The Cop and the Chorus Girl Read online

  “A motorcycle mechanic who goes scuba diving in the Caribbean,” Dixie mused.

  “I like to get out of the city when I have time off.” Flynn opened the armoire. It housed a small television on the top shelf and assorted clothes in the drawers below. He began rooting around for something Dixie could wear.

  “I thought all New Yorkers loved their city.”

  “Some do. At the moment, I’m not exactly enchanted.”

  Dixie leaned against the armoire to get a better look at Flynn’s face. “Oh, yeah? How come?”

  “Let’s just say I’m starting to think about moving to the suburbs.”

  “Away from your family?”

  “No, I’d like them to come along. My brother, you see...”

  Flynn seemed to catch himself. He pretended to decide between two identical blue shirts and finally passed one to Dixie. “Here, this ought to be all right.”

  “Your brother?” Dixie prompted, wanting to hear more. Suddenly she knew there was something worth listening to. For once, Flynn had let his caution slip.

  “Nothing.” Flynn straightened and attempted to erase his thoughts from his face. “I don’t think my jeans will fit you. Any ideas?”

  “You have any boxers?”

  “I’m a jockey shorts kind of guy, to tell the truth. How about some running shorts?”

  “Fine. And a belt?”

  “In here.” He opened the closet and rummaged around on the shelves for a moment.

  “What about your brother?” Dixie asked again.

  A pause. Then, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Him,” Dixie corrected. “I want to know. What’s his name?”

  “Sean.”

  “Sean and Patrick Flynn.” Dixie liked the sound of that. “Does he live in the neighborhood?”

  “He used to.” Flynn was busy with the clothing. “He helped me rebuild the Harley. He was really into bikes. But he was in the wrong place at the wrong time last fall.”

  A rush of dread filled Dixie. “Oh, Flynn—”

  “He’s not dead.” Flynn was suddenly very still. “He was shot, though, during a holdup at a take-out shop a few blocks from here. It was pretty bad, but Sean should be able to walk eventually. He’s spending some time in a rehab hospital. When he gets out—well, I hope he’ll move out of the city.”

  “New York is full of crime,” Dixie said on a sigh.

  “And criminals,” Flynn agreed, his voice hardening. “Like Joey Torrano.”

  He passed a pair of white shorts to Dixie, and fixed her with a steady gaze. “Torrano’s a bad character, Dixie. You should stay away from him.”

  She put her defenses up immediately. “I don’t mind him. Maybe I don’t exactly want to marry him, but I—”

  “He’s a crook, an abuser, a thief. And probably a murderer, too.”

  “There’s no proof of that,” Dixie began weakly.

  Flynn took her arms in his hands and squeezed. “Damn it, do you really know what you’re doing? Conning a jerk into financing your show—isn’t there some other way?”

  “We need his money,” Dixie said just as fiercely. “What better way to use it than keeping a few hundred honest souls at work? Supporting the arts, making people happy—”

  “But he ought to be in jail!”

  “I intend to get his money first,” Dixie snapped.

  “Dixie—”

  “Let me change my clothes,” she said quickly. “I feel naked all of a sudden.”

  Flynn turned away sharply. “So what else is new?” he muttered.

  Dixie’s temper began to flare. Throttling the anger back, she said, “Listen, Flynn, you can take me back to my hotel right now if—”

  “No, that’s out of the question.”

  The finality in his voice enraged her. “Am I a prisoner here?”

  “Don’t tempt me!”

  “I’m not crazy about staying in your place, you know. Why, you live like a monk and—”

  “I’m not thinking like a monk,” he replied, eyeing her costume with a glitter in his eyes. “And if you think having a half-dressed showgirl in my apartment is easy, you’d better think again!”

  Dixie glared at him. But the thought of spending the night in his apartment—his one-bedroom apartment—suddenly dawned on her. In an instant she found herself trembling. Don’t be an idiot, she thought to herself. He’s a perfect gentleman. He’s careful about everything he does and says. He’s not impulsive like you, so relax.

  Dixie wasn’t so sure she was capable of behaving herself with the same decorum Flynn had displayed.

