The Cop And The Chorus Girl
The Cop And The Chorus Girl
Nancy Martin
New York's FinestWhat was a nice-guy cop to do when his motorcycle was hijacked by a blond bombshell fleeing a church in a wedding gown? Rescue her, of course. Particularly when the reluctant bride was none other than gum-cracking, down-home Dixie Davis, all-American sexpot! Runaway BrideThanks to Patrick Flynn, Dixie had escaped marrying a notorious gangster. Straitlaced Yankees weren't usually her type, but Dixie had a powerful hankerin' for her impromptu bodyguard. And sooner or later, Flynn was bound to take notice of the body he was guarding!
The Cop and the Chorus Girl
Nancy Martin
Contents
Chapter One (#u416a1b7a-73e4-583e-82d0-0319cf74ac36)
Chapter Two (#ud6fa8518-c447-5340-a957-62df9dd7b0da)
Chapter Three (#u38cf7927-a016-576a-8f12-ba52937dd7f9)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
One
“Every cabdriver in New York must think he’s a jet pilot,” muttered Patrick Flynn, after swerving his vintage Harley-Davidson to avoid the taxi that came roaring onto Fifth Avenue like a guided missile. “Hey, buddy,” he shouted at the driver, “you tryin’ to kill me?”
But it was Flynn who intended to commit murder if anyone so much as scratched his precious motorcycle. He’d spent four years rebuilding this beauty in the living room of his West Side apartment, and he didn’t plan on seeing his labor of love get the slightest bump on her maiden voyage around the streets of Manhattan.
“Take it easy, will ya?” he bellowed after the cab.
“Aw, take the bus, pal!”
Grumbling about the deterioration of mankind’s appreciation for quality machinery, Flynn pulled over to the curb and let the rest of the traffic thunder by. It was at that moment that he thought he heard a distinct ping in the Harley’s engine. Quickly, Flynn set both boots down on the pavement, then removed his helmet and leaned down to listen more carefully.
Or rather, he pretended to listen.
To any unsuspecting passerby, he probably looked like an average guy innocently listening to his motorcycle.
In reality, Flynn was a cop on surveillance. Within a two-block radius, he noted two additional plainclothesmen in a nondescript sedan, one more posing as a panhandler on the corner, and a woman pretending to window-shop across the street. Flynn feigned concern for his bike.
But the Harley’s matchless engine purred in perfect synchronization, causing the frame of the bike to throb with delicious power just waiting to be tapped. Hiding a grin, Flynn decided that he’d never heard a more beautiful sound than a perfectly tuned motorcycle engine. The fact that he had tuned that machinery with his own loving hands—well, with a little help from his brother, Sean—gave Flynn enormous pleasure.
Then a scream shattered his perfect moment.
“What the—” Flynn looked up in time to see one hysterical woman fling herself out the doorway of a nearby church. She spun around and promptly began struggling to slam the massive oak doors closed behind herself.
“Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me!”
All the cops froze in horror. Here was an unexpected development.
“Help!”
She was dressed in a gaudy white bridal gown—complete with at least five pounds of pearls and a satin train that dragged behind her like the tail of a slightly drunken peacock. Her lace veil hung crookedly from—yes, it was a sparkly white cowboy hat. Flynn squinted to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. A cowboy bride? She carried an armload of bluebonnets and staggered on a pair of white cowboy boots with pointed toes. New Yorkers get accustomed to seeing almost anything on the streets, but this was definitely something new to Flynn.
“Help!” she shouted again, much to the amazement of all the cops plus two passing joggers and one homeless woman pushing a wobbly shopping cart. “Please, somebody help!”
She looked like a country-western singer on her way to the Grand Ole Opry to marry an Elvis impersonator. Even for New York, she looked unusual. So nobody made a move to help the woman.
By herself, she managed to yank her massive train through the church doors, then slam them hard. Her veil tilted sideways, unleashing a haystack of long blond hair from beneath the Stetson. Then she flattened herself against the doors to keep them closed, breathing hard and shoving her hair aside. “For cryin’ out loud, somebody help me!”
The joggers picked up their pace and ran away. All the cops pretended hearing loss.
With a frustrated howl, the bride threw down the flowers and hopped on one foot while yanking off one boot. She wedged the boot between the two door handles to hold the doors shut just as someone began pounding on the door from inside.
“Hey,” the homeless woman called up the church steps. “Are you crazy, girl?”
“No,” snapped the bride. “At least not as crazy as they think I am!”
