The Cop and the Chorus Girl

by Nancy Martin

  “Of course I didn’t sleep with him. I barely knew him! But we’re going to make it look like you and I are—well, heavily involved. Trust me, it’s the best way to get Joey’s attention.”

  Not to mention the attention of the police department. Flynn could almost hear his colleagues howling with delight over his predicament.

  Dixie shimmied out of her jeans without revealing any skin. The large white shirt almost reached her knees and was actually quite modest when examined in a detached fashion. Flynn was anything but detached, however. She had great legs—slim and well muscled from hours of dancing, no doubt. And there was no hiding her famous bustline.

  Unaware that Flynn couldn’t keep his mind on the subject at hand, Dixie asked, “You don’t mind staying here, do you? I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

  I doubt that’s possible, Flynn wanted to say.

  “I’ll even have your motorcycle brought up here if that would help.”

  She gave him a winsome grin, and Flynn couldn’t help smiling wryly in return. “It might,” he said. At least I’ll have something else to think about.

  With a laugh, she bounded for the phone again. “Consider it done!”

  While she telephoned the bellman to request the Harley, Flynn stripped off his Armani jacket and the expensive-looking tie he’d been given. He hoped the cast had packed a few casual clothes for his character to wear. Designer suits and ties weren’t exactly his style.

  He was plucking gingerly at his fake mustache when Dixie got off the phone.

  “Oh, don’t take that off yet!” she cried, coming over to pat it back into place. “You’ll need it for the room service guy.”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “No, no, I’m serious. He might be one of Joey’s spies. Keep the mustache. It looks pretty good.”

  She lingered in front of Flynn, smiling up at him. “Very good, in fact.”

  “It itches,” Flynn complained gruffly.

  “Want me to scratch it, sugar?” Her blue eyes sparkled teasingly.

  The moment lengthened. Flynn felt a tug inside his chest as he looked down into her face. She had scrubbed off all her makeup, and she looked wholesome again. She was downright beautiful.

  But there was more. The cleverness in her face was clearly apparent to him. She was smart and talented. And Flynn had noticed how quick she was to give credit for The Flatfoot and the Floozie’s success to her fellow actors. But her presence had lit up the stage like no other. Still, she seemed not to notice. She wasn’t the least bit self-absorbed.

  An odd trait in a woman who could turn a man’s insides to warm lava.

  Her teasing smile began to fade as she sensed the change of mood.

  “Um.” Perhaps she noticed something starting to flicker in his eyes. “Maybe I’d better go take my bath. I usually take one after the show. It relaxes me, you see.”

  Flynn cleared his throat. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Call me when supper gets here.”

  She slipped into the bathroom, and Flynn heard her turn on the water. He blew a sigh of relief.

  It wasn’t smart to be attracted to the woman you were supposed to be watching, Flynn knew. That was one of the first rules a cop had to learn. Sex always complicated things. Sometimes it screwed up legal cases until the bad guys stayed out of jail.

  Sometimes it cost good cops their jobs.

  Over the sound of running water, Flynn heard Dixie start to warble one of the songs from The Flatfoot and the Floozie. He wondered whether she had taken off all her clothes yet.

  With a silent curse at his active imagination, Flynn made a beeline for the telephone. He probably had time to make a quick call to the precinct to get his mind back where it belonged.

  But Sergeant Kello wasn’t at his desk. He’d gone home for the night. Frustrated, Flynn hung up. He heard Dixie splashing water in the tub.

  How had things gotten this far? He was supposed to be a cop on surveillance—nothing more. But somehow he was masquerading in a borrowed suit and wearing a ridiculous false mustache, to boot.

  And the worst of it was obviously going to be spending the night in Dixie’s suite. A terrible thought struck him, and Flynn stopped pacing. He wondered if she slept in the nude.

  A soft knock at the suite’s door announced the arrival of dinner. The waiter didn’t seem to notice anything silly about Flynn’s mustache. He seemed very curious about Flynn’s presence in the suite, however, and he certainly heard Dixie singing in the bathtub—complete with splashing. If he was one of Torrano’s spies, he was going to have plenty of stories to tell the boss later.

