The Cop And The Chorus Girl

Two

“Oh, 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?”

“I’ll be out in a minute, Maurice!” she caroled from the bedroom.

Pinpointing her location, Maurice forgot about Flynn and hurried to the bedroom door. “Oh, Miss Davis, I’m terribly sorry the Honeymoon Suite isn’t ready yet. We weren’t expecting you for several more hours and—”

“Cool your tamales, Maurice.”

The bedroom door opened, and another woman walked out into the suite.

She was even prettier than Dixie Davis—tall and slim, with laughing blue eyes and a wide, happy mouth. But she wasn’t caked with makeup or dressed like a ride at Disneyland. Gone was the flamboyant showgirl. In her place arrived a fresh-faced young woman with an eye-popping figure and a sweet smile. Barefoot and wearing a pair of snug, faded jeans and a man’s plain white T-shirt that was loose everywhere but across her generous breasts, she looked delectable and innocently young.

Her hair was blond and cut short in a face-framing pixie style that accentuated the sharpness of her chin and nose.

From one slender hand dangled an enormous blond wig.

Flynn blinked and realized the woman was Dixie Davis—but without her trademark haystack of hair, the gaudy clothes and the hooker’s makeup. She tossed her wig onto the sofa beside her hat.

Flynn was speechless. Her transformation was amazing.

“Now, Maurice,” she soothed, curling her arm around the concierge’s trembling one. “Don’t worry about a thing. I just came up with a plan to surprise Joey.”

“A—a surprise?”

“Precisely. I hope I can count on you to help?”

“Well, I—I— It won’t get me—or the hotel—into any trouble, will it?”

“Of course not!” She laughed sweetly. “Would I toss you into the pigpen, Maurice?”

“Not you, Miss Davis, but Mr. Torrano is—”

“Just leave Joey to me, Maurice.” She patted his arm placatingly.

“Will you be moving to the Honeymoon Suite?” the concierge asked, still a little nervous.

Dixie bit her lip as if to hold back a flirtatious smile and shook her head. “Not yet. I’d like to stay in this suite without Joey knowing I’m here. For just a couple of days, you understand.”

A smile broke across the concierge’s perspiring face. “Oh, of course, Miss Davis!”

“You’ll keep an eye peeped for Joey, right? I, er, don’t want his surprise spoiled.”

“I’ll alert security immediately.” The little man bent forward and bestowed a kiss on Dixie’s hand. “You can count on the Plaza, Miss Davis.”

A dimple popped on her cheek as she smiled. “That’s wonderful, Maurice.”

She ushered him to the door of the suite. “Now, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be out of your hair quicker than an armadillo out of a sausage grinder, I promise!”

“You can stay as long as you like, Miss Davis.”

“That’s downright neighborly, Maurice, honey.”

When the concierge was gone, Dixie leaned against the closed door and said with an amused sigh, “He’ll change that tune as soon as Joey stops paying my bill.”

Flynn folded his arms across his chest. “Miss Davis, I think you’ve got some explaining to do. I don’t understand most of what’s going on. Maybe it would be better if I just left.”

“No! Please, don’t go.”

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“Well, could you take a few days off from the garage?” she asked, heading for the kitchenette.

Flynn followed. “The garage?”

“Where you work on your motorbikes. Couldn’t you take a little vacation?”

“What for?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Flynn’s imagination immediately came up with several possible propositions—all of them including scenarios that required the removal of clothing that casually clung to Dixie’s curvaceous figure. Flynn had a good idea of what she would look like naked, but he wondered exactly what shade her nipples might be, what the texture of her skin would feel like, how her voice might sound softly whispering nonsense in his ear. He could feel his whole body tingle and harden at the thoughts that crowded into his mind.

Unaware of Flynn’s nosedive into sexual fantasy, she opened the refrigerator and removed two apples. Calmly, she offered him one of the pieces of fruit. “I’d like you to stick around and help me.”

He accepted the apple automatically, although he wasn’t thinking about his stomach. “Doing what?”

“I heard you tell Maurice you were my bodyguard.” She polished her apple on the belly of her T-shirt and regarded Flynn. “That was pretty quick thinking.”