With that, she left her boot between the door handles and hobbled hastily down the stone steps of the church. Snatching off her cowboy hat, she looked up and down the street and began to wave it frantically. “Taxi! Taxi! Why can’t I ever get a cab in this godforsaken city?” she wailed. “Taxi! Hey, I— Oh, damnation!”
She laid eyes on Flynn and made a beeline in his direction. “What the hell are you?” she demanded. “An inner-city biker?”
“What the hell are you?” he retorted, not exactly coming up with brilliant repartee.
“Don’t go asking a bunch of dumb Yankee questions,” she ordered with exasperation, still hobbling with one boot on and one boot off. “Just get me out of here! And hurry! He’s going to kill me!”
She had a gigantic mane of corn yellow hair and eyes bluer than a prairie sky. Her skin was milky white beneath a breathless blush, and her lips were a luscious shade of red. Too red, perhaps. And her breasts threatened to overflow her dress at any second. She looked like a riverboat gambler’s shady lady encased in all that snug white satin. Voluptuous was a word that sprang to Flynn’s momentarily stunned mind. Her eyelashes were like velvet, her earrings were huge globs of glittery rhinestone. Her wedding dress looked like a cartoonist’s idea of a fairy-tale gown—all sparkly and poufed and exaggerated.
“You hearing me, sugar?” she demanded, hunkering down to glare straight into Flynn’s face. “I’m runnin’ for my life! Don’t start cross-examining me like some kind of city-slicker lawyer, just help me, huh?”
Behind her the church doors burst open and six very large men in tight black tuxedos tumbled onto the steps, grunting and shouting at each other. One pointed at the runaway bride and yelled, “There she goes! Grab her, quick!”
The woman hitched up her voluminous dress, letting all New York glimpse a saloon showgirl’s long legs, complete with red lace garters around her shapely thighs.
And a pistol tucked inside one of the garters.
She ripped the little gun out of its hiding place and pointed it directly at Flynn’s nose. “You’ve just been elected my Knight in Shining Armor, sugar. So move over and let me on your horse!”
Flynn clenched his teeth and remained calm. “Forget it.”
Her lovely mouth fell open. “I’ve got a gun!”
“I can see that.”
“A gun means you have to do what I say!”
“I don’t think so, lady.”
She stared at him, and Flynn heard an emergency alarm start blaring inside his brain. In fact, his entire body was suddenly flooding with panic. It was crazy—crazy—to stand up to a gun-wielding nut like this! But he couldn’t obey her. He couldn’t. Not even with half-a-dozen goons bearing down on them like paratroopers storming the beach at Normandy. Every cop had to make a stand sometime, and this was Flynn’s time.
Her beautiful face registered shock. “Listen, sugar, I’m gonna put a bullet through that thick head of yours if you don’t help me right this minute!”
“Sorry. There’s nothing you can do to make me get involved.”
“Nothing, huh? We’ll see about that!”
She grabbed the front of his black T-shirt with one hand and swooped close. Before Flynn could take a breath, she was suddenly kissing him.
Kissing him! Her full lips fastened on to his as if she were staking a claim, making her mark, claiming a prize. She was hot, wet, delicious, Flynn realized dimly. Sweet and spicy at the same time. Sexy and teasing and oh, so good. Her kiss packed a wallop of excitement.
For Flynn, time stopped. Talk about crazy. The city spun like a carousel and disappeared in a puff of sensual smoke. His whole world was suddenly this big, beautiful woman who smelled wonderful, tasted magical, and felt something like a wild animal as she pressed up against him. Jolted by a surge as powerful as any electrical current, Flynn felt all his strength drain away. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move.
And he didn’t want to. It was magic. Black magic, maybe. Her kiss turned Flynn’s insides to a cauldron of boiling hormones. He forgot his job, forgot his mission—hell, he even forgot his name.
Sex, he thought. The idea pierced him like an arrow. That’s what he wanted. Now. With her. Let the kiss go on forever, prayed a voice he didn’t recognize at first. Let their mouths melt together for eternity. Let their clothes evaporate, let their bodies meld into one hot, pulsing—
Just as suddenly as she’d started the whole thing, she pulled away and stared straight into Flynn’s eyes with magnetic power. Her face was instantly carved into his mind forever. Those lashes, that pointed nose, those delicate brows. And that delicious, perfect mouth.
“Help me,” she breathed.
Flynn didn’t think. There wasn’t time—there wasn’t any need. He’d had one kiss and he wanted more. Lots more. Logic self-destructed. Common sense died a fiery death.