  She spun around and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll get changed now.”

  “Good. Are you hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “I’ll go see what I can pick up across the street.” He followed her down the hall a few steps, then turned back. “Uh, don’t answer the phone if it rings. I mean, there’s no need to. The answering machine will get my calls.”

  “What’s the matter? Afraid I’m going to shock your family?”

  Flynn gave her a steely look and didn’t answer. Dixie closed the bathroom door. A few minutes later she heard Flynn leave his apartment.

  Flynn escaped his place and fled across the street to the neighborhood coffee shop. He slid onto a stool at the counter and nodded at Roy, the owner of the place, who waved. On his next trip behind the counter, Roy tossed Flynn a paper menu of the day’s specials. Flynn pretended to study the Sunday choices, although he knew them by heart.

  But his mind was full of Dixie. In his apartment she’d looked even more delectable than ever—more real, somehow. And Flynn ached to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

  What in hell possessed you to bring her here? he asked himself. You’re never going to make it through the night unless you stand under the cold shower for eight hours straight.

  Someone slipped onto the stool next to him, interrupting his thoughts. Flynn turned.

  His aunt Jane smiled over the rims of her librarian-style half glasses. “Well, darling, care to tell your old aunt what’s going on?”

  “Sorry, Aunt Jane. Police business.”

  “Don’t give me that line, Patrick. The young lady I saw didn’t look like a gangster. That’s what you’re supposed to be working on now, right? Gangsters and organized crime?”

  Flynn couldn’t help smiling. “You know I can’t talk about my work, Aunt Jane. What if a mobster decides to kidnap you, tie you to a chair and make you tell everything you know?”

  “I’d die first,” she said with a grin, patting his hand. “But I’ll let you off the hook this time. She’s very pretty.”

  “Who?”

  “The young lady I didn’t notice going into your apartment.”

  Flynn suppressed a smile. He loved Aunt Jane. She was his mother’s sister and the family eccentric. Jane painted pet portraits and made a very good living for herself—and her four cats. She also devoted large amounts of time to the local animal shelter, and she was known as the lady to take your puppy to if the vet’s office was closed and you needed help right away.

  “All right,” Flynn said. “Let’s change the subject before I have to arrest you for interfering with police business. What’s new?”

  “What’s new is that my nephew is finally getting his life back.”

  “Aunt Jane—”

  “Believe me, I’m delighted, Patrick. You should have a love interest again.”

  “She’s not my love interest.”

  “Maybe she should be.”

  “It’s not like I’ve been completely out of circulation.”

  “You call one dinner with your second cousin a date?”

  “You’ve been keeping track! I can’t believe it!’

  Jane did not get flustered by the accusation. “A real girlfriend, that’s what you need. You shouldn’t be thinking about Sean all the time.”

  “I’m not thinking about Sean.”

  “Don’t get grumpy.”

/>   “I’m not grumpy!”

  Aunt Jane waved at the diner’s owner, beckoning him over. “Roy, Patrick has a young lady at his place for dinner tonight. What do you have in the way of a romantic menu?”

  With a grin, Roy exclaimed, “That’s good news! I got just what he needs. Coming right up.”

  “Wonderful. It’ll be my treat.”

  Flynn knew it was useless to try stopping Roy, who had been enamored of Jane since forever and was still willing to go the extra mile to gain her affections. “Aunt Jane, I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t have to treat me like a—”

  “I want to spoil you.” She reached over and straightened his collar. “You deserve some spoiling. You’ve been miserable far too long.”

  “I have not!”

  “Don’t deny it. We’ve watched you mourn for months. And there’s nothing to be mourning about, Patrick. Nobody died. Everything’s fine.”

  “Everything?”

  “Sean’s getting better. You can’t ask for more.”

  “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

  “You can’t change the past.”

  “I could have done something.”

  “Like what?” Jane asked with a disbelieving laugh.

  “I’m a cop. I’m supposed to prevent crime.”

  “Oh, Patrick. Not everywhere.” She leaned closer. “Darling, you can’t be the guardian angel of everyone in the city.”

  “I ought to be able to protect my own family.”

