a practiced flounce. “Want my autograph, sugar?”

“No, thanks,” Flynn responded. His senses were returning rapidly—as if plummeting to earth without a parachute. “But I
do
want you the hell off my bike!”

“Wh-what?”

“Pronto,” Flynn added, climbing off the Harley. “I don't want to end up sleeping with the fishes just because you picked me to play Sir Galahad. So move your Texas buns and find a cab, lady.”

“
What?
Your silly motorbike is more important than a human life?”

“It's not a motorbike—it's a Harley-Davidson! And I'm not risking my life for you.”

She sat up straight, thunder on her brow. “Are you afraid?”

“You bet your boots I am! Your gangster boyfriend is Joey Torrano!”

“So?”

“So I assume he's the one you just left standing at the altar?”

“He wasn't standing. Not exactly, anyway.” Primly, she said, “I knocked him down.”

“You—”

Without meeting his agitated glare, Dixie Davis made a studied business of crossing one exquisite showgirl's leg across the other and wrapping the voluminous train of her dress over her arm. She began to swing her one bare foot expressively. “Well, I didn't have much choice, really. He was blocking the only way to get out of there! And I had to get away before it was too late.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” Flynn said testily, “but don't most brides wait until
after
the ‘I do's' before running out of the church?”

“I decided I didn't want to marry anybody today.”

Flynn tried to ignore the astonishing length of her creamy bare leg and the pretty arch of her bare foot. “But the groom disagreed?”

“Precisely. And Joey can be—well, very disagreeable when he disagrees.”

“So I've heard.”

“So I bolted like a calf out of the chute, sugar.”

But Flynn thought he saw a flicker of dismay behind her brave smile. “Now what?”

“Now I'd like to go someplace quiet, please.”

“I'll give you cab fare.” Flynn dug into the pocket of his jeans.

“Cab fare! What kind of Sir Galahad are you?”

“The kind who plays it safe.”

She flared like a Roman candle. “New York men! Honest to Pete, I don't know how you could be genetically related to our Texas fellas! Why, you're all a bunch of nervous old biddies—afraid to take a risk and never once thinking of a lady's feelings!”

She was a piece of work, all right—coquettish one minute and capable of lambasting him the next. A fire seemed to burn inside her. Was it possible that she was related to all the other women in the city? Those cool, well-dressed executives who marched the streets in their sneakers at lunchtime, each one looking much the same as the next? But Dixie Davis seemed so much more than anyone else. The gleam in her blue eyes filled Flynn with a powerful tingling sensation.

It had to be fear, he told himself. Here was a woman who could cause a hell of a lot of trouble.

“What's the matter?” she demanded. “Scared?”

“You would be, too, if you had any brains.”

“You calling me dumb?”

“Let's be polite and call you impulsive.”

Dixie Davis looked up into the frowning face of her rescuer and felt a wave of consternation. Maybe he was right. Lately her impulses seemed to be getting her into one jam after another. Seemed like she was snakebit.

Dixie's life hadn't made much sense to
her,
let alone to a perfect stranger. The past few weeks had turned into a kaleidoscope of events—confusing and exciting and sometimes downright out of control. First, there had been the audition and landing of a small part in
The Flatfoot and the Floozie.
Then she'd met Joey Torrano at a rehearsal and he'd seen stars right away.

After that, everything had happened faster than a DoveBar could melt on a Dallas sidewalk—but Dixie hadn't been calling the shots at all. She'd been swept up by Joey and the show, and—well, it had been so easy to shoot the rapids and enjoy the ride.

Until she found herself standing at the altar with a man she didn't even
like
very much.

“Maybe I am impulsive,” she said musingly. “But I couldn't go through with the wedding. Not for the wrong reasons. I—I just felt like I better run away before things got any worse. You ever feel like that?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Something seemed to click in his head and then register on the narrow planes of his face. Then he said, “Yeah, I've felt like that.”

“Now I don't know what to think,” she said slowly. “I need some time.”

“Well, we can't stay here,” said Sir Galahad, suddenly acting as if he was waking from a dream. “The neighbors are beginning to suspect.”

Dixie glanced upward and found several residents of the quiet street hanging out their second-floor windows to get a glimpse of her. One woman seemed to be talking on her portable telephone while pointing down at Dixie as if she'd just discovered Princess Di below her windowbox.

“Uh-oh,” Dixie muttered. “In five minutes there'll be a dozen photographers here snapping my picture.”

“And
mine,
” said Galahad, slipping his helmet over his dark hair once more. “Let's split.”

He climbed onto the bike and started it with a jouncing kick that sent Dixie grabbing for his waist. He turned his head. “Ready?”