The men in tuxedos arrived in a puffing, sweaty pack, all grunting commands at each other. One of them grabbed the woman’s arm. She cried out.
Flynn threw a punch—a lucky left-handed one. It connected with the man’s chin and sent him sprawling on the sidewalk.
Another man—this one bigger and more determined—aimed a karate-style kick at Flynn’s head. But he was far too slow. Flynn ducked instinctively, then seized the flying ankle and sent the man sailing backward. He landed on the curb with an explosive “Ooof!”
“My hero!”
Flynn slammed on his helmet and gunned the Harley as the woman gathered up her dress and climbed on sidesaddle behind him. Then he laid a patch of burned rubber on the pavement and they took off.
As they whipped into traffic, his passenger gave a whoop of triumph that sounded like “Yii-ha!” She tore the veil off her cowboy hat and threw it up into the air as they roared down Fifth Avenue. Taxis swerved, horns blared and pedestrians stopped to watch as Flynn opened the throttle and shot the Harley through an intersection with his passenger laughing and waving her hat with triumphant glee behind him.
“Use your spurs!” she cried, hugging him tight with one slender arm. “Oh, I’ve always had a hankering for men in black leather!”
“Are you insane?” Flynn demanded, shaken. His lips were still burning as they roared away from the church and cut up a side street.
“This is the sanest I’ve felt in weeks, sugar. How fast can this clunker go?”
“Clunker? This is a genuine— Why, I rebuilt this machine myself and I won’t have anybody— Good God, put that gun away!”
“This little ol’ peashooter? Honey, back in Texas we’d call this a toy!”
It was one of those miraculous Saturdays in May—not a cloud in the sky and New York’s streets were newly washed of winter grime. Thousands of people were strolling on the sidewalks—now all pointing and shouting at Flynn’s Harley, it seemed. He could hardly keep the bike moving in a straight line and it wobbled dangerously in traffic.
She leaned close. “Am I making you nervous, sugar?”
“Hell, yes, you’re making me nervous!” In more ways than one, he wanted to add, not exactly sure of what had happened back there at the church. One kiss was turning him into a brainless mass of jelly.
“Whaddaya know,” she mused with another whooping laugh. “An honest man!” She put her chin against his shoulder and snuggled close enough for her breath to tickle Flynn’s ear. “Tell you what—I’ll put away my peashooter if you promise to behave yourself.”
“Behave my— What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just do what I say.” She waggled the pistol in front of him. “Promise?”
A sweat had broken out on Flynn’s brow. “All right, all right! I promise.”
“Good.” She wriggled around, no doubt tucking the pistol back inside her garter. “Now,” she commanded serenely, once the weapon was dispatched, “take me someplace safe.”
“I have a feeling no place on earth is safe with you around,” he retorted, meaning it.
She laughed delightedly and slid both arms around his waist. “That’s what my daddy always said! You’re a pretty perceptive guy, sugar—for a Yankee.”
Flynn’s perceptions were working overtime as she tightened her arms snugly around his waist and trailed one hand up his chest to balance herself. He could feel the curve of her breasts against his back, and the heady scent of her perfume filled his helmet in a dizzying cloud. Her body melded naturally with his as they took a corner.
What the hell was happening?
If Flynn hadn’t been able to feel her body against his, he couldn’t have been sure that she was real. Something had happened. Something amazing and somehow terrible. Flynn had never bolted out of a surveillance detail before. But here he was—acting like a maniac for one fantastic kiss.
Worse yet, he was contributing to a public spectacle!
Her trailing white gown and yellow hair whipping out from under her hat caused heads to turn up and down the street, but Flynn had to rely on his other senses to make a judgment about her. The Texas drawl and cowboy laugh sounded brash and cocky, but he thought he could feel the swift hammer of the woman’s heart beating against his shoulder blade. And the tremble of her hand as she clasped Flynn’s chest felt as if it was caused by something other than the shudder of the Harley’s engine.
But she kept up her bluff, saying blithely, “You’re in charge of this rescue, sugar, so go ahead and get me out of here!”
“Where do you want to go?” Flynn guided the bike up the street, half hoping she’d declare her desire to be nowhere but in the nearest bed with him. But his mind was beginning to function again, so he said, “The airport? Grand Central?”
“Heavens, no, there’d be a riot.”
“A riot?”
“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?”
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.
Flynn telephoned Sergeant Dominick Kello, currently in charge of the Torrano investigation within the Organized Crime Unit of the N.Y.P.D. Flynn got through to the sergeant quickly and summarized his situation.
