The Cop and the Chorus Girl

by Nancy Martin

  He rolled and pressed Dixie down into the bed. In a single yank, he pulled his pullover over his own head and then dived down to lie against her bare body. He let his hand roam over her breasts, along her ribs, across her belly. He swiped a caress across the tops of her thighs and watched Dixie shudder with excitement. She was quick to respond. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes were luminous.

  It was like a dream to Dixie. Flynn was slow and gentle, despite the hammering of his heart. He was intensely aroused and fought hard to hold back. She let him have his way with her, and she’d never experienced anything so wonderfully exciting. He was breathless, panting, covering her with his mouth and tongue, whispering how beautiful she was.

  He tasted her everywhere. Dixie’s head spun with the delights he aroused in her.

  She tugged off the rest of his clothes, anxious to take their passion to the next level.

  “I can’t wait, Flynn.”

  “I want to go on all night.”

  He had enough wits left to remember to open a drawer beside the bed. He groped for a foil packet, and Dixie laughed when he dropped the first one, cursing.

  “How like you to be careful!” she teased.

  “You’re the one who’s been abstinent.”

  “I was just waiting for the right moment to be my usual impulsive self.”

  “I’m glad you waited.”

  She had waited, she thought with a smile. For the right man, not just the right time. And here he was—sweet and kind and sexy as hell.

  She helped him with the condom, caressing until Flynn bit back an erotic growl.

  With a supple roll, he had her down on the bed again. Rougher this time, he kissed Dixie all over and followed each kiss with a caress that left her gasping.

  Then she drew him inside. Because it had been so long for her, she gave a gasp at first, but then it felt wonderfully good. He was deep inside her after that, moving with the gentle persistence of a tide.

  Dixie cried out as the waves crashed over her. She let the swirling darkness consume her, drowning her voice, releasing every nerve in a swift implosion of pleasure.

  Flynn came after Dixie, unleashing his passion in a powerful rush after holding back for her sake.

  They sank down in the bedclothes after that, sated and deliciously exhausted. They talked nonsense for a while—hungry words. Then Flynn’s caresses began again—slowly at first. Dixie found herself exploring his body, too. He was beautiful in his own way. So strong.

  So insatiable.

  Before sleep overcame her hours later, Dixie remembered worrying for a few seconds. Maybe this was a mistake. But Flynn gathered her close and put his nose against her throat, to sleep. He murmured her name very softly. Her real name.

  With a smile, Dixie drifted off to sleep, too.

  Eight

  On Monday morning Dixie woke up and said, “There’s no performance on Mondays. We can stay in bed all day.”

  On Tuesday morning, Dixie said, “What I love most about New York is restaurants that deliver. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve put on any clothes?”

  “I know,” Flynn said with a gleam in his eye as he tugged the bedclothes down to reveal her naked limbs. “Believe me, I know.”

  For lunch they ate fried rice from the Chinese restaurant around the corner. The food was delivered by a teenage boy who never blinked at the sheet Flynn wore wrapped around his hips to answer the door for the third time in two days.

  Afterward, Flynn teased Dixie’s breasts with a chopstick until she giggled helplessly. She had fun with Flynn. Although there had been moments of profound emotion, she found his laughter her greatest pleasure. It was good to see him let go and enjoy himself.

  Aunt Jane called after lunch and Flynn answered reluctantly. He felt as if he’d landed in paradise, and he hated to break the spell.

  “Patrick,” Aunt Jane asked, “do you still have that pretty young lady staying with you?”

  “You know I do, Aunt Jane.” Flynn lay back on the pillows and dragged the receiver with him. “You watch my door like a hawk.”

  “All right, all right,” she conceded. “Well, I just thought I’d tell you that your whole family has recognized your picture in the paper.”

  “What picture?”

  “All the pictures,” Aunt Jane said severely. “Even with that silly mustache, your brothers and sisters knew you at once. But they’re all too polite to telephone you to find out which parts of the story are true.”

  Flynn surrendered the chopstick to Dixie. “What story, Aunt Jane?”