“Ready!”

Dixie held on tightly this time as her rescuer guided his motorcycle around the streets, winding through traffic with smooth expertise.

You haven't put yourself in another man's hands,
Dixie told herself sternly.
It just feels that way.

She made a silent vow not to let this one take control of her life the way Joey had.

Of course, this one didn't act like Joey at all. He was younger—in his mid-thirties, no doubt—and had a sweet face beneath the hard expression he tried to maintain. He looked handsome and laconic—a young Gary Cooper. Only with more hair. She assumed he was some kind of mechanic, judging by his deep feelings for a silly machine.

Right off, Dixie had noticed a distinct gleam of compassion in his dark eyes. When she'd run out of the church, he'd been the only one to pay the slightest attention.

And he hadn't dumped her on the sidewalk when she'd begged for help. He'd even landed a pretty good punch on George's chin—George, who prided himself on being Joey Torrano's invincible bodyguard. He'd knocked George down without even thinking about it. The other bodyguard had been short work for Galahad, too.

He had good instincts, she decided. And a kind heart—even though he didn't really want one. For a simple mechanic, he seemed to be fighting a gentlemanly side. That thought gave Dixie courage.

She leaned forward. “One question, sugar. What's your name?”

Tilting his head back so the wind carried his voice better, he answered, “Flynn.”

“Flynn what?”

“Just Flynn.”

She laughed. “What kind of man gives himself just one name?”

“That's two questions,” he retorted, demonstrating a modicum of humor.

“You keeping secrets, sugar?”

“Let me ask you a question first.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“O
h, sugar, I
am
ashamed of that.”

Dixie didn't want to explain. How could she, really? What sensible person would believe the power of the famous Butterfield kiss? It had started with Great-Grandma Butterfield and had been passed down through the generations directly to Dixie herself. All her life she'd been warned about abusing her gift. And now she'd gone and done it.

“I'm really sorry, sugar.”

And she was. But Dixie had to know Flynn a whole lot better before she explained herself to him. He just wasn't going to understand yet. So she said, “Let's talk about that later, okay? Take me to the Plaza.”

“The Plaza!” he echoed. “Are you out of your
mind?
”

“It's the safest place right now. Trust me.”

“I thought you wanted to get away from Joey Torrano, not walk straight into his bedroom!”

“It's my bedroom, not his.”

“You think that will stop him from sending his goons in to grab you?”

“Believe me, sugar, it's the best place for me right now.”

He growled something deep in his throat, but opened the throttle and pointed his motorcycle in the direction of the Plaza Hotel, where Dixie had set up housekeeping.

She held on tight while Flynn wove his motorcycle through Manhattan's weekend traffic.

The hotel loomed elegantly over the southernmost edge of Central Park. A line of horse-drawn carriages drowsed in the sun out front, awaiting tourists. A liveried doorman stood on the staircase, frequently moving down to open the doors of the limousines and taxis that disgorged Plaza guests. He directed a fleet of scurrying bellhops to carry scads of expensive luggage in and out of the grand hotel.

All these sights had seemed like part of a movie set when Dixie had first arrived in the city. Now she accepted them as part of her amazing new life.

A life she couldn't wait to leave behind.

Since her earliest memory, Dixie had been groomed for her shot at the Big Time. She had taken tap-dancing lessons and endured hours at her aunt Lucy's Sweet Creek Hair Boutique. She'd entered beauty pageants and talent contests since the age of four. She'd been the Dairy Princess and the Fire Queen and Miss Teen Texas.

Now—finally—here she was in the Big Apple with spotlights and autograph seekers and a hit show on Broadway. People sent flowers and candy and marriage proposals.

And Dixie couldn't stand it.

I'm going back to Texas as soon as I can,
she told herself.

But first there were a few loose ends to clean up.

Dixie clutched Flynn tightly when he swerved the bike across traffic to enter the Plaza. On the steps the doorman froze in his tracks as Flynn pulled his motorcycle under the hotel's expansive canopy and stopped. Flynn took one look at the disdainful doorman and made no move to get off the bike. Over his shoulder, he said to Dixie, “Look, this isn't exactly my kind of place.”

“Not mine, either,” Dixie retorted, clambering off the bike in a flounce of white satin. “But it's amazing how fast you can get used to luxury. Come on.”

“What for?”

She faced Flynn, determined to hang on to him a little longer. For the first time since arriving in New York, Dixie felt as if she'd found somebody she didn't want to lose just yet.

Being honest for the first time in a long while, she said, “I need your help. You have to come inside.”

Flynn looked stubborn. “Why?”