Sergeant Kello could hardly believe their good fortune. “This is the best break we’ve had in months!”
“I’m not so sure,” Flynn began. “What if I jeopardize the case?”
“What case? We haven’t got a case! Maybe you’ll finally get something we can use!”
“But she seems pretty innocent to me—”
“This is great!” crowed the sergeant, not hearing a word Flynn was saying. He covered the receiver, no doubt jubilantly announcing the news to the rest of the squad room. Flynn could hear the excited cheers and catcalls of his fellow cops as they heard where he was. Then the sergeant came back on the line. “Stick as close as you can, Flynn. Be her bodyguard, her chauffeur, her frigging costume changer if you have to!”
“I think that would be a very bad idea.”
“It’s a damn brilliant idea! Why are you so uptight?”
“Because she’s—”
Again the sergeant’s voice cut across his. “Listen, Flynn. Do you have any idea how many guys would kill for this assignment? All you have to do is hang around a beautiful woman!”
An extremely attractive woman, Flynn thought, clenching his jaw. Did Sergeant Kello have any idea how difficult it might be to simply think straight in the presence of somebody as sexy as Dixie Davis?
“Just stay there,” his boss commanded. “Do whatever you have to do to get us some information we can use to nail Torrano. Got that, Flynn? Whatever you have to do!”
Three
Dixie emerged from her bedroom wearing her huge wig again, along with a pair of fire-engine red cowboy boots, her tight blue jeans and a mouth-watering T-shirt. She carried a slouchy canvas bag over her shoulder and twirled a pair of cactus-shaped sunglasses in one hand.
Flynn put down the newspaper he’d been pretending to read after snooping through her suite. He had told himself he’d better snoop to keep himself from peeking through her bedroom keyhole.
At once, he noticed she was ready to leave. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the theater, of course.”
He sat up straight. “The what?”
“I’ve got a show to do!”
Flynn scrambled up from the sofa. “What do you mean, a show? This was supposed to be your wedding day!”
“I’m the star of The Flatfoot and the Floozie,” she reminded him simply. “I’ve got seven shows a week—including matinees on Wednesday and Sunday. Unless I’m dying, I have to go to the theater.”
“But—but—” Flynn found himself sputtering with amazement. “I thought you wanted to hide from Joey Torrano! How can you do that on a Broadway stage?”
“That’s your job,” she said with a laugh. “You’re my new bodyguard, remember?”
“You can’t possibly—I don’t believe—”
But Dixie whirled away from him in a flounce of blond wig. Flynn tailed her to the door, where she checked her appearance one more time in the gilded mirror that hung there. Her reflection was enough to take a strong man’s breath away.
She tugged an imaginary stray eyelash straight, then met Flynn’s goggling gaze in the mirror. She smiled. “Well, how do I look?”
“You’re not exactly going to blend into the scenery while sneaking out of the hotel.”
“Is that a compliment?” She headed for the door and seconds later stepped into the elevator.
“A statement of fact.” Flynn got in the elevator, too. “You’re not the kind of woman anyone can ignore.”
“Thanks—I think. But don’t worry. I’ve got a cab waiting in the alley outside the hotel kitchen. Nobody will see me leave. Will you come along?”
“That’s my new job, right?”
“Yes—if you still want it.”
“I just don’t think running around the city is a very good idea.”
“People are counting on me. Tonight’s performance is sold out.”
“Don’t you have an understudy?”
“I am the understudy,” she reminded him. “Joey replaced the original star with me. We haven’t had time to train somebody else. I have to go on.”
“This seems like a crazy way to avoid the man you stood up at the church today.”
“I know I can’t avoid him forever. But I’m going to try until I can get a few things settled at the theater.” As the elevator cruised to a stop in the basement, she shouldered her canvas bag again. “Ready?”
The elevator swished open, depositing Dixie and Flynn in the midst of the hotel’s vast, bustling kitchen. The white-coated staff was deeply involved in preparing for the dinner hour, so hardly anyone looked up from their work to take notice of the two strangers slipping through their midst. But just as they neared the door, a shout went up and suddenly the whole kitchen was asking for autographs and pressing close.
Flynn fended off the mob and let Dixie slip out the door. She waved and called hello to everyone, but moments later Dixie was sliding across the back seat of a waiting taxi. Flynn climbed in after her.
