The Cop and the Chorus Girl

by Nancy Martin

  “You owe them? Why?”

  Dixie decided not to answer that one directly. “Look, I admit I’m not exactly what I seem—”

  “You’re not the Texas Tornado?”

  “Yes, in a way. I mean, it’s who I am—where I come from.”

  “But I notice you drop the drawl and the lingo when we’re alone.”

  Suddenly she didn’t like the laughter in his gaze. “Of course I play it up a little! Why, my mama and Granny Butterfield think they’ve died and gone to hog heaven—me on the legitimate Broadway stage and all—but I—oh, hell, my real name isn’t even Dixie!”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Daddy called me Dixie from the time I was knee-high to a longhorn steer, but my given name is...”

  He noticed her reluctance at once. “Your given name is?”

  She sighed. “Diana. Boring, huh?”

  He sat forward on the velvet chair. “Not boring. Nice.”

  Suddenly Dixie felt awkward. She wasn’t used to men who actually wanted to know her. Since coming to New York, she had been subjected to some of the most ham-handed wooing since her uncle Smokey had proposed to his first wife while teaching her the rudiments of silage.

  “In my family,” she said slowly, “boring is boring. You have to be a character or you fade into the woodwork. So I became Dixie—with some help from Granny Butterfield and Mama, that is. Between having Miss Texas and a fan dancer for tutors, and—well, this is what you get.” She lifted her arms from the bath bubbles. “Ta-da!”

  Flynn smiled, one brow raised wryly. “It’s a pretty nice package, I must say. You’ve certainly knocked New York on its ear.”

  “The Sexiest Woman on Earth? Oh, that’s nonsense!”

  Flynn took a breath and let it out slowly, trying to fight down the feelings that were starting to bubble inside him again. It was hard watching her enjoy her bath. “You’re the sexiest thing to come to this city in a long time.”

  She slid over to the edge of the tub again. “Do you think so?”

  He couldn’t help leaning closer, longing to take her lips with his to see if they melted like cotton candy. “I think everybody thinks so.”

  “Just because I have a sense of humor about my body? About sex?” Dixie shook her head, looking wise. She laid her forearms on the edge of the tub and floated on her belly. “Listen, this is the body I was born with, so what am I supposed to do? Hide it because big breasts are politically incorrect right now? Hell, I might as well have a laugh at my own expense and enjoy it!”

  “Some women would say you’re being exploited.”

  “Maybe some women who take their clothes off are exploited,” she retorted. “But I take care of myself. I don’t jump into bed with anyone who comes along. I don’t do bump-and-grind stuff or humiliate myself. If sex can’t be fun, it’s—well, it feels dirty to me, you know?”

  “You certainly look like you’re having fun,” Flynn agreed, trying hard to keep his eyes from traveling down the heaps of bubbles to get a glimpse of the body in question.

  “I am having fun. I’ve got a life besides sex, though. Everybody assumes I’m thinking about bedrooms all the time because I look the way I look. But I have a real life!”

  “Flaunting yourself onstage?”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” she began. “I mean, I’ve got a job to do—”

  “Acting like the new Marilyn Monroe?”

  “No! Yes. Well, maybe. Look, underneath the Texas Tornado act, everything is really pretty innocent, don’t you think?” Her blue gaze was direct and challenging as she looked at him from the mounds of perfumed bubbles.

  Flynn didn’t feel the least bit innocent at that moment. All he could think about was diving into the tub with her and covering her talkative mouth with his own.

  “If you wanted to be innocent,” Flynn said slowly, “you’d be wearing a nun’s habit around town instead of that big white hat and a push-up bra.”

  “I do not wear push-up bras!” She sat up again.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t! Hand me that towel!” Her temper began to blaze. “I have a body that gives out messages maybe I don’t necessarily want to broadcast to the world, but I can’t help the way I look!”

  “You could tone it down.” Flynn pulled a fluffy white towel from the heated rack and passed it to Dixie.

  “Why should I?” she demanded, snatching the towel from his grasp. “Am I supposed to be punished for having this figure?”