  Just behind the waiter came the hotel’s bellman, gingerly wheeling Flynn’s Harley out of the elevator. Flynn forgot about food and leapt to take possession of his bike. Running his hands over the motorcycle, he checked for dents or scratches. It seemed to be in perfect condition.

  “Nice bike,” said the bellman, clearly trying to figure out who Flynn was.

  Since he couldn’t come up with a plausible reason why the mysterious ex-boxer from California would have a vintage Harley-Davidson in the city, Flynn said curtly, “Thanks,” and sent the curious bellman on his way.

  Alone again, Flynn parked his bike beside the white piano and wheeled the room-service cart into Dixie’s plush bedroom.

  “Is that our food?” Dixie called from the tub. “Or your motorcycle?”

  “Both.” Flynn checked under the lids of several dishes and called, “Food smells delicious!”

  “And the motorcycle?” she called back, laughter in her voice.

  “Perfect shape.”

  “Great. Bring the supper in here!”

  Obediently, Flynn wheeled the cart through her cluttered bedroom to the doorway of the bathroom.

  “Come on in,” Dixie said. “I’m decent.”

  Cautiously, Flynn stuck his head around the door.

  She was not decent.

  At least, she probably wasn’t. Dixie had filled the bathtub with steaming hot water and loaded it with bubbles. The water was still running, and the bubbles had risen high enough to cover her breasts. Just barely.

  “I think I’ll wait out here until you’re dried off,” Flynn said hastily.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m covered up. The food will get cold. Just wheel it in here and we’ll eat. Come on. It’s no big deal.”

  Flynn leaned against the doorframe and passed one hand through his hair. “For me, it’s a big deal.”

  Dixie laughed. “In the theater, we get used to changing our clothes in front of fifty people backstage between scenes. If you hang around with us for more than a couple of days, you’ll see what I mean.”

  “I’ve seen plenty already, thanks.”

  “Come on in. Really, I don’t mind.”

  Flynn argued with himself for about thirty seconds. But he realized he’d like nothing better than having dinner while admiring Dixie Davis in her bath. Besides, he might actually learn more by interrogating her.

  What the hell, Flynn, he said to himself. How many perks does this job have? Not many, pal. Take advantage of this one while you can. So he shrugged and pushed the cart into the warm bathroom. It was mostly marble and mirrors, with an enormous Jacuzzi and a huge window that overlooked Central Park.

  Dixie had sunk down into the bubbles as far as her chin. “Now, won’t this be cozy? Park the cart right here, sugar. And you can sit on the dressing table chair, see? I have some beer in the ice bucket over there. Have one.”

  She was sipping from a bottle herself. Three more bottles of Mexican beer were floating in a large ice bucket on the bathroom counter alongside an enormous display of makeup bottles, tubes and pencils. Flynn helped himself to a beer.

  Dixie took a long swallow and relaxed into the tub with a sigh. “This tastes wonderful.”

  You look wonderful, Flynn almost said.

  But he didn’t. It wasn’t the kind of thing a cop was supposed to say to the woman he was investiga
ting—no matter how much he believed it.

  Instead, Flynn silently handed her one of the steaming plates and a fork. She balanced her beer on the edge of the huge tub and accepted the plate eagerly.

  “I’m famished!”

  “You worked up an appetite tonight,” Flynn remarked, sitting back on the brass and velvet dressing table chair, his own plate in hand. “I’ve never seen a Broadway show up close like that before. You people really get a workout.”

  “All that singing and dancing—you bet.” Dixie dug into her omelet with gusto. “My granny Butterfield says she used to lose five pounds every night she did a show.”

  “Your grandmother was on Broadway?”

  “I told you, she was a Ziegfeld Folly! And she was wonderful. I have some of her pictures in my suitcase if you’d—”

  “It can wait,” Flynn said, alarmed that she might try climbing out of the tub then and there to get the photographs.

