by Nancy Martin
A matchbook from a Brooklyn restaurant, that was it.
And how was one stupid matchbook supposed to help?
“We brought you some cigars,” Jan continued, presenting Flynn with an unopened box. “We thought these might look authentic for a boxer. They’re from this great little smoke shop beside the theater. As a matter of fact, they’re the same brand Joey Torrano smokes, I think. Very expensive, illegally smuggled from Cuba through Mexico. We thought they would be a nice touch for your character—a tip-off that you’re a little dangerous. What do you think? Do you smoke cigars?”
“Sometimes.” Flynn took the box and opened it thoughtfully. The cigars were neatly wrapped. He took one out and studied it while Rob continued to talk.
Then a theory began to form in Flynn’s mind. He tried to remember all the facts he’d read in the Torrano file and force them into making some sense with what he’d learned from Dixie Davis.
Maybe there was something to be learned from her. He mulled over the idea while Jan and Rob flitted around like a couple of happy chipmunks in a new nest.
When the suite had begun to seem like a new world with all the junk scattered around to look as if a former boxer had moved in, Dixie emerged from her bedroom.
She had put on her wig again, and was dressed to go out in jeans and a big shirt. Was it Flynn’s imagination, or had she toned down the sexpot act just a little?
“Ready?” she asked Flynn, pretending to be very businesslike.
“Ready for what?”
“It’s Sunday. I have a matinee in a couple of hours. Are you coming?”
“Give me five minutes,” Flynn said, heading for the shower.
He had an idea. And he didn’t plan on letting Dixie out of his sight. Especially if she went anywhere near the smoke shop where Joey Torrano bought his illegal cigars. There was something going on, Flynn was willing to bet. And by sticking close to Dixie, he was going to find the right clues to put Torrano behind bars.
But when he’d dressed to go out, he discovered Dixie had left without him.
“That little sneak!”
He grabbed his Harley and wheeled it into the hotel elevator.
Six
Dixie had already finished her massage and had begun her warm-up exercises when Flynn finally arrived at the theater.
He was not happy.
“What kept you?” Dixie asked, applying her false eyelashes with care.
“Don’t do that again!” He stormed into her dressing room and threw his motorcycle helmet onto her dressing table. Tubes of makeup scattered in all directions.
“Hey!”
“I’m supposed to be looking after you, Miss Davis—”
“You’re off the hook,” she retorted primly, trying not to notice how gorgeous he looked in one of the outfits chosen from the costume shop. A pale yellow cashmere sweater over khaki trousers made him look handsome and rich. The addition of his leather jacket over it all lent an air of the dangerous renegade. But Dixie was determined to keep her thoughts off Flynn today. “After our discussion last night,” she said, “I don’t believe I’ll need your services anymore.”
“The hell you don’t,” Flynn snapped. “Guess who showed up at the hotel just two minutes after you left?”
Astonished, Dixie dropped her eyelash and spun around on her swivel stool. “Joey? Well, pass me the barbecue! What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. Hotel security managed to keep him contained in the lobby.” Flynn began to pace in the small confines of her dressing room. “I slipped out through the kitchen again, which is not easy with a motorcycle, I’ll have you know!”
Dixie smothered a giggle at the thought of Flynn skulking out of the Plaza pushing his precious Harley-Davidson.
“He was royally angry that you weren’t in the hotel,” Flynn said severely. “One of his men punched the concierge.”
“Oh, poor Maurice!”
“Yeah, well, I’m the target they’re really looking for.”
“Oh, sugar, don’t worry. Nobody’s going to ambush you—not if you stay with the rest of us.”
Flynn exploded. “How can I do that when you go running off the minute you have a temper tantrum!”
“I’m sorry,” Dixie said, meaning it. She reached out and touched Flynn on the arm. “I didn’t mean to leave you in a jam. I won’t do it again.”
He stared down at her hand, saying nothing.