  “No, but—”

  “Should I be forced to wear uncomfortable clothes because of the way I look?”

  “Well—”

  “I hate being told what to do!”

  “I’m not—”

  “It’s you who can’t control what you’re thinking,” Dixie snapped, suddenly standing up and whipping the towel around herself. The mirrors behind her gave away all her secrets, and Flynn caught a beautiful glimpse of her naked bottom dripping suds and warm water.

  The glare in Dixie’s eyes was very hot, though. “You look at me and think about making love with this body, but is that my problem? No!”

  “I didn’t—”

  “You want to pretend you haven’t thought about sex with me?”

  “No, but— Well, I mean—”

  “Is it my problem that your imagination is out of control?”

  “But—”

  “Should I stifle who I am because of what’s going on in your head?”

  “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant!” Dixie thundered. “And it’s the fault of men like you who want to pigeonhole women like me for the way we look—not once thinking that we might be doing the same thing with you!”

  “What?”

  She pulled herself up very straight and trembled with outrage. “I think you’d better leave, Mr. Flynn.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  “Do you deny thinking about me as a sex object?”

  “Hold on! You kissed me, remember? Nobody kisses somebody the way you kissed me in the street today without deliberately planting the idea of—”

  “That was different.”

  “Different?”

  “You asked for it!”

  “I asked for—”

  “It’s time you left my bathroom, Flynn.” She hugged her towel like a Victorian lady taking offense at the uncouth actions of a barbarian.

  “Exactly what just happened here?” he demanded, a little drunk from just watching the bathwater stream down her exquisitely long and shapely legs.

  “You can sleep on the sofa in the living room,” she said tartly. “Good night.”

  “But—”

  “I said, good night.”

  “I—”

  “Scram!”

  Flynn scrammed. When he’d closed the door and fled, he could hear Dixie slamming bottles and plates around the bathroom, having a temper tantrum.

  On the sofa later, he tossed and turned, trying to figure out what he’d said or done that was wrong. But either Dixie’s argument hadn’t made any sense or his brains were truly scrambled by being so near her.

  * * *

  In the morning her bedside telephone woke Dixie bright and early. “Yes?”

  “Good morning, sleepyhead!” chorused two voices on the phone. She recognized the high spirits of two friends from the theater—Rob and Jan Murdock, who were known as Rob and Jan Munchkin because they were both quite small and always adorable.

  In Dixie’s ear, Rob sang, “We’re in the lobby—here to help make your boyfriend believable. Let us in!”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Dixie grumbled, remembering her battle with Flynn the night before. She rubbed one eye and glowered at the alarm clock. It was almost ten, time to get up, anyway.

  “Whatever,” Rob said with a laugh. “Tell us the suite number and we’ll be right up.”

  Dixie did so, then slid out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Minutes later she felt presentable and went
out to wake Flynn before her friends arrived. She considered hitting him over the head with a sofa cushion.

  He was uncomfortably sprawled on the living room sofa, one arm trailing on the floor, his face squished into a pillow. With a gulp, Dixie saw that he was wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else.

  He looked gorgeous, Dixie thought at once, stumbling to a halt to stare at him. But she pushed that unwelcome idea aside and poked him. “Wake up, sugar. We’ve got company.”

  “Mrf?” Flynn mumbled. “Wha—”

  “It’s morning, see?” Dixie flung open the curtains and a blaze of morning sunlight bounced off Central Park and into the suite with the power of a laser.

  Flynn groaned and hid under his pillow.

  “Get up, get up,” Dixie caroled, deciding to pretend nothing had happened the previous night. “I’ve got friends coming up in the elevator this minute.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “On the contrary,” Dixie said, arriving at the suite door in time to open it just as Rob and Jan appeared there.

  “Good morning,” cried the Munchkins, arm in arm and laughing as usual.

  “Not good exactly,” Dixie said wryly. For some reason the sight of two happily married people actually enjoying each other’s company did not fill her with pleasure this morning.

  “Things will improve,” Jan promised airily. “We brought coffee and bagels.”

  “In that case, you may enter,” Dixie replied. “And bless you.”