  “She was something! Of course, she’s no slouch even now. She was Mama’s coach at the Miss America pageant.”

  “You come from quite a family.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve got show business all over Mama’s side of the family. Granny Butterfield and all her sisters have given me a lot of pointers.”

  “I could use some pointers myself,” Flynn murmured, digging into his food. It tasted surprisingly good, and he realized he was hungry indeed.

  Dixie eyed him for a moment, chewing. “You’re not such a bad actor, I’ll bet,” she said around a mouthful of home-fried potatoes. “It won’t take much for Joey to believe you’re a hotshot from California.”

  Flynn was amused. “I look like a hotshot?”

  “A dangerous kind of hotshot, yes, when you’ve got a certain frown on. The only trouble is, your face doesn’t look beaten up enough to pass for a boxer’s.”

  “I draw the line at makeup,” Flynn said quickly. “This damned mustache is bad enough.”

  “Here, we can take that off now.”

  Dixie slid over to the edge of the tub and put her plate aside. In that new position, her glistening bare back was reflected in the gigantic, half-steamed mirrors that lined the luxurious bathroom. She reached up one slender arm and Flynn obediently leaned down. His heart suddenly began to thump in his chest. Tentatively she tugged at the fake mustache on his upper lip, smiling.

  “Ow.” Flynn winced. “Take it easy.”

  “Are you a big baby, after all?” she teased.

  “Hell, no, but this thing was put on with some kind of super glue that— Yeow!”

  “There!” She held up the mustache triumphantly. “It’s better to get it over with quickly. Now, eat your supper.”

  But suddenly Flynn felt much more like leaning down over the tub and inhaling the fragrant scent of the bathwater. He wanted to get a handful of those fluffy bubbles and smooth them down the graceful length of Dixie’s moist arm.

  He fought the impulse and tried to get his mind back on the business at hand. He had an interrogation to conduct.

  “Er— Did you ever have dinner in the bathtub with Joey Torrano?”

  Dixie forgot about eating for a moment and looked surprised. “Not exactly, no.”

  Flynn continued to eat, pretending not to care about her responses. “You must have spent a lot of time with the guy. I mean, to want to marry him.”

  “I didn’t really want to marry him,” she explained, idly playing her fork through her food. “I was—well, not forced, exactly. I don’t know how it happened, to tell the truth. Joey was the producer of The Flatfoot and the Floozie and we spent a lot of time together at the theater. I could see that he was attracted to me. Most men are.”

  Flynn ground his teeth.

  “Next thing I knew,” Dixie continued, “well, I was walking down the aisle again.”

  “Again?” Flynn echoed.

  Dixie smiled uncertainly. “I told you before—in show business a woman has to look after herself. So I follow my mama’s rules. Rule Number One is, never make love with a man you’re not married to.”

  “Never—”

  “Right. Never go to bed with anyone but your husband.”

  “You mean—”

  Dixie turned a lovely shade of pink. “Joey wanted to sleep with me, and I—I just couldn’t do it. Not without benefit of marriage. I don’t know why I’m such an old-fashioned prude, but I just can’t—well, get excited about a man unless—”

  “You mean,” Flynn interrupted, astonished by what he was hearing from the sexiest woman alive. “You mean, you’re a virgin?”

  “Of course not,” Dixie said blithely. “I’ve been married twice already. Joey was going to be my third husband.”

  “Your third—”

  “I know, I’m hardly old enough, am I? But it’s true. I don’t sleep around. I marry.”

  “Do you skip the part about death do you part?”

  She picked up her plate again, but didn’t attack the food once more. Her gaze seemed faraway for a moment. “No, but I—my marriages didn’t work out. That’s very painful to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I decided not to make another mistake with Joey, no matter how good the cause—well, no matter what.”

  The telephone rang.

  Dixie regained her good humor. “Could you hand me the phone, please? Under all these bubbles, I’m not exactly—”

  “Right,” said Flynn, abandoning his plate and reaching for the telephone among the clutter on the bathroom counter. Numbly, he passed the receiver to Dixie in the tub.

