The Cop and the Chorus Girl (4 page)

Flynn couldn't begin to guess the message in Sven's humorless eyes. “Uh, hello.”

“Set up your table, Sven. I'll get undressed. Flynn, would you be so kind—”

Flynn heard the word “undressed” and forgot about trying to figure out Sven. He knew he'd better escape the confines of the dressing room before he was inexorably trapped with a naked Dixie—a fate worse than death if he had to keep his hands to himself.

But he found his path blocked by Sven, who unfolded his table and plunked it directly in Flynn's way. “He can stay,” Sven ordered, eyeing Flynn with a stony glitter in his gaze.

“Maybe I'd better wait outside until—”

“No, put on the music,” Dixie said, blithely peeling off her T-shirt. “See that pile of tapes on my dressing table?”

Flynn had never spent any time in the company of show business people. In the hallway, he had already noticed how casual the other actors seemed to be about their bodies. Half-dressed seemed good enough for them, and Dixie soon proved to be equally unconcerned about displaying her figure. She took off her shirt and tossed it onto the dressing table.

Flynn didn't have time to ogle the way her generous breasts strained at the flimsy lace of her bra before she kicked off her boots and reached for the zipper on her jeans.

Flynn spun around and pretended to search for the music she wanted. His hands fumbled through a pile of cassette tapes that was partially hidden under the huge mound of Dixie's extra wig. He knocked over a perfume atomizer and got a pair of silky pink panties tangled around his thumb.

“Find something suitable,” Dixie suggested.

Suitable for what? Flynn wondered. Torture? He turned to ask, but realized Dixie was climbing onto Sven's massage table in no more than panties and bra. As she lay facedown, she unfastened the bra and let it fall to the floor.

Flynn found himself staring at the most beautiful backside in the civilized world. The smooth shape of Dixie's white back blended into a luscious dip just above the twin perfection of her buttocks that were barely covered by her powder blue panties. Suddenly Flynn couldn't breathe. A sun-ripened peach hanging on the warm branches of a fruit-laden tree couldn't have looked more delicious than her bottom at that moment.

Sven took a bottle of oil from the dressing table and proceeded to squirt a generous amount onto his large hands. His huge body blocked the door, and he watched Flynn suspiciously.

Flynn tried to tear his gaze from Dixie and held back a groan. He realized he was trapped in the dressing room with a near-naked Texas Tornado—and he was about to experience the worst agony any man could possibly endure.

Watching someone
else
massage her body.

Overheated already, he took off his leather jacket.

“Plug in a tape,” Dixie suggested from her prone position on the massage table. “Something soft and sexy, okay, Flynn? I need to get into the right mood for the show.”

Flynn didn't bother to look through the collection of cassette tapes. He wasn't sure he was capable of reading at that moment anyway. He simply grabbed a tape and tried to plug it into the machine. As he fumbled with the tape player, he stared at Dixie's lithe body. Sven used a white towel the size of a dinner napkin to cover the curve of her bottom.

She wriggled out of her panties, dropped them on the floor, then stretched to get comfortable. Flynn's mouth went very dry. She was completely naked under that postage stamp of a towel.

Then Sven put his hands on her back and began to rub the warm oil into Dixie's skin. The music started and the small room was soon filled with the sensuous sounds of a soft guitar accompanying the husky voice of a woman Flynn did not recognize. She seemed to be singing in French.

Dixie gave a quiet, satisfied moan. “Oh, Sven. You're the best.”

Sven didn't respond. He had his eyes closed and seemed to be lost in his job.

And what a job!

Hypnotized, Flynn watched Sven's hands smooth gently along Dixie's muscles. He could actually see her body relax beneath Sven's expert massage. He circled each muscle group in her back, isolated one after the other, and stretched them until Dixie sighed with pleasure.

Flynn wanted to strangle Sven for making her sigh like that.

He began to imagine his own hands performing the task. As Sven progressed up her spine, Flynn could almost feel each delicate knob of bone, each satinlike inch of skin. The oil melted on her flesh. Sven's hands were graceful as they stroked her supple shoulders and rubbed the tension from her slim arms.

Then Sven started down her back again.

Dixie murmured, “Wonderful. Would you turn the lights down, Flynn?”

Still staring at her, Flynn stumbled backward, groping along the wall until his hand connected with the light switch. He fumbled with it, then finally managed to shut off all the lights except a single bulb that cast warm shadows along the slender length of Dixie's back.