  The couple barreled into the suite, waving bags of food and lugging two large cardboard cartons. At the theater, the Munchkins were set dressers—employees who made theatrical scenery realistic to the audience by adding details. Their tools were props, fabrics, wallpaper, knickknacks—any items that might make the audience believe the characters onstage were real people. Although young, both Rob and Jan were quickly developing an excellent reputation in the business.

  They were a couple of characters themselves, dressing in outlandish clothing that they usually found in vintage-clothing stores. The Munchkins spent all their free time scouring flea markets, tag sales, antique shops and out-of-the-way places nobody else ever heard of in search of wardrobe additions as well as items that could be used effectively in the theater. Professional pack rats, it was clear that they loved their work—and each other.

  Rob headed straight for the coffee table to set out a picnic. He stopped dead in his tracks when Flynn sat up from the sofa where he’d been sleeping. “Egad,” said Rob. “Is this our hero?”

  Flynn glowered at Rob, looking rumpled and grumpy from his night on the sofa. “What’s it to you?” he rejoined in a growl.

  “Heavens,” said Rob as he eyed Flynn with dismay. “You’re going to be a challenge, aren’t you?”

  “Did you bring any newspapers?” Dixie asked.

  “No tabloids on Sunday,” Jan said. “We’ll have to wait until tomorrow for our story to break. That will give us more time to work on Flynn here.”

  Flynn got up from the sofa with a rumbling grumble and did not answer. He towered over Rob by at least eight inches, and his near-naked state managed to emphasize the animal quality of his body. Without another word, he turned and headed for the bathroom.

  Rob blinked and looked at Dixie, clearly stunned by Flynn’s physical splendor compared to his own slight stature. “My goodness. Is he for real?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Dixie replied, closing the door of the suite and padding into the room with her friends.

  “Unfortunately,” Jan observed to her husband, “I think these two got up on the wrong sides of their respective beds this morning.”

  “Maybe it should have been the same bed,” Rob mused.

  They laughed merrily, but Dixie found nothing humorous about the situation. “Very funny.” She sat down on the sofa and opened one of the deli bags.

  Rob and Jan exchanged a look. Then they sat down, too—one on each side of Dixie. They leaned close as she fished a cup of coffee out of the bag for herself.

  “Tell us everything, doll,” Jan said in a bemused undertone.

  “Yes, don’t hold back anything, sweetie.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  To her husband, Jan said, “You can cut it with a knife, can’t you?”

  “A big knife,” Rob agreed.

  “What are you talking about?” Dixie demanded, ripping the lid off her coffee cup.

  “The sexual tension, dear. Darling, don’t you think Dixie looks a little downcast this morning?”

  “Poor thing! What do you suppose went wrong?”

  “Had a teensy tiff, maybe?”

  “With Handsome, you mean? Oh, surely not!”

  “Will you two cut it out?”

  “O-ho,” said Rob. “She’s sounding frustrated!”

  “Sexually frustrated, do you suppose? Not our Dixie! She’s immune to that stuff!”

  “I am not!” Dixie declared explosively.

  “She’s not!” Jan crowed. “She’s human! Oh, Dixie, do tell us everything! He’s a magnificent specimen. We’re dying to know the gory details.”

  “There are no details. There is nothing going on. Flynn has agreed to help us by posing as a big spender from California. At least, I think he’s still going to go through with the plan.”

  “But after last night...?” Rob prodded, but Dixie didn’t answer. He popped his eyes at Jan. “My gracious! What do you suppose happened in here?”

  Flynn chose that moment to reenter the living room of the suite. He was running one hand through the rumpled hair on his head and managed to look like a tawny cougar emerging from the underbrush. Dixie caught her breath at the sight.

  Jan and Rob giggled.

  Flynn wasn’t feeling fully awake. He’d spent a bad night on the sofa dreaming of cowgirls on motorcycles and chorus lines of gangsters armed with tommy guns and Western omelets. He yawned, then got his first real look at Dixie and forgot about being tired.