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Nancy Martin
New York's FinestWhat was a nice-guy cop to do when his motorcycle was hijacked by a blond bombshell fleeing a church in a wedding gown? Rescue her, of course. Particularly when the reluctant bride was none other than gum-cracking, down-home Dixie Davis, all-American sexpot! Runaway BrideThanks to Patrick Flynn, Dixie had escaped marrying a notorious gangster. Straitlaced Yankees weren't usually her type, but Dixie had a powerful hankerin' for her impromptu bodyguard. And sooner or later, Flynn was bound to take notice of the body he was guarding!
The Cop and the Chorus Girl
Nancy Martin
Contents
Chapter One (#u416a1b7a-73e4-583e-82d0-0319cf74ac36)
Chapter Two (#ud6fa8518-c447-5340-a957-62df9dd7b0da)
Chapter Three (#u38cf7927-a016-576a-8f12-ba52937dd7f9)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
One
“Every cabdriver in New York must think he’s a jet pilot,” muttered Patrick Flynn, after swerving his vintage Harley-Davidson to avoid the taxi that came roaring onto Fifth Avenue like a guided missile. “Hey, buddy,” he shouted at the driver, “you tryin’ to kill me?”
But it was Flynn who intended to commit murder if anyone so much as scratched his precious motorcycle. He’d spent four years rebuilding this beauty in the living room of his West Side apartment, and he didn’t plan on seeing his labor of love get the slightest bump on her maiden voyage around the streets of Manhattan.
“Take it easy, will ya?” he bellowed after the cab.
“Aw, take the bus, pal!”
Grumbling about the deterioration of mankind’s appreciation for quality machinery, Flynn pulled over to the curb and let the rest of the traffic thunder by. It was at that moment that he thought he heard a distinct ping in the Harley’s engine. Quickly, Flynn set both boots down on the pavement, then removed his helmet and leaned down to listen more carefully.
Or rather, he pretended to listen.
To any unsuspecting passerby, he probably looked like an average guy innocently listening to his motorcycle.
In reality, Flynn was a cop on surveillance. Within a two-block radius, he noted two additional plainclothesmen in a nondescript sedan, one more posing as a panhandler on the corner, and a woman pretending to window-shop across the street. Flynn feigned concern for his bike.
But the Harley’s matchless engine purred in perfect synchronization, causing the frame of the bike to throb with delicious power just waiting to be tapped. Hiding a grin, Flynn decided that he’d never heard a more beautiful sound than a perfectly tuned motorcycle engine. The fact that he had tuned that machinery with his own loving hands—well, with a little help from his brother, Sean—gave Flynn enormous pleasure.
Then a scream shattered his perfect moment.
“What the—” Flynn looked up in time to see one hysterical woman fling herself out the doorway of a nearby church. She spun around and promptly began struggling to slam the massive oak doors closed behind herself.
“Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me!”
All the cops froze in horror. Here was an unexpected development.
“Help!”
She was dressed in a gaudy white bridal gown—complete with at least five pounds of pearls and a satin train that dragged behind her like the tail of a slightly drunken peacock. Her lace veil hung crookedly from—yes, it was a sparkly white cowboy hat. Flynn squinted to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. A cowboy bride? She carried an armload of bluebonnets and staggered on a pair of white cowboy boots with pointed toes. New Yorkers get accustomed to seeing almost anything on the streets, but this was definitely something new to Flynn.
“Help!” she shouted again, much to the amazement of all the cops plus two passing joggers and one homeless woman pushing a wobbly shopping cart. “Please, somebody help!”
She looked like a country-western singer on her way to the Grand Ole Opry to marry an Elvis impersonator. Even for New York, she looked unusual. So nobody made a move to help the woman.
By herself, she managed to yank her massive train through the church doors, then slam them hard. Her veil tilted sideways, unleashing a haystack of long blond hair from beneath the Stetson. Then she flattened herself against the doors to keep them closed, breathing hard and shoving her hair aside. “For cryin’ out loud, somebody help me!”
The joggers picked up their pace and ran away. All the cops pretended hearing loss.
With a frustrated howl, the bride threw down the flowers and hopped on one foot while yanking off one boot. She wedged the boot between the two door handles to hold the doors shut just as someone began pounding on the door from inside.
“Hey,” the homeless woman called up the church steps. “Are you crazy, girl?”
“No,” snapped the bride. “At least not as crazy as they think I am!”
With that, she left her boot between the door handles and hobbled hastily down the stone steps of the church. Snatching off her cowboy hat, she looked up and down the street and began to wave it frantically. “Taxi! Taxi! Why can’t I ever get a cab in this godforsaken city?” she wailed. “Taxi! Hey, I— Oh, damnation!”
She laid eyes on Flynn and made a beeline in his direction. “What the hell are you?” she demanded. “An inner-city biker?”