Then Sven hooked his thumbs under the towel and pulled it down over Dixie's bottom. His hands kneaded her there, leaving a slick trail of oil on her glowing skin. As Flynn watched, a large droplet of oil slowly, slowly disappeared between her buttocks.

Flynn bit down a groan of desire. He wanted to chase that droplet with his own fingers. He wanted to fill his hands with the soft flesh of her bottom. He wanted to shove Sven aside and caress her himself.

Most of all, he wanted to turn Dixie onto her back so he could feast his hands and eyes on the other side of her body. He longed to see her breasts, to touch them. He wanted to stroke her belly and find all the soft, most sensitive spots on her skin.

Sounding drowsy, Dixie asked, “Did you say something, Flynn?”

“N-no.” His voice was little more than a rasp. To steady himself, Flynn leaned back against her dressing table. He could see her face from that angle, and a dreamy smile played on her lips.

He wasn't sure how much more he could stand. Every fiber of his own body was tight with urgency. With every muscle that loosened on Dixie's frame, another grew unbearably taut on Flynn's.

Sven worked silently, his hands dancing fluidly down Dixie's thighs, her sleek calf muscles, and finally to her feet. He paid careful attention to the arch of each foot and all her toes. Flynn thought about hurling Sven out the door.

Dixie seemed lost in a haze of sensual pleasure.

“Enough?” Sven murmured at last.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed, sounding satisfied. “Yes, Sven. You'd better wake me up now.”

“You got it,” said the young man.

He quickly began to revive Dixie with a brisk rubdown that brought a pink glow to her skin. He was surprisingly rough with her, but Dixie seemed to awaken refreshed and energized. She made a wisecrack, and Sven laughed.

They traded jokes for a few minutes, but Flynn didn't listen. He was burning with jealousy.

“Lights,” Sven said at last, jolting Flynn out of his fog.

“Oh, uh, sure.” Flynn hit the switch and blinked unsteadily.

Sven handed Dixie a larger towel, and she sat up, neatly wrapping it around herself with the air of a modest Southern belle who wouldn't dream of indulging in such sensual pleasures as the woman who had moaned on the table just moments before. Her face shone with vitality. Her eyes danced with energy as she caught Flynn's gaze.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I'm fine,” he answered hastily, aware that Sven was watching, too.

“You're sweating,” Dixie observed.

“It's hot in here!”

“Is it?” She seemed surprised. “Do you think it's hot, Sven?”

“I'm always hot,” Sven said with a grin.

Dixie laughed. “Well, open the door, Flynn, while I take a fast shower.”

“A shower?”

Flynn hadn't noticed the connecting bathroom, which Dixie appeared to share with an adjoining dressing room. She slipped into the bath and flipped on the shower while Sven proceeded to wipe the oil from his hands with the small towel. Then he packed up his equipment.

When Dixie disappeared into the shower, Flynn ventured to use his voice. “How often do you come here, Sven?”

“I do Dixie before every performance,” Sven answered. Apparently, Flynn had passed some kind of test, because the masseur began to talk in a friendly fashion. “Every actor needs to prepare before a show, and this is her way. There are a couple of actors I do after the performances, too.”

“Nice work if you can get it.”

“Oh, yes, I love my job. I work at all the theaters on Broadway.”

“You must get to meet a lot of, er, interesting people.”

“Lots of stars, yes. Dixie's the best, though. She's got a great body and a big heart.” Leaning forward as if to share a secret, Sven said, “She's got the best butt in town, too, but she hasn't let it go to her head.”

Flynn laughed, but wasn't sure if Sven was serious or not.

Dixie emerged from the shower then, quickly rubbing her skin dry and singing happily to herself. “Are you bragging about my behind again, Sven?”

“I tell everybody about your butt, honey. Your garbanzos can't get all the attention.”

“Well, they say any publicity is good publicity,” she retorted, laughing. “Thanks, Sven. You're just what I needed after a day like today!”

“Shall I come back later?”

“No, I'll find another way to wind down after the show.”

Sven winked. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

With more laughter, they said their goodbyes and Sven departed with his table.

Dixie turned her amused gaze on Flynn. “Well, that's the best mood I've ever seen him in! Sven certainly took a shine to you!”

“What?”

“He thought you were pretty sexy.”

Baffled, Flynn said, “I don't—what do you mean?”

“He's gay, of course. Couldn't you tell?”

“Hell, no! How am I supposed to know?”