  “The tabloids are saying you’re a boxer, darling, and they say you’re keeping company with that dancer from The Flatfoot and the Floozie. Well, we know you’re not a boxer—unless you count those years in school with Father O’Brien—so what’s going on?”

  Flynn had hoped the rest of the world might disappear so he could have Dixie in his bed forever. But reality had returned, and he sighed. “Can I tell you in a couple of days?”

  “Is it police stuff?”

  “Yes,” said Flynn, conscious that Dixie was very close but apparently not listening. She feathered the chopstick through the hair on Flynn’s chest and kept moving lower, clearly with no idea she was playing with fire.

  “Goodness—how cloak-and-dagger! Just one more thing,” said Aunt Jane. “That young lady of yours—is she from Texas, by any chance?”

  “Yes,” said Flynn, intercepting the chopstick by grasping Dixie’s hand. Already, he was rock hard with desire. “I’ve got to go now, Aunt Jane.”

  “Okay,” said his aunt. “But I want the whole story before the end of the week!”

  “Yes, ma’am. ‘Bye, now.”

  He grabbed the chopstick and threw it away. Then he tussled with Dixie for a while after hanging up, but she was more interested in laughing than making love one more time.

  “We can’t, anyway,” Flynn replied when she suggested she’d be willing if Flynn couldn’t stand another hour without having her. He reached for the box on the bedside table and upturned it to show how empty the container was. “We’re empty. I have to go to the drugstore.”

  She sat up with a sigh. “Well, I have to go to the theater today, anyway. It’s about time we got dressed.”

  “We don’t have to do that yet,” Flynn said, coaxing her back among the pillows. He couldn’t get enough of her. Just seeing her in his bed was exciting enough. “Can’t I just look at you?”

  She touched him intimately. “I think you have more than looking in mind.”

  “No, really, I just— Oh, Dixie.”

  She disappeared under the bedclothes and performed erotic magic. Flynn let her have her way with him until he was a crazy animal.

  Later, while he regained his strength, she sat naked beside him and telephoned one of her theater friends. She asked Kiki if she’d stop by the Plaza and pick up a few things from her suite.

  “I’ll be happy to,” Kiki had replied when all the arrangements were settled. “But have you seen the papers?”

  Kiki reported that the New York newspapers had all picked up the story of the infamous Texas Tornado dumping her mobster boyfriend for a wealthy California boxer.

  “Kiki says the photos of you are pretty good,” Dixie said when she hung up. “You look rich and menacing. I guess you’re a better actor than you think.”

  They bought newspapers on the way to the theater in the late afternoon, and read every printed lie in Dixie’s dressing room. All of Dixie’s friends stopped to hang out, and some of the actors offered Flynn advice about his role as they scanned the tabloids. Everyone seemed delighted that Dixie’s plan appeared to be working. He was glad to see her so well liked and appreciated by her friends.

  Even the theater’s hairdresser stopped by to give him a trim. She wielded her scissors expertly, saying around a mouthful of bubble gum, “Just a little off the sides, see? And you’ll look even more dangerous, know what I mean?”

  Flynn didn’t see it
, but he allowed her to do whatever she pleased.

  Kiki, who had been reading while perched on Dixie’s dressing table, suddenly flapped her newspaper to get everyone’s attention. “Hey, you guys! This reporter says the cops are looking into Joey Torrano, too.”

  “What for?” someone asked, laughing. “Which one of his crimes, I mean? He’s done practically everything that’s illegal in the state, so if— Oh, sorry, Dixie.”

  Dixie shook her head. “I never claimed he was a saint.”

  “Still,” Kiki said, looking worried, “if he goes to jail before he gives us the money we need, we could be in real trouble.”

  “I think he’s safe from the police,” Dixie said confidently.

  Keeping his silence, Flynn watched Dixie. She seemed very sure of Joey Torrano’s innocence. But how did she really feel about the man she’d almost married? Protective? Would she be furious when she discovered that he was one of the cops looking to put Torrano away?

