by Nancy Martin
As every person in the room froze, Dixie roared, “I demand that you tell me everything this minute!”
“Dixie—”
He had no intention of stalling, but his momentary hesitation fueled a fury like no other Flynn had ever seen. Enraged, Dixie grabbed another plate—this one full of diced tomatoes and guacamole. She heaved it, but Flynn had the wits to duck in time.
The plate sailed over his head and hit George instead as the bodyguard was coming across the restaurant floor like a bull headed for a red flag. The guacamole splattered all over the front of George’s shirt, looking as if he’d been brutally shot and was leaking green blood.
A woman dining at a nearby table screamed.
Julio gave up trying to arrest Torrano and made a futile grab for Dixie’s throwing arm.
But Dixie faked him out and grabbed another plate with her left hand, then succeeded in splatting it directly into Julio’s immaculate white shirt.
“Why, you little—” Julio grabbed a smeary handful of the Mexican food on his chest and threw it at Dixie’s face.
She reacted by hurling the last plate, which missed Julio by a mile and smacked Joey Torrano in the chin. Joey roared and threw it back at her, hitting Julio instead.
Then the fight was on. Julio backed up and took a defensive position beside the buffet table, where he could grab bowls of soupy sauces and heave them at anyone who moved. His partner slipped in the mess on the carpet and fell heavily, cursing. He grabbed a tablecloth on the way down and yanked an entire tableful of food down upon himself. The patrons at the table screamed and fled.
Except for the teenage son, who yelled, “Food fight!” And he joined the battle.
George fought his way to his knees and began scraping food off the floor and throwing it at Flynn. He hit Dixie squarely in the face with a handful of guacamole instead. He laughed. She reacted at once, fury on her brow, by grabbing an entire tray of dirty dishes from a nearby table and heaving it with all her strength. The crash was incredible. George bolted for cover.
Flynn stood helplessly in the middle of the fray. “What the hell did I do wrong?” he asked rhetorically.
“What did you do wrong?” Dixie cried, staggering drunkenly under an onslaught of flying food. “What did you do wrong?”
Flynn tried to defend himself. “Dixie, I never meant things to go this far, but—”
He was cut off by a sailing glob of cold enchilada that struck him flat on the cheek.
Dixie burst out laughing. “Serves you right!”
Flynn felt his temper blow like a tire on the freeway. He fell back like a quarterback evading tough linemen and found himself standing by the dessert bar. He grabbed a bowl of whipped cream and threw it at Dixie.
“Serves me right?” he shouted as the white cream exploded on her chest. “Just what the hell are you doing here and why couldn’t you have the decency to tell me what’s going on? And what is going on, by the way?”
Dixie didn’t have a chance to answer. She ducked a flying plate of assorted salad items thrown by the teenager and lost her footing in the whipped cream on the floor. She fell down within the melee.
Flynn dived to rescue her. Too late. She was already sitting up and managed to throw whipped cream into his face as he arrived beside her. She burst out laughing again.
Grimly, Flynn dragged her under a table for safety.
“Now,” he said, pinning her to the floor. “What’s going on?”
She was still laughing. “Did I ever tell you how great you look in whipped cream?”
Even covered with food, she looked gorgeous. Flynn’s chest expanded at the sight of her, and the relief that swelled inside him was enormous. She was safe. She was in his arms. And she was laughing.
He said, “I love you.”
“I know,” she replied, looping her arms around his neck. “I love you, too.”
Her kiss was just as powerful then as it had been the moment she’d first fastened her delicious lips to Flynn’s. Except this time she tasted of whipped cream in addition to sex, laughter and high spirits. Flynn groaned with pleasure and gathered her completely into his arms.
And that was the way Sergeant Kello and the rest of the Organized Crime Unit found them ages later—locked in each other’s embrace and murmuring sweet nothings between powerfully good kisses.
“What the hell,” Kello demanded, “is going on here?”
His thundering voice—along with eight uniformed cops—managed to bring the food fight to a standstill.
When things had quieted down, Flynn crawled out from under the table. “Uh, hello, Sergeant.”