The hotel doorman marched over and sketched a bow. “Good afternoon, Miss Davis. We weren't expecting your return for a few hours.”

“Oh, hello, Barney. Uh—I'm planning a surprise for Joey.” She gave him a big grin and wound her arm sinuously around the doorman's burly elbow. “You'll play along with me, won't you?”

Barney responded with a blushing smile. He, too, had fallen for the charms Dixie just couldn't hide. “Of course, Miss Davis. I figured this was some kind of gag.” He indicated Flynn's motorcycle with an unflattering wave of his hand. “You don't usually travel like this.”

Flynn bristled at once and took off his helmet, as if readying for a fight. Quickly, Dixie intervened. “It's a gag, all right. Keep it under your hat, okay?” For good measure, she gave his doorman's cap a teasing flick with her manicured forefinger.

Barney gave her an adoring smile. “Okay, Miss Davis.”

When Barney had strolled away with the air of a conquering hero, Dixie swung desperately on Flynn once again. “Come in with me for a few minutes. Please?”

He glowered after the doorman. “Listen, Miss Davis—”

“Please. I may need some help with my luggage or with the police, so—”

“Police?” he repeated, forgetting the doorman's insult. He frowned at Dixie.

She felt herself blushing. “Oh, don't go being afraid of a little ol' posse! They've been trying to get into my suite for weeks, and I just don't feel like fending them off by myself anymore. You could just stand in the doorway and look dangerous, couldn't you, sugar?”

He hesitated. “What are the police looking for?”

“Incriminating evidence, I suppose.” Dixie sighed in exasperation. “Joey isn't exactly an angel, you know, so they've been trying to weasel their way into my bunkhouse for weeks. Oh, come on. It will only take a few minutes, sugar. Can't you play Galahad just a little longer?”

He considered the situation for another moment. He seemed to wrestle with his thoughts, then said almost unwillingly, “All right. A few minutes, that's all.”

“Wonderful!”

Impulsively, Dixie gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. She couldn't help herself. He was adorable, really. Dixie knew she shouldn't be passing out those potent Butterfield kisses right and left, but she couldn't resist. For the first time since hitting New York, she found herself with a man who really had some appeal. He was good-looking and delightfully wary of her flamboyant appearance.

He reacted to her kiss as if he'd been stung by a bee—a response that made Dixie laugh. “Sugar, I think you're trying too hard to be a tough guy!”

Her laughter flooded Flynn with irritation. He
liked
her kisses, damn her, but he suddenly had an inkling that something about Dixie Davis was a little dangerous.

She grabbed his hand. “Come on, sugar. My suite is upstairs.”

Her touch was almost as electric as her kiss. “What about my bike?”

“What about it?”

“I can't leave her here.”

She laughed again. “Her?”

Flynn's temper began to flare. “This is a valuable piece of machinery.”

“I'm sure,” she said, clearly not believing him for an instant. She turned and waved to summon the doorman again. “Barney will look after it. Especially if you tip him well. Barney!”

Flynn felt a moment's panic. “How much of a tip?”

“Joey usually gives him a hundred dollars.”

Flynn choked. He had about twenty-two bucks in his pocket—a sum that was supposed to pay for lunch and gas for the Harley. “But—”

Too late. Dixie was already using her sweet talk on the overstuffed doorman—an older man whose ears turned bright red when Dixie leaned close and cajoled him to take special care of the Harley.

Moments later she grabbed Flynn's hand again and dragged him into the Plaza Hotel.

Of course, he'd been in fancy hotels before. Plenty of times. Not exactly as a paying guest, of course, but police work tended to take a cop into all sorts of places—both good and bad.

But he'd never entered the Plaza with the likes of Dixie Davis.

Everyone in the lobby stopped doing whatever they were doing to get an eyeful of the Texas Tornado. The bellman leaned out over his desk to call his hello. The reservation clerks actually looked up from their computers to wave cheerily at their most infamous guest. Tourists turned and gaped. Some applauded.

Bold as brass, Dixie laughed and tilted her hat, then waved to her admirers like a beauty queen sailing down Main Street on a parade float. She kept moving at a brisk sashay—mostly, Flynn noted, to dodge the horde of people who pressed forward for her autograph.

With Flynn in tow, she dived into the nearest key-operated elevator. Dixie used a special security key conjured from inside the bodice of her dress, then she hit a button and collapsed against the rear wall just as the doors closed on a pushing crowd of fans.

“Whew!” She took off her hat and fanned her face.

“Is it like that everywhere you go?”

“Everywhere,” she agreed. “Except when I'm not Dixie Davis.”

“What?”