  He shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like lying to her, but he still intended to get Torrano arrested as soon as possible. With a pang, Flynn realized the arrest might ruin everything Dixie had planned in order to save The Flatfoot and the Floozie.

  “Hold still,” the hairdresser lectured when he gave an involuntary wince. “You don’t want a big bald spot over here, do you?”

  “Sorry.”

  Sitting very still, Flynn fought down a rush of dread inside.

  What if his role in Torrano’s arrest blew everything with Dixie? Knowing her impulsive nature, she might fly off the handle. She might never forgive Flynn for his actions.

  Flynn sat under the hairdresser’s scissors and watched Dixie while she laughed with her friends. His heart gave an awful jerk.

  At last all the other actors scattered to their respective dressing rooms, and Dixie began her preshow warm-up ritual. Rather than watch her massage at the hands of Sven, Flynn told her he had errands to run.

  He kissed her quickly and slipped away, aware he had police work to do after days of making love to the woman he was supposed to be keeping under surveillance—the woman he was supposed to be using.

  As he left, Flynn promised himself to find a way to tell Dixie he wasn’t really a bike mechanic. She had a right to know the truth about him. Before he destroyed all her dreams.

  * * *

  Tuesday’s show went well for Dixie. She felt refreshed and in full voice. Her high spirits after the show made for a volatile night in Flynn’s bed. On Wednesday, she played the afternoon matinee and the evening performance, too, and went back to Flynn’s apartment exhausted.

  “Want to go across the street and get a bite to eat?” Flynn asked, after being strangely silent all day. “It’s quiet over there. We could...talk about a few things.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Dixie yawned and stretched her sore muscles. Wednesdays were hard on her, with the two performances. “I don’t think I have the energy. Maybe I’ll just have a bowl of cereal and go to bed.”

  “Okay.”

  She hooked her thumbs through Flynn’s belt loops and pulled him close. “Want to come with me?”

  Flynn smiled and finally wrapped his arms around her. “Do I get to choose the cereal?”

  “Choose your pleasure,” she invited, lifting her mouth to be kissed.

  On Thursday Dixie slept late and woke up alone in the apartment. Flynn had left a note on the bathroom mirror.

  “Be back around two.”

  Dixie checked the time and found it was barely after noon.

  The time had come, she decided, to make things happen with Joey. She knew she’d better ask for the money to support the show soon—while he was still riled up enough to fall for her plan.

  She made a phone call. The number was one she’d memorized.

  When a gruff voice picked up the line, she said, “I want to speak to Joey. It’s Dixie.”

  The voice laughed harshly. “Who says he wants to talk to you?”

  “Just put him on, George.” Dixie knew Joey’s chief bodyguard well. He was an unpleasant person, all right. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been sprawled on the sidewalk outside the church. Judging by his voice, George wasn’t prepared to forget that incident.

  “Call back another time,” George snapped. “Like next year, when you’re a has-been.”

  “If Joey hears I called and you kept us from talking, who’s going to be a has-been, George?”

  For an instant there was no answer. Then he said, “I’ll ask.”

  Nearly five minutes went by, but Dixie was prepared to wait. Finally Joey’s voice came over the line.

  “What do you want?”

  Joey’s temper was already riled, but Dixie had thought long and hard about her pitch. She had consulted all her friends and written a script carefully.

  Keeping her composure, she began, “Joey, honey, I want you to know the papers are printing a bunch of lies.”

  “You expect me to believe that? I got pictures of the guy you’re with!” He was breathing hard already.

  “It was a passing thing, Joey.” She feigned an emotional crack in her voice. “I—I need to see you again.”

  “What for?”

  “Just let me see you, Joey. I’d like to talk.”

  “I got no time for you!”

  “Joey, please.”

  Dixie expected to beg. She knew Joey’s ego would demand certain behavior from her, and she was prepared to give him his money’s worth. So she wheedled shamelessly. It was part of the plan.

  At last Joey said, “Okay, come on up to my place.”

  “I can’t come there. The photographers are always waiting around. Let’s meet someplace else.”