“Flynn—”
Then Dixie sat up. She pulled off her food-strewn N.Y.P.D. baseball cap and fluffed her short blond hair.
“Davis?” Kello demanded. “Is that you?”
Flynn was puzzled. “How do you two know each other?”
Kello snapped, “Never mind that now! What’s going on? Where’s Torrano?”
Julio dragged Joey Torrano up out of a mess of dirty dishes on the floor. “Here, sir.”
“What are you doing with him?”
Julio said, “Making an arrest, sir.”
“With what? We haven’t got a warrant!”
Flynn groaned. The rest of the cops looked devastated. Months of hard investigative work had just gone down the tubes. Kello glared furiously at Flynn.
Dixie climbed to her feet. “I guess it’s up to me, then.”
“What?” Flynn clambered up beside her. “What are you talking about?”
From inside a pocket of her gray shirt, Dixie withdrew a thin leather wallet and flipped it open. Inside, for all to see, was a police shield.
She smiled wanly at Flynn, then turned to Joey Torrano.
“Mr. Torrano,” she said. “You’re under arrest for violations of the United States’ Code of Immigrations. I have a warrant for your arrest and extradition papers to the State of Texas for importing illegal aliens into this country.”
“You’re a cop?” Flynn demanded.
“Wait a minute,” Kello interrupted. “How do you know Detective Davis?”
“Detective? Are you kidding? This is her! This is Dixie Davis, the Texas Tornado!”
“Just for a few weeks,” Dixie explained, looking just a little sheepish for keeping secrets. “The rest of the time, I’m an immigration officer. I’m in New York on special assignment to see that Joey Torrano is put behind bars.”
Together, Kello and Flynn said, “I don’t believe this.”
Epilogue
They adjourned to the Plaza Hotel later, for a hot bath and room service.
“You could have told me,” Flynn said gruffly.
“You could have told me,” she corrected. “I thought you were a motorcycle mechanic!”
“But you had me believing you were a Broadway star!”
They relaxed in the bathtub together, surrounded by mountains of perfumed bubbles. Dixie wore her trademark white hat, but Flynn was delightfully naked. She touched him under the water now and then to remind herself how wonderful he felt.
“I was a Broadway star,” she said with a grin. “Can you believe it? I never imagined that part would happen. I came to New York to get close to Torrano, and an audition for his play seemed like a good way to get myself introduced.”
“And after all those years sitting at the knee of your granny Butterfield, you knew a thing or two about being a showgirl.”
“Right. I guess I wasn’t bad, but flirting with Torrano got me elevated to star status. Then I had to cover my real identity so nobody would tip off Joey to my real job.”
“So you invented the Texas Tornado.”
“Yep. You can’t imagine how many frantic phone calls I made to Mama for advice.”
“Apparently,” Flynn murmured, nuzzling her moist neck, “her advice was very good.”
Her nerve endings tingled with delight. “O-oh, Flynn. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“
Who says I can’t finish? I may be shell-shocked after tonight’s events, but nothing will keep me out of your bed this evening, Miss Tornado.”
Dixie sighed and let him gather her body close. “I’m glad you came along tonight, you know.”
He stopped kissing her earlobes and looked solemnly into her eyes. “Are you?”
“Of course! I wasn’t sure I could handle Torrano myself.”
“But...” He hesitated. “I’m sorry about The Flatfoot and the Floozie. You were serious about keeping the show going, weren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now what’s going to happen?” Flynn asked. “With Torrano in jail, his bank accounts will be frozen. All contracts will be canceled.”
Dixie smiled wickedly. “I thought of that.”
“You did?”
Dixie pulled loose from Flynn’s embrace and slid over to the side of the huge tub. She reached over the edge and groped on the floor for her shirt. Dripping water, she carefully extracted a small rectangle of paper.
“What’s that?”
“A cashier’s check,” Dixie answered, holding it up to the light. She reclined beside Flynn and smiled up at her prize. “It’s for half-a-million dollars—enough to keep the show going long enough to find another investor, I think.”
“But how did—”
“I sweet-talked Torrano into writing me a check before you showed up tonight. After he fired me from the show.”