“Don't get flustered. It's a compliment.”

“I'm not flustered!”

From the hallway someone shouted, “Thirty minutes till curtain!”

The message galvanized Dixie, and she forgot about Sven. “I've got to warm up now.”

Flynn's head spun. Being with Dixie Davis was like keeping company with a tornado, all right. “Do you want me to wait outside?”

“No need for that.”

In her towel, she began to hustle around the dressing room, arranging clothing, choosing another cassette tape, organizing her makeup. She plugged in a new tape and started to vocalize along with the recorded music. Through the half-open door, Flynn could hear other actors doing the same thing up and down the hall.

Dixie sat down at her dressing table, the towel slipping precariously around her otherwise naked body. She examined her face in the mirror. While exercising her voice, she began to apply her makeup. Her hands moved in quick, sure motions and she turned her face back and forth to catch the light after each layer of color went on.

Her voice grew stronger with every scale she sang, and Flynn liked listening to her. She had a good but not overpowering voice. There was an appealing sweetness to her singing. Other voices rose in similar patterns from the rest of the dressing rooms, causing the air to swell with cacophonous song.

Her face was quickly transformed into a vibrant mask of color. She applied her lip pencil last, then rubbed a bright red color onto her lips as a finishing touch.

“Fifteen minutes!” shouted the stage manager from the hall.

“Costume,” Dixie said decisively. “Could you hand me that red thing, Flynn?”

“Red thing?”

“Right there.” She pointed.

“This?” Flynn picked up a thin strip of elastic from which dangled a few rows of silk tassels. “It's not really a costume, is it?”

Dixie laughed at his expression. “In this show, it is!”

Her Roaring Twenties' flapper dress consisted of little more than a couple of feathers and the few rows of tassels that shimmered when she shook it.

“You're not going on stage in that?” Flynn asked, amazed.

“Why not? I look damn good in it!” She sailed into the bathroom once more to dress.

When she emerged a few minutes later, Flynn had to admit she did look good. Damn,
damn
good, in fact. The tight-fitting outfit managed to cover her with surprising good taste while still flaunting her figure to the max.

Involuntarily, Flynn whistled.

Dixie grinned and waggled her hips like a showgirl, clearly enjoying herself. She pulled on a pair of tap shoes.

“Five minutes!” bellowed the stage manager.

“Help me with my mike?” Dixie asked, handing him an electronic box about the size of a small transistor radio. She spun around and presented Flynn with her bare back. “Just clip it to the inside pocket of the dress.”

Flynn hesitated.

He wasn't afraid to touch her. He just feared he might not be able to
stop
touching her.

“Problem?”

“No, no problem. No problem at all.”

As delicately as he could, Flynn attached the microphone power pack to the lining of her dress.

“So far,” Dixie asked over her shoulder, “how do you like this job?”

“Oh,” Flynn replied, still dry in the mouth, “I'll get used to it.”

D
ixie enjoyed her share of the applause when the curtain was drawn at the end of the show, but she knew
The Flatfoot and the Floozie
was not exactly
War and Peace.
And her role, that of the floozie, was little more than a star turn. Eleanor Roosevelt could have played the part. All Dixie had to do was look great, flash her legs, sing a little and dance in place while everybody else showed off their talents around her. Basically, Dixie had to imitate her granny Butterfield—without taking off her clothes.

The show relied on the far greater singing and dancing skills of the other actors as well as the pyrotechnics that had become so important to Broadway shows in recent years. Still, Dixie got a big kick out of performing.

Unlike most of the cast, who dragged themselves downstairs in various stages of exhaustion, Dixie was bubbling over with energy after the show.

She grabbed Flynn backstage. “What did you think? Did you enjoy it? I thought it went great tonight!”

“It was good,” Flynn replied, allowing her to drag him down the stairs. “You were terrific.”

“I had a great time. Wasn't Kiki wonderful tonight? Come on. Now we have to go to the greenroom and talk to everybody. I called a cast meeting.”

The whole cast of the show assembled in the theater's greenroom, a lounge where all the actors could relax. Some of the women slipped into bathrobes and drank directly from plastic bottles of mineral water to restore themselves after the strenuous singing and dancing. The men stripped down to their tights and wore towels around their necks to absorb sweat and the remains of their stage makeup.

Dixie entered the lounge with Flynn, who made himself invisible in a far corner. Dixie took center stage in the crowded room.