  “You got any ideas?”

  “Central Park?”

  He laughed. “You think you’re gonna keep this meeting a secret if we hold it in Central Park?”

  “I won’t be all dolled up.”

  Joey said, “Okay. At this address. Ask a cabdriver to drop you. Unless you’re coming with the boxer—”

  “I’ll be alone. What’s the address?”

  He gave Dixie a location in Central Park. She wrote it down to make sure she got it right. “In an hour, Joey?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “One more thing. Make sure nobody’s following you.”

  “I’ll bust their cameras if they do.”

  “I don’t mean photographers, Joey.”

  “What are you talkin’ about—cops? Don’t make me laugh!”

  Then Joey hung up without saying goodbye.

  Dixie took a fast shower and dressed in some of the clothes her friend had managed to sneak out of the Plaza—a pair of leggings and a shapeless gray shirt that didn’t do much for her figure. Then she looked at her hair and decided she needed a hat.

  Maybe Flynn had one.

  She opened his closet and began rummaging around in his sports equipment. Sure enough, a navy blue baseball-style cap lay between a softball glove and bat. She picked it up.

  “N.Y.P.D.” She read the letters aloud.

  “What in tarnation?”

  Why would Flynn have a cop’s hat? Dixie shrugged. She’d ask him later. Jamming the hat over her short hair, Dixie took a look in the mirror and liked the way it hid her hair and shaded her face. She scribbled Flynn a quick note telling him she would meet him later at the theater.

  Then she phoned Jerry, her favorite cabdriver. He picked her up within half an hour at the corner.

  Central Park was relatively busy—full of people having lunch outdoors on a warm day. Dixie had counted on being in public view, so she was glad to have a few honest citizens around. She waited at the agreed-upon entrance to the park, trying to be inconspicuous. Without her Dixie Davis getup, hardly anyone glanced her way.

  For once she felt like Diana Davis, ordinary citizen.

  At last a dark gray sedan pulled up at the curb. There was nothing special
about the car—which made it special to Dixie. She wasn’t surprised when Joey stepped out of the back, followed by George, the Neanderthal bodyguard. She was glad to see his swollen black eye.

  George hung back, but obviously intended to tag along.

  Joey, dressed in a comfortable jogging suit that concealed the paunch around his belly, advanced on Dixie swiftly. He had a quick way of moving, always had. He took Dixie’s arm without a word and guided her into the park.

  “Hiya, honey.”

  “You can walk with me,” he said shortly, in spite of her friendly greeting. “I need the exercise.”

  Joey wasn’t a tall man—barely Dixie’s height, in fact, and he tried to keep in relatively good shape. He walked daily and drank very little. His passion, however, was pasta and spicy food, so fighting his weight was a constant battle. He was attractive, though, with strong features, dark hair that was trimmed weekly and a protruding lower lip that gave him a sulky expression some women found attractive. Dixie had begun to find it annoying.

  “You look good,” Dixie said, eager to please him. “Really good, honey.”

  “What do you care?”

  “You know I care, Joey.”

  “Not enough,” he retorted. “You humiliated me. Nobody does that and gets away with it.”

  “You got a lot of good publicity, though,” Dixie ventured, keeping up with his brisk pace as they headed down one of the paved paths.

  Joey didn’t answer.

  “Maybe people read the papers and figured I was a bitch for leaving you the way I did. Maybe people like you better now,” she suggested. “I think maybe it was a good thing for your image, you know?”

  Joey kept walking, silent. Dixie must have given him some food for thought, because he eventually said, “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Well, it’s what a few people were saying around the theater.”

  Joey’s pace slackened slightly. “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t exactly make any new friends acting the way I did.”

  “So, people like me at the theater now?”

  “They always liked you, Joey. You’re a charismatic guy.”

  Dixie buttered him up some more, filling Joey Torrano’s already swelled head with an improved idea of himself. She almost managed to have him believing that she was the villain in the story for jilting him at the altar. Joey’s mood improved, and she happily realized that the first part of her plan had worked.