  “Sean’s a big boy. He shouldn’t have been out at that time of night and he knows it. Don’t carry this guilt around forever, darling.”

  It was an old argument. Flynn tried to wave it off. “Okay, okay. I’ll work on it.”

  “I think you’ve made a good start with your young lady.”

  “She’s not my young lady.” After a thought, Flynn added, “Not exactly.”

  “Well, do something about that!” Jane ordered, laughing. “She’s very pretty. Is she nice?”

  “Nice, yes. A bit of a character.”

  “Wonderful! You need some spice in your life.”

  “She’s plenty spicy.” Flynn laughed.

  “Is she a good girl, though? Not one of those—well, someone you might catch something from?”

  “No, Aunt Jane,” Flynn assured her, certain of the truth. “She’s a good girl.”

  “Well, then, what’s keeping you? Roy, is that food ready yet?”

  Roy had already approached, carrying two large paper bags he had packed with food and drink. Some bottles clinked in one bag, and the fragrance of warm food tickled Flynn’s nose.

  “All ready,” said Roy. “Guaranteed to melt the heart of any woman in the world.”

  “Perfect!” cried Aunt Jane. “Now go for it, Patrick!”

  Seven

  What the hell, he thought, crossing the street. We’re both consenting adults. What have I got to lose?

  He was hardly aware that rain had started to pelt down in a summer storm until he’d reached the stoop of his building and realized water was dripping off his hair.

  Shaking like a spaniel, he slammed back into his apartment. He stopped in the doorway, arms full of paper bags, to see Dixie curled up on his sofa, wearing his clothes and apparently darning his socks. Funny how sexy a woman could look wearing a man’s clothes.

  She looked up and grinned with the familiar Texan sparkle in her eyes—a hint that there was plenty of spark inside her, too. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Honey, I’m home!’”

  Flynn kicked the door shut behind himself, absurdly glad to see that she hadn’t run off. He’d half expected her to steal his Harley and escape. He asked, “What are you doing?”

  She held up a needle and the thread she was about to pass through the eye. “Darning a sock. See?”

  “That’s my sock! Where did you get it?”

  “It was on the bathroom floor. Look at the holes! I thought I’d fix it. I’m pretty good at darning socks.” She bit her lower lip and concentrated on threading the needle. “Granny Butterfield taught me this the same summer I learned her fan dance routine, I think.”

  She was perched on the sofa with her feet tucked up under her, leaning toward the rain-washed window for light. There was a faint halo around her short hair, but Dixie looked anything but angelic. She had tied the loose ends of his shirt up around her midriff and tightly cinched his shorts around her narrow waist. Her face was washed clean of makeup, making Dixie look ten years younger than before—though hardly innocent.

  She looked so domestic that Flynn didn’t have the heart to tell her the sock she’d chosen to mend was the one he kept around for his sister’s mutt, Noodles, to chew on when he visited.

  Flynn’s chest expanded in a weird way at the sight of Dixie diligently trying to mend his sock.

  Still balancing the bags from Roy, Flynn crossed the floor and leaned down over Dixie, dripping rainwater. She looked up, startled.

  He murmured, “Honey, I’m home.”

  Instinctively, he kissed her. Dixie’s eyes were wide, but she dropped her mending and met his kiss with her mouth primly raised. He liked the taste of her, the texture of her lips and the suggestion of sensuality that lingered on her tongue as he parted her mouth. Then he broke the contact, thinking he’d rushed things.

  But oddly enough, Dixie reached up with both hands to touch his wet face. For a second, Flynn wasn’t sure what to expect. Then she pulled him down once more, closed her eyes and kissed him back, long and slow.

  Flynn’s insides turned hot and syrupy. His brain immediately began to indulge in erotic fantasies. Somehow he managed to drop the paper bags on the sofa and run his fingers deeply into her wispy soft hair to hold the kiss a little longer. She was deliciously sweet and eager. Clearly, she had no idea how much pent-up desire he felt for her or she wouldn’t have risked a second kiss. Flynn had a hell of a time holding on to his self-control.

  Dixie broke the kiss gently.