“What the hell are you?” he retorted, not exactly coming up with brilliant repartee.
“Don’t go asking a bunch of dumb Yankee questions,” she ordered with exasperation, still hobbling with one boot on and one boot off. “Just get me out of here! And hurry! He’s going to kill me!”
She had a gigantic mane of corn yellow hair and eyes bluer than a prairie sky. Her skin was milky white beneath a breathless blush, and her lips were a luscious shade of red. Too red, perhaps. And her breasts threatened to overflow her dress at any second. She looked like a riverboat gambler’s shady lady encased in all that snug white satin. Voluptuous was a word that sprang to Flynn’s momentarily stunned mind. Her eyelashes were like velvet, her earrings were huge globs of glittery rhinestone. Her wedding dress looked like a cartoonist’s idea of a fairy-tale gown—all sparkly and poufed and exaggerated.
“You hearing me, sugar?” she demanded, hunkering down to glare straight into Flynn’s face. “I’m runnin’ for my life! Don’t start cross-examining me like some kind of city-slicker lawyer, just help me, huh?”
Behind her the church doors burst open and six very large men in tight black tuxedos tumbled onto the steps, grunting and shouting at each other. One pointed at the runaway bride and yelled, “There she goes! Grab her, quick!”
The woman hitched up her voluminous dress, letting all New York glimpse a saloon showgirl’s long legs, complete with red lace garters around her shapely thighs.
And a pistol tucked inside one of the garters.
She ripped the little gun out of its hiding place and pointed it directly at Flynn’s nose. “You’ve just been elected my Knight in Shining Armor, sugar. So move over and let me on your horse!”
Flynn clenched his teeth and remained calm. “Forget it.”
Her lovely mouth fell open. “I’ve got a gun!”
“I can see that.”
“A gun means you have to do what I say!”
“I don’t think so, lady.”
She stared at him, and Flynn heard an emergency alarm start blaring inside his brain. In fact, his entire body was suddenly flooding with panic. It was crazy—crazy—to stand up to a gun-wielding nut like this! But he couldn’t obey her. He couldn’t. Not even with half-a-dozen goons bearing down on them like paratroopers storming the beach at Normandy. Every cop had to make a stand sometime, and this was Flynn’s time.
Her beautiful face registered shock. “Listen, sugar, I’m gonna put a bullet through that thick head of yours if you don’t help me right this minute!”
“Sorry. There’s nothing you can do to make me get involved.”
“Nothing, huh? We’ll see about that!”
She grabbed the front of his black T-shirt with one hand and swooped close. Before Flynn could take a breath, she was suddenly kissing him.
Kissing him! Her full lips fastened on to his as if she were staking a claim, making her mark, claiming a prize. She was hot, wet, delicious, Flynn realized dimly. Sweet and spicy at the same time. Sexy and teasing and oh, so good. Her kiss packed a wallop of excitement.
For Flynn, time stopped. Talk about crazy. The city spun like a carousel and disappeared in a puff of sensual smoke. His whole world was suddenly this big, beautiful woman who smelled wonderful, tasted magical, and felt something like a wild animal as she pressed up against him. Jolted by a surge as powerful as any electrical current, Flynn felt all his strength drain away. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move.
And he didn’t want to. It was magic. Black magic, maybe. Her kiss turned Flynn’s insides to a cauldron of boiling hormones. He forgot his job, forgot his mission—hell, he even forgot his name.
Sex, he thought. The idea pierced him like an arrow. That’s what he wanted. Now. With her. Let the kiss go on forever, prayed a voice he didn’t recognize at first. Let their mouths melt together for eternity. Let their clothes evaporate, let their bodies meld into one hot, pulsing—
Just as suddenly as she’d started the whole thing, she pulled away and stared straight into Flynn’s eyes with magnetic power. Her face was instantly carved into his mind forever. Those lashes, that pointed nose, those delicate brows. And that delicious, perfect mouth.
“Help me,” she breathed.
Flynn didn’t think. There wasn’t time—there wasn’t any need. He’d had one kiss and he wanted more. Lots more. Logic self-destructed. Common sense died a fiery death.
The men in tuxedos arrived in a puffing, sweaty pack, all grunting commands at each other. One of them grabbed the woman’s arm. She cried out.
Flynn threw a punch—a lucky left-handed one. It connected with the man’s chin and sent him sprawling on the sidewalk.