“He fired you?”
“As a punishment for making him look foolish. He says Kiki can take over my role.”
“She had her crack at it tonight,” Flynn said, then explained his rushed conversation with Kiki before the show that night.
“I hope she pulled it off,” Dixie said. “I’ll call her in the morning. She’ll want to hear the news about the check, too.”
He grinned and removed her hat, tossing it aside. “Not this minute.”
She cast the check onto the nearby counter and glided back into Flynn’s arms with a contented sigh.
As his embrace closed around her, Dixie was suddenly overwhelmed by how lucky she was. She’d done her job under almost impossible circumstances. She’d managed to fulfill a lifelong fantasy by singing and dancing on the kind of stage her mother and grandmother had been on before her.
But most of all, she’d found love. The kind of love Dixie had long ago decided wasn’t possible for her. She’d found Flynn—strong, funny, impulsive when he needed to be, steady as a rock when the situation called for it.
“I do love you,” she said, tracing a pattern of bubbles on his chest.
“I’m glad,” he said huskily. “And I love you, Diana Davis, or whoever you are. But now what happens?”
“We spend a wonderful night together?”
“A last night?” he asked, sounding tense.
“I—I hope not.”
With one finger on her chin, Flynn turned Dixie’s face to his. He found her lips with his gently. She opened her mouth and tried to tease his tongue with her own, but Flynn wasn’t in a teasing mood. He deepened the kiss and tightened his arms around her.
Dixie felt his body come alive, pressed to hers. Her own began to tremble with desire. “Flynn—”
“I want you,” he murmured. “So badly. Now and forever.”
“Now and forever,” she whispered back, holding on tight and fighting absurd tears.
He pulled Dixie out of the tub and carried her—wet and lithe—into the bedroom. The huge bed absorbed the water as they rolled together, suddenly feverish in their passion. It felt so good to be with him, so right.
Dixie held on tight as Flynn caressed each square inch of her skin as if trying to remember its texture for a long time.
She had to choke back a cry as he found his way inside her quickly. He sank deeply, as if claiming Dixie’s body for his own. Then they rocked together until the melding of flesh became the melding of spirits. A bright flame burst between them, hot and powerful. Dixie feared she might fall off the edge of the earth, but Flynn was there to catch her.
“I love you.”
The words seemed to beat along with their hearts.
Along toward morning, when the sunlight was just starting to lighten Central Park, Dixie felt strong enough to talk.
She rolled against Flynn’s side and put her head on his shoulder. “Flynn, I don’t belong in New York.”
“I know,” he said, still awake, too. He sounded calm.
“My life and my family—everything’s in Texas. Here, I’m a freak, an alien.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. It feels wrong for me here. Except for you.”
“All right,” he said, quieting her with gentle pressure on her hand as it lay just above his beating heart. “Then I guess it’s up to me, isn’t it?”
Dixie lifted her head to look at him. “What do you mean?”
In the half-light that gleamed down on a quiet New York City, Flynn’s smile shone slightly. “Is there room in Texas for an Irish cop?”
“But, Flynn, your family! Your brother, Aunt Jane—everything! You’d give that up?”
“I have to,” he said. “I can’t be without you, Diana.”
She sighed. “Thank heavens. I thought I was going to have to use the Butterfield kiss again.”
His laugh was deep and incredulous, and she loved the dark look he cast down at her. “The what?”
“It’s—well, maybe you’d better not know.” Wisely, Dixie decided to keep that secret a little longer. She patted his chest to placate him. “Once we’re married, I may need to use it now and then.”
“Married, huh? Can we do that on the way to Texas?”
“On the way?”
“Sure. I thought we’d take the Harley.”
“The whole way on a motorcycle?”
“Not just a motorcycle. It’s a Harley.”
Dixie considered the idea, smiling. “It will be a nice, long trip, won’t it?”
“We’ll make it last a lifetime, if that’s what you want.”
Dixie snuggled down with him again. “It’s definitely what I want, Flynn.”
* * * * *
ISBN: 978-1-4592-8664-1
The Cop and the Chorus Girl
Copyright © 1995 by Nancy Martin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