  “You have a lot of nerve,” she said, a smile in her gaze and her hand still on his cheek.

  “For what?”

  “Holding me prisoner and now torturing me like this.”

  “Funny, but I don’t call kissing torture.”

  “I meant the food. It smells terrific.”

  Flynn fought back his frustration with a comic groan. “You’re starving, right?”

  “When do we eat?”

  “Right now, if you like.” But Flynn spent a split second wishing she would prefer to do something else first.

  “Where’s your table?” she asked, disappointing the hell out of him.

  “Haven’t got one.”

  “Really? Where do you eat?”

  “Out, mostly. Or,” he added truthfully, “in bed.”

  The idea didn’t horrify her. In fact, Dixie’s smile widened. “What are you trying to do, sugar? Seduce me?”

  “Let’s eat,” he suggested, avoiding the question.

  Dixie figured she was playing with fire, but she led the way to Flynn’s bedroom and helped unpack the food. Soon the heady scents of wet pastrami sandwiches and kosher pickles filled the air.

  “I should have known this would be Roy’s idea of a romantic dinner,” Flynn muttered, shaking his head over the feast.

  “Who’s Roy?” Dixie asked, climbing onto the bed and settling down Indian-style to enjoy the meal.

  “A guy in the neighborhood. One who’s got a crush on Aunt Jane.” Flynn stripped off his wet shirt and took a worn pullover from the armoire. While Dixie’s breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed his broad chest and rugged shoulders, he pulled the dry sweater over his head and approached the bed.

  Dixie moved over to make room for him. “I never figured city people had neighborhoods like we do in Texas.” Dixie unwrapped a sandwich and inhaled its fragrance. Her stomach growled hungrily.

  “Of course we do. We just don’t have picket fences and miles of lawn between our homes.”

  “My family doesn’t have a
picket fence. Or any lawn, for that matter. It’s too dry. Daddy’s ranch is practically in the desert.”

  “He’s got a ranch?” Flynn asked, climbing onto the bed, too. He plucked a pickle from one of the wrapped packages and chomped it in two. “You mean, a cattle ranch? Real Texas stuff?”

  “Llamas,” Dixie told him around a mouthful of pastrami. “Mmm. This is great! I love messy sandwiches.”

  “Then you’re a woman of simple, but refined taste.” Flynn chose a sandwich for himself and unwrapped it. “Tell me about llamas in Texas.”

  So Dixie told him. Licking her fingers, she started with how her father’s crackpot scheme to turn llamas into a cash crop had failed miserably, but the peculiar animals had turned out to be a big hit with exotic pet lovers. Then she found herself telling Flynn about her assorted relatives—not just Granny Butterfield, but her cousin Jake, who was a Texas Ranger, Uncle Floyd the Baptist minister who also bottled Creole hot sauce in Louisiana, and the infamous Sweet Creek recluse, Spike Denison, who had lived just down the road all their lives but had never been seen by any member of the Davis clan.

  “How do you know he exists if you’ve never seen him?” Flynn asked.

  “You don’t have to lay eyes on a man to know he’s around,” Dixie replied, sampling the pickles. “He drinks two cases of beer every nine days, and his mama orders seven extra-large pepperoni pizzas—one every night of the week. You can’t tell me a little bitty woman like her drinks all that beer and eats pizza for her midnight snacks!”

  “Maybe she has a dog that likes Italian food.”

  Dixie shook her head, leaning closer to confide the rest of the story. “It’s Spike, all right. Doc Martinez says he delivered the baby forty years ago, but nobody’s ever seen old Miz Denison digging a grave or canning a lot of extra rattlesnake meat, so he’s got to exist.”

  Flynn cracked up laughing. “You’re making this up!”

  “Am not!” Dixie cried. “Cross my heart, every word is true!”

  Flynn listened to her stories, bemused and entertained. He relaxed on the bed, kicking off his boots and plumping the pillows for both of them to lean against. It felt like a Roman banquet to Dixie—lying there among his comfortable bedclothes and wolfing down the New York fare. Bottles of flavored seltzer waters washed down the thick sandwiches.