The Cop And The Chorus Girl. Nancy Martin

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      But he’d never entered the Plaza with the likes of Dixie Davis.

      Everyone in the lobby stopped doing whatever they were doing to get an eyeful of the Texas Tornado. The bellman leaned out over his desk to call his hello. The reservation clerks actually looked up from their computers to wave cheerily at their most infamous guest. Tourists turned and gaped. Some applauded.

      Bold as brass, Dixie laughed and tilted her hat, then waved to her admirers like a beauty queen sailing down Main Street on a parade float. She kept moving at a brisk sashay—mostly, Flynn noted, to dodge the horde of people who pressed forward for her autograph.

      With Flynn in tow, she dived into the nearest key-operated elevator. Dixie used a special security key conjured from inside the bodice of her dress, then she hit a button and collapsed against the rear wall just as the doors closed on a pushing crowd of fans.

      “Whew!” She took off her hat and fanned her face.

      “Is it like that everywhere you go?”

      “Everywhere,” she agreed. “Except when I’m not Dixie Davis.”

      “What?”

      “You’ll see,” she said with a wink. The elevator whisked them upward, and in a matter of seconds Flynn found himself following Dixie out of the elevator, through double white doors and into a luxury suite big enough for the NBA play-offs. Creamy white furniture, white carpets and a subtle white-on-white wallcovering stretched all the way to the huge windows overlooking a spectacular view of Central Park.

      And there were flowers everywhere—roses in graceful arrangements, a single bud here and there, all with cards from fans.

      But the suite’s primary form of decoration was a life-size poster of Dixie Davis herself—spangled and primped and posing like a cowgirl from Mars who had just landed in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Her red, white and blue costume barely covered her spectacular figure, and her white boots were tasseled and pom-pommed. Her blond hair was huge. She was holding a shiny silver pistol that appeared to be shooting fireworks. Standing smack-dab on the coffee table in the middle of the living room, the poster created an awesome kind of altar to a living sex goddess.

      Dixie threw her Stetson onto a sofa. “Make yourself at home, sugar.”

      “Miss Davis—”

      “Dixie, please. Let me change out of this getup and we’ll talk, okay?”

      “But—”

      “And if anyone knocks on the door, don’t let them in. Unless it’s Maurice.”

      “Who’s Maurice?”

      “The concierge. He’ll be here any minute, I’m sure.” She exited the living room and half closed the door. She began to undress, Flynn judged by the sounds of swishing satin, but she continued to talk through the door by raising her voice. “Maurice is a worrier. Joey told him he’d better keep me happy while I’m staying here, and Maurice understood that to be some kind of threat, so he’s always panicking when I change my plans. Poor Maurice will go ballistic when he realizes I’ve run out on my wedding.”

      “It’s not Maurice’s fault.”

      “Of course not. But he’s afraid of Joey, you see. I can’t imagine why. Joey’s usually a teddy bear.”

      Flynn considered what he knew about Joey Torrano, and nothing in the mobster’s past made the man sound the least bit like a teddy bear. A grizzly bear, perhaps—one with a streak of vengeance and a nasty habit of making his employees disappear when they knew too much.

      “Make yourself at home,” Dixie called from behind the half-closed door. “Sit down and relax. Or get yourself a drink. I’ll only be a minute.”

      Half to prevent himself wondering what Dixie Davis looked like while undressing, Flynn strolled around the suite to see what he could learn about its occupant. After all, for weeks the cops had failed to get into the suite to look for evidence that might help send Joey Torrano to jail. Now here was Flynn—actually invited into the perfect place to find something useful.

      He studied the suite through narrowed eyes. A white grand piano stood in one corner, its surface scattered with sheet music covered with pencil notes. A skimpy black leotard had been abandoned over the back of a chair. Flynn picked it up without thinking, and studied the small scrap of fabric with a frown, wondering how it could possibly cover Dixie’s voluptuous curves. On the floor at his feet, a pair of worn-looking tap shoes lay where they’d been kicked off.

      Remembering why he’d agreed to come, Flynn carried the leotard with him as he looked around some more. A few books and magazines were stacked on a table, but they looked as if they’d been ignored by someone who spent every waking minute rehearsing. Using the remote control, he turned on the television and discovered that Dixie—or Joey—watched CNN instead of game shows or soap operas.

      A kitchenette lay adjacent to the living room. A peek into the small refrigerator revealed half-empty cartons of Chinese takeout, a couple of containers of yogurt, some apples, carrots, and a six-pack of Mexican beer. From all the police files he’d read, Flynn knew that the mob boss’s favorite drink was vodka. Clearly, the beer was for Dixie.

      The beer kicked Flynn’s imagination into overdrive again. His brain quickly concocted a scenario that included an undressed showgirl sharing a cold bottle with a very turned-on cop. Ever since her kiss, he’d been aroused. No woman had ever affected him like that before. Flynn wondered if all men reacted the same way to the Texas Tornado.

      A tentative knock sounded at the suite’s front door. Flynn slammed the refrigerator shut.

      “Will you see who that is, sugar?” Dixie called from the other room. “I can’t find my shirt!”

      The thought of a topless Dixie answering the door sent Flynn hurrying to greet the visitor himself.

      “Who is it?” he growled through the door.

      “Maurice,” squeaked a terrified voice. “Is Miss Davis available?”

      Flynn opened the door and stepped back to permit the concierge to enter. He was a panic-stricken little fellow in a black suit who scuttled instead of walked, and he wrung his hands as he rushed into the suite.

      “Oh, Miss Dixie, I’m terribly— Oh! Where is Miss Davis?”

      “Getting changed,” Flynn said shortly.

      “Who are you?”

      Flynn came up with a lie after a second’s pause. “Her bodyguard.”

      That was a logical explanation to the concierge. “I see. Is Miss Davis all right?”

      “I’ll be out in a minute, Maurice!” she caroled from the bedroom.

      Pinpointing her location, Maurice forgot about Flynn and hurried to the bedroom door. “Oh, Miss Davis, I’m terribly sorry the Honeymoon Suite isn’t ready yet. We weren’t expecting you for several more hours and—”

      “Cool your tamales, Maurice.”

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