Hastily, Dixie pulled her hand away. She tried to pretend she hadn’t felt the warmth of his skin or the quickening of her own pulse. She picked up her eyelash again and slathered it with glue. “What took you so long to get here? Did your motorcycle conk out along the way?”
“Of course not. I do have a life of my own, you know.” Without asking permission, Flynn poured himself a tumbler of water from the glass pitcher Dixie kept on the dressing table. He looked hot and in need of a much stronger drink. “I had some phone calls to make. People to see.”
Dixie stuck her eyelash in place. She hadn’t really thought about the possibility that Flynn might actually have a life that didn’t include her. See what the theater does to a person? It makes you a complete egomaniac.
Dixie looked at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. “It’s time to go back to Texas.”
“What?” Flynn looked down at her, forgetting his drink. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I was just mumbling. What kind of phone calls? What people?”
“Phone calls,” he said, stubbornly refusing to say more. “And people.”
She frowned at him in the mirror. “Do you have a girlfriend or something?”
“Would you care?” He met her gaze in the mirror.
Flynn’s look challenged Dixie. She felt herself turning very pink and fumbled among her cosmetics for something to keep herself busy. A large brush tumbled into her hand, so she broke the eye contact and dusted powder on her nose. “Of course not. I mean—well, I think of you as a friend—an acquaintance, so naturally I’m interested—curious, er—oh, hell, just answer the question!” She threw down the brush. “Do you have a girl in the wings?”
“The only girls in my life,” Flynn said, deliberately leaning over her shoulder, “are my sisters Marcie and Nella, who are both still in high school.”
Looking at him in the mirror, Dixie became conscious that his chest was making ever so slight contact with her shoulder. She remembered the heat of his gaze as he’d stared at her in the tub last night. The memory made her warm all over again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded shakily. “Only a real woman is good enough for you?”
He tweaked a lock of her wig. “You said it, I didn’t.”
“I— You’re getting to be damned infuriating, Flynn.”
“That makes two of us,” he murmured.
The stage manager shouted from the hallway. “Ten minutes, everybody!”
“I’m not warmed up yet!” Dixie yelped, forgetting Flynn’s proximity. “And my costume! Flynn, grab my—”
“Forget it,” he said, heading for the door. “You can dress yourself this time, Miss Tornado!”
* * *
The matinee went smoothly, Dixie thought—for everyone but herself.
She hadn’t warmed up sufficiently. Worse yet, she was shaken when she took the stage. She’d allowed Flynn to take her mind off the job she had to do. For the first time since joining the cast of The Flatfoot and the Floozie, she’d really felt like an amateur. She’d muffed a line, stumbled during a dance number and nearly missed an entrance.
“What’s the matter?” Kiki had asked at the intermission.
“I don’t know. Am I really bad?” Dixie had asked anxiously.
“You’re not yourself,” Kiki had replied diplomatically, putting her arm around Dixie to soothe her. “Just focus on the play, all right? Don’t think about Joey.”
Joey wasn’t the problem.
That was, until after the show.
Dixie rushed down to h
er dressing room to hide—hoping to avoid the rest of the cast until she could explain herself.
But Flynn was waiting in the hallway several doors down from her own dressing room. In his leather jacket, he melted into the darkness of the hall and surprised the hell out of Dixie when he stepped out and blocked her path.
Dixie tried to brush past him, close to tears. She didn’t want to talk to anyone—especially Flynn just then. It was all his fault she’d performed so badly. Her voice trembled. “Why don’t you wait out in the hall while I get changed? I just can’t face anybody—”
“Then stay out of your dressing room,” Flynn snapped, catching her arm and guiding Dixie quickly back the way she’d come. He kept his voice down. “Joey’s waiting for you in there.”
He propelled Dixie down the hallway, pushing through the rest of the actors as they streamed offstage.
“Joey’s here? What does he want? Maybe he’s ready to sign a contract!”
Flynn’s pace did not slacken. “Jan and Rob talked to him while you were onstage. He didn’t bring his lawyer, that’s for sure. He wants to slug you.”