  Dixie accepted the receiver. “Hello?”

  She went pale and choked, pressing one hand over her throat as if to steady her pulse. “Joey?”

  Flynn leaned toward her.

  Dixie swallowed hard and said, “Yes, of course I did the show tonight. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Flynn put his hand over Dixie’s on the edge of the tub and found that she was trembling.

  Into the phone, she said, “I had to do the show, Joey. Everyone was counting on me. We had a sold-out theater.”

  She listened to Torrano lecture for a few seconds and finally said, “Joey, wait. Listen. I’m sorry. Really, I am. I just couldn’t go through with it.... Yes, of course I know I embarrassed you, but I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “Hang up,” Flynn whispered.

  She looked at Flynn wide-eyed, but didn’t hang up the receiver. “No, Joey,” she said, suddenly pleading. “Please don’t back out of the show on my account. Everyone’s depending on you. And we really are selling tickets. The show will start turning a profit in a few months. It will be a great investment, I promise!”

  Joey Torrano apparently did not believe her. He began a tirade that caused Dixie’s jaw to tighten. Then she rolled her eyes impatiently.

  She said more firmly, “Joey, you have to do whatever you think is right. If you have to back out of the show—well, maybe another investor will turn up.”

  This time Torrano began to scream into the telephone. Dixie smiled up at Flynn and winked. She covered the receiver and whispered, “You know, I think he might actually fall for this!”

  “Don’t push your luck,” Flynn said, keeping his voice low. “Just hang up and let the press give him the message tomorrow. That’s the way the plan is supposed to go.”

  She nodded, uncovered the receiver, and said, “I’ve got to go, Joey. Yes, I had dinner sent up and—no, of course there’s nobody here with me. Why would you think that?”

  Torrano shouted some more.

  “No,” Dixie said. “I’m quite alone at the moment, Joey. Now, you go to sleep and think about whether you want to sign a contract to support the show, okay? Yes, good night. Good night, Joey!”

  She tossed the receiver to Flynn and whooped. “Wonderful! He’s suspicious already!”

  “Suspicious about what?”

  “You!” Dixie exuberantly splashed water into the air. “He had one of his spies in the hotel tonight. The guy must have s
potted you and reported to Joey.” Delighted, she crowed, “They think I’ve got a man up here!”

  “You do,” Flynn observed.

  Five

  “Well, we’ll let Joey get his trousers in a twist and see what happens.” Dixie settled back into the bubbles, pleased with the way her plan was going.

  Flynn looked less than pleased. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Davis.”

  “I don’t play games.”

  “I think,” he argued very carefully, “you play games all the time.”

  “I do not!”

  “First the Texas Tornado act, and—”

  “That may be an act,” Dixie quickly conceded, “but it gets things accomplished.”

  “Isn’t that a game?”

  “It’s business.”

  “Show business.” Flynn nodded. “You manipulate people—first to entertain, then to make them give what you want.”

  “Are we talking about Joey now?” Dixie demanded. “Don’t feel sorry for him. Joey got what he wanted out of our relationship, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you never slept with him.”

  “That’s not what he wanted!” Dixie sat up defensively. “Oh, he thought I was sexy and all, but he wanted me so I’d make him look good!”

  “It’s pretty tough to make a lifetime criminal look good,” Flynn snapped. “But you managed to do it.”

  “Only for the benefit of the newspapers,” Dixie replied. She lifted her toes out of the bathwater to check her pedicure. “Anyway, Joey’s not so bad.”

  “You don’t think so?” Flynn’s dark eyes were suddenly hard, and he seemed unaware of her dripping leg as she extended it in a leisurely stretch above the fragrant bubbles.

  Dixie slipped her leg out of sight again. “He’s given a lot of money to the show.”

  “Is money the way you measure goodness in people?”

  “Of course not!”

  “You seem to be protecting him.”

  “Maybe I am in a way. I just think—well, you have to know my friends, the ones who work with me at the theater. They’re—they all have different stories—different reasons why the show is so important. I want to keep it going a little longer. I owe them that much.”