  She was dressed in a pair of men’s pajamas that were decorated with little Wild West cartoons. A pair of bucking broncos leapt over her breasts. Of course, Dixie hadn’t fully buttoned up her pajamas, so there was a lot of bare skin showing, too. Her hair was a delightful mess, and her eyes had the sleepy look of a woman who had been kept awake most of the night by dreams of an amorous lover.

  Too bad it wasn’t you, buddy, he grumbled inwardly to himself.

  “Good morning,” Dixie said coolly. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a baby,” Flynn replied, lying through his teeth.

  “Funny,” she quipped. “You look terrible.”

  “You’re not exactly looking well rested yourself.”

  She clenched her teeth, but managed to fake a smile. “These are my friends, Rob and Jan Murdock. They’re here to help.”

  Jan popped up from the sofa. “It’s great to meet you, Mr. Flynn. How about some coffee?”

  “Just Flynn. Thanks.” He accepted a cup from the small woman who appeared to be wearing a yellow tuxedo jacket over a pink T-shirt and a fuchsia mini-skirt. Her earrings jangled, and the line of bracelets on her arm sounded like a carnival act.

  Jan said, “You’re so wonderful to help us this way. If Joey Torrano closes the show, we’ll all be in terrible trouble. Why, over two hundred people will be unemployed and—”

  Her husband interrupted. “Flynn doesn’t need to hear about our problems, Jan. He’s being gracious about helping us, so we’ll be gracious in return and get right down to business. We want to leave these two alone as soon as possible.”

  The last thing Flynn wanted just then was to be left alone with Dixie in her adorable pajamas. “Take as much time as you need,” he said, opening his cup of coffee. “I need all the help I can get.”

  Both Jan and Rob looked disappointed.

  Thunder appeared on Dixie’s brow. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Touchy this morning?” Flynn inquired, sipping from his coffee.

  “O
f course not! I just—I mean— Oo-oh, I think I’ll go get dressed.”

  “Do that,” Flynn snapped. “For once, it would be nice to see you fully clothed.”

  “Why, you— Oh, never mind!” Dixie flounced out of the suite, leaving Jan and Rob looking very curious and amused.

  “Well,” said Rob when the silence lengthened. “This is fun, isn’t it, Jan?”

  “Better than anything I’ve seen in a theater in a long time. Would you like a bagel, Flynn? Then we’ll tell you what we have in mind.”

  Flynn accepted a bagel and attempted to listen while Jan and Rob explained their scheme. They unpacked two cartons of goodies they’d brought from the theater props department and soon began scattering things around the suite—things that looked as if they might belong to a boxer.

  “A couple of years ago, we found this shaving kit in a sporting-goods shop in New Jersey,” Jan said, holding up a vinyl bag with a razor and soap inside. “Very tacky, but hideously expensive. When we heard you were supposed to be a wealthy boxer, I knew this would be perfect! Shall I leave it in the bathroom in case somebody goes snooping in there?”

  “Who would be snooping?”

  “Anyone—a spy of Joey’s or the police, maybe—”

  “Police?”

  Rob looked up from unwrapping another prop. “Hasn’t Dixie told you? Joey’s always being harassed by the police. Surely they’ve been here dozens of times to rummage around for something to incriminate poor Joey.”

  “What do you think the police might find?”

  “Who knows? Joey’s a crook,” Jan said, “but we like him. He’s been good to the theater, after all.”

  “By investing dirty money,” Flynn responded.

  “Money is money,” Rob said. “We’re desperate. Now, would you like to hear about the rest of the stuff we found for you?”

  Flynn pretended to listen to Dixie’s friends as they carefully unpacked items and explained their purpose in the elaborate charade.

  But his mind was full of Joey Torrano. His job was to do exactly what the theater people didn’t want—to find something that might help put Joey behind bars. But so far, Flynn hadn’t exactly come up with loads of evidence.

  In fact, last night, when he’d been unable to sleep, he’d scouted the suite as thoroughly as possible. He’d managed to turn up assorted bits of Dixie’s clothing under furniture and tucked into peculiar places, but he hadn’t found much of anything in the way of clues.