“You'll see,” she said with a wink. The elevator whisked them upward, and in a matter of seconds Flynn found himself following Dixie out of the elevator, through double white doors and into a luxury suite big enough for the NBA play-offs. Creamy white furniture, white carpets and a subtle white-on-white wallcovering stretched all the way to the huge windows overlooking a spectacular view of Central Park.

And there were flowers everywhere—roses in graceful arrangements, a single bud here and there, all with cards from fans.

But the suite's primary form of decoration was a life-size poster of Dixie Davis herself—spangled and primped and posing like a cowgirl from Mars who had just landed in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Her red, white and blue costume barely covered her spectacular figure, and her white boots were tasseled and pom-pommed. Her blond hair was huge. She was holding a shiny silver pistol that appeared to be shooting fireworks. Standing smack-dab on the coffee table in the middle of the living room, the poster created an awesome kind of altar to a living sex goddess.

Dixie threw her Stetson onto a sofa. “Make yourself at home, sugar.”

“Miss Davis—”

“Dixie, please. Let me change out of this getup and we'll talk, okay?”

“But—”

“And if anyone knocks on the door, don't let them in. Unless it's Maurice.”

“Who's Maurice?”

“The concierge. He'll be here any minute, I'm sure.” She exited the living room and half closed the door. She began to undress, Flynn judged by the sounds of swishing satin, but she continued to talk through the door by raising her voice. “Maurice is a worrier. Joey told him he'd better keep me happy while I'm staying here, and Maurice understood that to be some kind of threat, so he's always panicking when I change my plans. Poor Maurice will go ballistic when he realizes I've run out on my wedding.”

“It's not Maurice's fault.”

“Of course not. But he's afraid of Joey, you see. I can't imagine why. Joey's usually a teddy bear.”

Flynn considered what he knew about Joey Torrano, and nothing in the mobster's past made the man sound the least bit like a teddy bear. A grizzly bear, perhaps—one with a streak of vengeance and a nasty habit of making his employees disappear when they knew too much.

“Make yourself at home,” Dixie called from behind the half-closed door. “Sit down and relax. Or get yourself a drink. I'll only be a minute.”

Half to prevent himself wondering what Dixie Davis looked like while undressing, Flynn strolled around the suite to see what he could learn about its occupant. After all, for weeks the cops had failed to get into the suite to look for evidence that might help send Joey Torrano to jail. Now here was Flynn—actually invited into the perfect place to find something useful.

He studied the suite through narrowed eyes. A white grand piano stood in one corner, its surface scattered with sheet music covered with pencil notes. A skimpy black leotard had been abandoned over the back of a chair. Flynn picked it up without thinking, and studied the small scrap of fabric with a frown, wondering how it could possibly cover Dixie's voluptuous curves. On the floor at his feet, a pair of worn-looking tap shoes lay where they'd been kicked off.

Remembering why he'd agreed to come, Flynn carried the leotard with him as he looked around some more. A few books and magazines were stacked on a table, but they looked as if they'd been ignored by someone who spent every waking minute rehearsing. Using the remote control, he turned on the television and discovered that Dixie—or Joey—watched CNN instead of game shows or soap operas.

A kitchenette lay adjacent to the living room. A peek into the small refrigerator revealed half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout, a couple of containers of yogurt, some apples, carrots, and a six-pack of Mexican beer. From all the police files he'd read, Flynn knew that the mob boss's favorite drink was vodka. Clearly, the beer was for Dixie.

The beer kicked Flynn's imagination into overdrive again. His brain quickly concocted a scenario that included an undressed showgirl sharing a cold bottle with a very turned-on cop. Ever since her kiss, he'd been aroused. No woman had ever affected him like that before. Flynn wondered if all men reacted the same way to the Texas Tornado.

A tentative knock sounded at the suite's front door. Flynn slammed the refrigerator shut.

“Will you see who that is, sugar?” Dixie called from the other room. “I can't find my shirt!”

The thought of a topless Dixie answering the door sent Flynn hurrying to greet the visitor himself.

“Who is it?” he growled through the door.

“Maurice,” squeaked a terrified voice. “Is Miss Davis available?”

Flynn opened the door and stepped back to permit the concierge to enter. He was a panic-stricken little fellow in a black suit who scuttled instead of walked, and he wrung his hands as he rushed into the suite.

“Oh, Miss Dixie, I'm terribly— Oh! Where is Miss Davis?”

“Getting changed,” Flynn said shortly.

“Who are you?”

Flynn came up with a lie after a second's pause. “Her bodyguard.”

That was a logical explanation to the concierge. “I see. Is Miss Davis all right?”