“Slug me! That’ll be the day!” Dixie was steamed. “What’s got him so upset?”
“Me, I guess.” Flynn seemed to know his way around the theater very well. As they plunged into another hallway and down a flight of stairs that even Dixie didn’t know existed, Flynn explained. “One of the tabloids is running a big story about you and your new love interest in tomorrow’s edition. A thoughtful editor figured Joey ought to have an advance copy.”
Dixie’s spirits rose. “Oh, good! He’s furious about you?”
“I suppose that’s good from your perspective,” Flynn said wryly. “But I like my face the way it is at the moment, and I don’t want it rearranged by one of Torrano’s goons.”
Dixie had to admit she liked Flynn’s face, too. But she said, “I can’t avoid Joey forever.”
“You can avoid him for a couple of days. You won’t be able to talk contracts with him yet—not until his jealous rage has cooled off.”
That plan made sense to Dixie. “All right, but where are you taking me now? Back to my hotel?”
“Hell, no. If he’s got spies in the hotel, he can get one of his leg breakers in there, too.”
“Leg breakers!”
Mistaking her exclamation for a question, Flynn said, “Guys who’ll get their jollies by breaking your pretty knees if Joey tells them to do it.”
“He wouldn’t!”
“Oh, wouldn’t he?”
To tell the truth, Dixie wasn’t sure. She hadn’t known Joey Torrano for long, but his reputation was one of a merciless criminal. Of course, she’d only seen his suave side, but Dixie knew she’d only seen Joey under the best of circumstances. Now things were different. If Joey was truly angry at being stood up at their wedding, he might show his true colors.
“Okay,” Dixie said, breathless from their run through the tunnels under the theater. “Where in tarnation are we going?”
“My place,” Flynn replied, and he dragged Dixie out into the sunlight.
The impact of the sun wasn’t nearly as intense as the information he’d just given her. “Your place! Wait, Flynn! I can’t—I can’t leave in this costume!”
“You’re not going back to your dressing room.”
“I need some clothes! I can’t go out like this!
Flynn spun around and frowned. Then he whipped off his leather jacket and put it around Dixie’s shoulders. “There. That’ll have to do.”
“But I—”
“Leave the wig,” he ordered, giving Dixie’s fake hair a yank. He tossed the blond wig back into the theater building and then pulled her to the curb. “It’ll make you less conspicuous on my bike.”
“On your—” Dixie resisted when she saw the Harley parked on the street. “Flynn, I can’t go riding around the city on your motorcycle while wearing this—this—”
“No choice,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“But—but, Flynn—”
“What’s the matter?”
Dixie didn’t have the courage to tell him. Truth was, she’d rather sit on a cactus and eat ten pounds of chili peppers than find herself alone with Flynn for any length of time. But she couldn’t come up with the words to explain her fear.
“Let’s go,” he commanded when she stayed silent.
No choice. Dixie climbed onto the back of his motorcycle and held on tight.
Flynn started the bike with a hard kick and revved the noisy engine. The whole machine throbbed with power. The Harley leapt forward and roared down the street. Flynn drove the bike with swift precision, weaving in and out of traffic. The New York streets began to fly by.
Dixie hadn’t been in the city long enough to recognize much of anything except 42nd Street and the hotel where she’d been living. She clutched Flynn’s chest with both hands, hugging herself tightly against him. She leaned her weight with his as they swung around curves. The motorcycle felt sexy and exciting, she had to admit.
At last Flynn cut down a side street and ended up on a narrow street that seemed packed with cars, trucks, scraggly trees and jump-roping children. A dog leaned out of an open second-floor window and barked at a delivery truck.
On the corner stood a coffee shop that looked busier than any place in Times Square. The revolving door never stopped spinning customers in and out.
Dixie tapped Flynn’s chest. “Where are we?”