Another man—this one bigger and more determined—aimed a karate-style kick at Flynn’s head. But he was far too slow. Flynn ducked instinctively, then seized the flying ankle and sent the man sailing backward. He landed on the curb with an explosive “Ooof!”
“My hero!”
Flynn slammed on his helmet and gunned the Harley as the woman gathered up her dress and climbed on sidesaddle behind him. Then he laid a patch of burned rubber on the pavement and they took off.
As they whipped into traffic, his passenger gave a whoop of triumph that sounded like “Yii-ha!” She tore the veil off her cowboy hat and threw it up into the air as they roared down Fifth Avenue. Taxis swerved, horns blared and pedestrians stopped to watch as Flynn opened the throttle and shot the Harley through an intersection with his passenger laughing and waving her hat with triumphant glee behind him.
“Use your spurs!” she cried, hugging him tight with one slender arm. “Oh, I’ve always had a hankering for men in black leather!”
“Are you insane?” Flynn demanded, shaken. His lips were still burning as they roared away from the church and cut up a side street.
“This is the sanest I’ve felt in weeks, sugar. How fast can this clunker go?”
“Clunker? This is a genuine— Why, I rebuilt this machine myself and I won’t have anybody— Good God, put that gun away!”
“This little ol’ peashooter? Honey, back in Texas we’d call this a toy!”
It was one of those miraculous Saturdays in May—not a cloud in the sky and New York’s streets were newly washed of winter grime. Thousands of people were strolling on the sidewalks—now all pointing and shouting at Flynn’s Harley, it seemed. He could hardly keep the bike moving in a straight line and it wobbled dangerously in traffic.
She leaned close. “Am I making you nervous, sugar?”
“Hell, yes, you’re making me nervous!” In more ways than one, he wanted to add, not exactly sure of what had happened back there at the church. One kiss was turning him into a brainless mass of jelly.
“Whaddaya know,” she mused with another whooping laugh. “An honest man!” She put her chin against his shoulder and snuggled close enough for her breath to tickle Flynn’s ear. “Tell you what—I’ll put away my peashooter if you promise to behave yourself.”
“Behave my— What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just do what I say.” She waggled the pistol in front of him. “Promise?”
A sweat had broken out on Flynn’s brow. “All right, all right! I promise.”
“Good.” She wriggled around, no doubt tucking the pistol back inside her garter. “Now,” she commanded serenely, once the weapon was dispatched, “take me someplace safe.”
“I have a feeling no place on earth is safe with you around,” he retorted, meaning it.
She laughed delightedly and slid both arms around his waist. “That’s what my daddy always said! You’re a pretty perceptive guy, sugar—for a Yankee.”
Flynn’s perceptions were working overtime as she tightened her arms snugly around his waist and trailed one hand up his chest to balance herself. He could feel the curve of her breasts against his back, and the heady scent of her perfume filled his helmet in a dizzying cloud. Her body melded naturally with his as they took a corner.
What the hell was happening?
If Flynn hadn’t been able to feel her body against his, he couldn’t have been sure that she was real. Something had happened. Something amazing and somehow terrible. Flynn had never bolted out of a surveillance detail before. But here he was—acting like a maniac for one fantastic kiss.
Worse yet, he was contributing to a public spectacle!
Her trailing white gown and yellow hair whipping out from under her hat caused heads to turn up and down the street, but Flynn had to rely on his other senses to make a judgment about her. The Texas drawl and cowboy laugh sounded brash and cocky, but he thought he could feel the swift hammer of the woman’s heart beating against his shoulder blade. And the tremble of her hand as she clasped Flynn’s chest felt as if it was caused by something other than the shudder of the Harley’s engine.
But she kept up her bluff, saying blithely, “You’re in charge of this rescue, sugar, so go ahead and get me out of here!”
“Where do you want to go?” Flynn guided the bike up the street, half hoping she’d declare her desire to be nowhere but in the nearest bed with him. But his mind was beginning to function again, so he said, “The airport? Grand Central?”
“Heavens, no, there’d be a riot.”
“A riot?”
“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?”
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.
Flynn telephoned Sergeant Dominick Kello, currently in charge of the Torrano investigation within the Organized Crime Unit of the N.Y.P.D. Flynn got through to the sergeant quickly and summarized his situation.
Sergeant Kello could hardly believe their good fortune. “This is the best break we’ve had in months!”
“I’m not so sure,” Flynn began. “What if I jeopardize the case?”
“What case? We haven’t got a case! Maybe you’ll finally get something we can use!”