“I had to come up with something.”

She bit into her apple and chewed, studying Flynn carefully. “Would you be interested in the job?”

“What job?”

“Guarding my body. So to speak, that is.” She swallowed her bite of apple and headed for the living room in an easy saunter that showed how perfectly her jeans fit the curves of her hips and thighs. “I mean, I might be needing some protection. Nothing life threatening, but it would be nice knowing there was somebody around here if I needed a—well, a witness or something.”

“You want somebody to beat up your boyfriend if he comes around,” Flynn guessed.

“Heavens, no! Although I’m still amazed by the way you stopped George in his tracks.” Dixie sat down on the sofa and folded her long legs Indian-style. “Joey’s not a violent man. But sometimes he loses his temper.”

“And then what happens?”

“He shouts a lot,” she admitted, studying her apple. “I hate shouting, so I’d like to avoid him. I want somebody around for a few days while I take care of some business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Theater stuff. Don’t worry.”

But Flynn was worried. As a cop he knew he’d never get a better chance to get the goods on Joey Torrano. The Organized Crime Unit had spent the past two years trying to dig up evidence to use against the nefarious mob boss, but nothing useful had landed in the laps of the police. Until now.

But looking at Dixie Davis as she sat on the sofa nibbling her apple and looking anything but prim, Flynn knew it would take a stronger man than himself to resist her charms long enough to locate some evidence against her mobster boyfriend.

She looked up, and her blue eyes seemed endlessly deep as she awaited Flynn’s answer. Her bottom lip was moist from the apple. Her blond hair wisped delicately along her temples, and Flynn’s fingers itched to brush it away from her brows. There he’d press light, nibbling kisses.

“What do you say?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. “I could pay you—oh, a hundred dollars a day. Plus expenses if you don’t like expensive restaurants. How about it?”

Flynn didn’t trust his voice and cleared his throat before speaking. “You don’t know anything about me.”

She smiled. “I’m a quick judge of character.”

“Quick doesn’t mean good. Maybe I’m your worst enemy.”

“I don’t kiss my worst enemies,” she said softly. “And they don’t kiss me back the way you did.”

Flynn’s mouth went completely dry. “Miss Davis—”

“I have rules about men,” she said quickly. “I don’t let anybody get too close. I know what I look like—some kind of cheap call girl, right?”

“Not right now.”

With a wry smile, she ruffled her short hair. “But most of the time I look like a hooker on parade. Believe me, I know. It’s all an act, though. It’s show business. But I’ve learned not to trust men, you see. When I’m all dolled up, I know what most guys are after. But you’re different.”

“Maybe not very different,” Flynn said dryly, thinking about the erotic fantasies he’d already indulged in.

She laughed lightly. “Yes, different. When I saw you on your motorcycle, you had a look in your eye. Kind of faraway. But definitely trustworthy.”

Flynn bristled. “Believe me, Miss Davis, I’m not a Boy Scout.”

“Let’s put it this way,” she said hastily. “You looked safe. And you turned out to be the right man for the job today. Couldn’t you stick with it a little longer?”

Flynn hesitated. “How long are we talking about?”

Her expression brightened. “A couple of days, that’s all I need to clear up a few things. You could stay here and sleep on the sofa. Please?”

The sight of her ingenuous smile made Flynn’s heart turn over. With her simple haircut and no makeup, she was even more appealing than the woman who’d kissed him in the street. This one was just as sexy, though. Just as beautiful. And she wore her heart on her sleeve.

He quelled the response that rose within him and said, “I have to make a phone call first. In private.”

“Sure!” She bounded off the sofa and threw her arms around his shoulders. “Oh, Flynn, I really appreciate this!”

She felt fabulous in his arms—her body lithe and full, her perfume sweet and tantalizing. How could she avoid sensing how turned on he was by her? She brushed another quick, electrifying kiss on Flynn’s cheek and sent a dizzying smile up at him.

“Thanks.”

Then she hurried away to the bedroom and closed the door, leaving Flynn stunned and shaken. He waited until his blood pressure returned to normal before making contact with his superior officer.