“A safe neighborhood,” he said over his shoulder, gently easing the motorcycle up over the curb and across a couple of yards of cracked sidewalk. The throb of the engine reverberated off brownstone buildings, drawing the attention of a few pedestrians.
Then a gray-haired woman came up a set of steps from a basement apartment. She had a broom in her hand and shaded her flinty eyes from the sun to look at Flynn. She shook her head, pretending annoyance, but when she shouted something to him over the noise of the engine, Dixie heard that her tone sounded more fond than angry.
Flynn waved to her, but kept the motorcycle moving until he’d driven it up the three steps to the front door of a narrow brownstone. Then he cut the engine and bumped open the door with his front wheel.
The woman’s voice bellowed up to him. “Patrick Flynn, where do you think you’re going with that thing?”
“Hi, Aunt Jane. I’m putting my bike away.”
“I thought it was finished! Surely you’re going to keep it on the street now that it’s not a million pieces all over your apartment!” Although talking about his motorcycle, the woman never took her inquiring gaze from Dixie.
“It’s a valuable machine, Aunt Jane. I have to take care of my investment.”
“Investment! A motorcycle is a toy, not an investment! And who’s this young lady, may I ask? What’s she wearing? She’s going to catch her death of cold.”
“You’ll see later, Aunt Jane.”
“But...but—”
The older woman sputtered, so Dixie gave her a big smile as Flynn rode the bike straight into the building.
Dixie found herself in a dark, cool hallway with a long flight of stairs straight ahead. For an instant she feared Flynn might try to push the motorcycle up to the second floor, but she relaxed when he took a set of keys out of his jeans pocket and unlocked the downstairs door instead.
He put out his hand and helped Dixie off the bike. Then he wheeled the Harley into his apartment ahead of her.
She followed.
The only piece of furniture in the living room was a single sofa.
“Whoa,” Dixie said, looking around with interest. “I figured you for a boots-in-the-parlor kind of guy, Flynn. But you haven’t got anything at all in your parlor.”
“I needed the room to work on my bike,” he said, standing the Harley in the center of the room where it appeared to make itself at home.
“I guess this is a New York minimalist apartment, right?”
He grinned. “I’ve got everything I need.”
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“Including a nosy relative downstairs.”
“The whole neighborhood is full of nosy relatives. Aunt Jane lives downstairs, Uncle Jack upstairs, my cousin Cathy and her kids are across the street. My parents are two blocks down, and Grandad is—”
“Good grief, how many people are in your family?”
“My immediate family? There were seven of us kids. But with all my aunts and uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, grandparents—well, we had sixty-two at Thanksgiving last year.”
Dixie blew an astonished whistle and closed the door behind herself. “I guess you like big families.”
Amused, he said, “I go broke every Christmas.”
Dixie strolled farther into the apartment, her tap shoes ringing on the polished oak floor. She wanted to get to know the place and how it felt to be there. She could learn a lot about the man by studying his home. So far, it felt a lot like the Flynn she knew—careful and cautious.
She sauntered around and peeked into the kitchen. “So how come you’re not married, Patrick Flynn? How come there aren’t a bunch of little Patricks running around?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been busy, I guess. Let’s find you something to wear, okay?”
“I’d be grateful.”
Dixie tagged along as Flynn left the sitting room, cut through a narrow kitchen, past a neat bathroom and into the apartment’s single bedroom, which was barely big enough for the bed and a gigantic antique armoire. The bed had been made in a haphazard fashion—the comforter thrown over the rest of the bedclothes. Dixie was glad to see that the rest of the room was a little messy, too. He’d left some clothes in a pile on the floor, a pair of sneakers lay half under the bed. A newspaper had been forgotten on the bedside table and a fishing rod leaned against the armoire.
A closet door leaned partway open, revealing a clutter of belongings—a scuba tank, some clothing, a shelf of books. The walls were decorated with some framed photographs of people—presumably members of the large Flynn clan—a Matisse print and a poster advertising the island of Anguilla.