“But she seems pretty innocent to me—”
“This is great!” crowed the sergeant, not hearing a word Flynn was saying. He covered the receiver, no doubt jubilantly announcing the news to the rest of the squad room. Flynn could hear the excited cheers and catcalls of his fellow cops as they heard where he was. Then the sergeant came back on the line. “Stick as close as you can, Flynn. Be her bodyguard, her chauffeur, her frigging costume changer if you have to!”
“I think that would be a very bad idea.”
“It’s a damn brilliant idea! Why are you so uptight?”
“Because she’s—”
Again the sergeant’s voice cut across his. “Listen, Flynn. Do you have any idea how many guys would kill for this assignment? All you have to do is hang around a beautiful woman!”
An extremely attractive woman, Flynn thought, clenching his jaw. Did Sergeant Kello have any idea how difficult it might be to simply think straight in the presence of somebody as sexy as Dixie Davis?
“Just stay there,” his boss commanded. “Do whatever you have to do to get us some information we can use to nail Torrano. Got that, Flynn? Whatever you have to do!”
Three
Dixie emerged from her bedroom wearing her huge wig again, along with a pair of fire-engine red cowboy boots, her tight blue jeans and a mouth-watering T-shirt. She carried a slouchy canvas bag over her shoulder and twirled a pair of cactus-shaped sunglasses in one hand.
Flynn put down the newspaper he’d been pretending to read after snooping through her suite. He had told himself he’d better snoop to keep himself from peeking through her bedroom keyhole.
At once, he noticed she was ready to leave. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the theater, of course.”
He sat up straight. “The what?”
“I’ve got a show to do!”
Flynn scrambled up from the sofa. “What do you mean, a show? This was supposed to be your wedding day!”
“I’m the star of The Flatfoot and the Floozie,” she reminded him simply. “I’ve got seven shows a week—including matinees on Wednesday and Sunday. Unless I’m dying, I have to go to the theater.”
“But—but—” Flynn found himself sputtering with amazement. “I thought you wanted to hide from Joey Torrano! How can you do that on a Broadway stage?”
“That’s your job,” she said with a laugh. “You’re my new bodyguard, remember?”
“You can’t possibly—I don’t believe—”
But Dixie whirled away from him in a flounce of blond wig. Flynn tailed her to the door, where she checked her appearance one more time in the gilded mirror that hung there. Her reflection was enough to take a strong man’s breath away.
She tugged an imaginary stray eyelash straight, then met Flynn’s goggling gaze in the mirror. She smiled. “Well, how do I look?”
“You’re not exactly going to blend into the scenery while sneaking out of the hotel.”
“Is that a compliment?” She headed for the door and seconds later stepped into the elevator.
“A statement of fact.” Flynn got in the elevator, too. “You’re not the kind of woman anyone can ignore.”
“Thanks—I think. But don’t worry. I’ve got a cab waiting in the alley outside the hotel kitchen. Nobody will see me leave. Will you come along?”
“That’s my new job, right?”
“Yes—if you still want it.”
“I just don’t think running around the city is a very good idea.”
“People are counting on me. Tonight’s performance is sold out.”
“Don’t you have an understudy?”
“I am the understudy,” she reminded him. “Joey replaced the original star with me. We haven’t had time to train somebody else. I have to go on.”
“This seems like a crazy way to avoid the man you stood up at the church today.”
“I know I can’t avoid him forever. But I’m going to try until I can get a few things settled at the theater.” As the elevator cruised to a stop in the basement, she shouldered her canvas bag again. “Ready?”
The elevator swished open, depositing Dixie and Flynn in the midst of the hotel’s vast, bustling kitchen. The white-coated staff was deeply involved in preparing for the dinner hour, so hardly anyone looked up from their work to take notice of the two strangers slipping through their midst. But just as they neared the door, a shout went up and suddenly the whole kitchen was asking for autographs and pressing close.
Flynn fended off the mob and let Dixie slip out the door. She waved and called hello to everyone, but moments later Dixie was sliding across the back seat of a waiting taxi. Flynn climbed in after her.
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Nancy Martin
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: New York′s FinestWhat was a nice-guy cop to do when his motorcycle was hijacked by a blond bombshell fleeing a church in a wedding gown? Rescue her, of course. Particularly when the reluctant bride was none other than gum-cracking, down-home Dixie Davis, all-American sexpot! Runaway BrideThanks to Patrick Flynn, Dixie had escaped marrying a notorious gangster. Straitlaced Yankees weren′t usually her type, but Dixie had a powerful hankerin′ for her impromptu bodyguard. And sooner or later, Flynn was bound to take notice of the body he was guarding!