“Okay, Dixie,” said Charles Kenton, the male lead of the play. He was the uniformed beat cop in the show—one who could sing and tap-dance like nobody's business. His powerful voice quelled the chatter in the room. “You've got to tell us everything now. Is Joey going to close the show or not?”

The whole cast looked at Dixie and held their collective breath.

“I'm not sure,” she said in all honesty, hating to deliver bad news. She had never intended to become a leader among the cast members. The role had been forced on her. She'd decided early on to hold nothing back. Especially the truth. She said, “I think it's likely that Joey will withdraw his support of
The Flatfoot and the Floozie.
”

Her words drew groans from the cast.

“Come on, Dixie!” Charles blew up. “You've been in Joey Torrano's bed for weeks! Surely you could have used your influence!”

“I have
not
been in Joey's bed,” Dixie snapped. “And everyone in this cast knows that's true.”

Charles looked sullen while a few of Dixie's friends loudly stood up for her. The handsome leading man was a British native, and he had perfected a sulky upper-crust accent and attitude despite his Liverpool background. Few cast members actually liked Charles, but he was a good actor and dancer, so they tolerated his presence for a show that needed every asset it could get.

“Look,” Dixie said, cutting across the raised voices. “You all know I was supposed to marry Joey today, and I didn't go through with it. I just—I couldn't do it.”

“So now he's going to close the show,” Charles snapped.

“It's not Dixie's responsibility to keep the show open,” Kiki Barnes piped up. “We would've closed the first week if it hadn't been for her. We're lucky she came along!”

Charles kept his steely gaze trained on Dixie. “But you couldn't sleep with Joey to keep us going a little longer?”

“No, I couldn't,” Dixie said just as coldly. “I've got my self-respect, Charles—”

“Not to mention two thousand dollars a week more than the rest of us for being in this show,” Charles countered.

“I'm willing to give up that two thousand,” Dixie retorted. “
And
the rest of my salary to keep the show open if Joey backs out. I'll do it as long as I can. But I can't do it myself, Charlie.”

“Yeah,” Kiki added. “If we want to keep the show open, we're going to have to find another investor.”

“We can't let the show close,” said another actor. “I need this job. And Kiki—well, she needs it real bad.”

An odd moment of silence greeted that remark. Dixie knew perfectly well how badly Kiki Barnes needed her job in
The Flatfoot and the Floozie.
Kiki was providing financial support for her twin brother Kip, who was desperately ill with AIDS. Kiki's brother had been a dancer in New York for many years, and he was a good friend of many of the actors in the room at that moment. Nobody wanted to lose their job, for they all—Dixie included—pitched in to help with Kip's expenses, but mostly they didn't want Kiki to lose hers. Working on the show not only gave Kiki money, but a reason to get out in the world every day.

Dixie planned to do anything in her power to keep the show alive as long as possible—not just for Kiki and Kip, but for all the people with similar stories.

“So.” Charles broke the uncomfortable silence. “Where are we going to find another investor?”

“I have an idea,” Dixie said slowly, causing heads to turn in her direction once again.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I think Joey might stick with the show if I left.”

“No!” cried several voices.

“It's true,” Dixie argued. “I've hurt his ego. He might keep putting his money into
Flatfoot
if I'm not around to remind him of—”

“Great idea,” Charles said laconically. “But hardly foolproof. If you walk out, we're sure to close. At least with you on stage every night, we sell tickets.”

“You haven't heard the rest of my plan,” Dixie said. “I think we ought to challenge Joey.”

“Challenge him?”

“Yes, by making him think there's an even bigger spender interested in backing the show. Then Joey might decide to keep his money in
Flatfoot
just to beat the other guy.”

“What other guy?” Charles asked. “Where are we going to get another millionaire? Or have you found another potential husband, Dixie?”

Several of the actors turned to look at Flynn, who remained calm and silent. But Dixie flushed.

“No,” she said. “I haven't found another husband or a millionaire. Maybe we don't need one.”

“I don't get it.”

“I mean,” she continued carefully, “maybe we could make one up.”

“What d'you mean?”

“I think Joey would keep his money in this show if he
thought
somebody else might beat him out of it. We just have to create a competitor, that's all.”

“Create one?”

“Right.” Growing more excited about her plan, Dixie said, “We have to tell the press there's another interested investor, and they'll do the rest.”

Kiki had already warmed to the idea. “We'll need someone to stand in for pictures,” she said, thinking. “The newspapers will want pictures.”

“How about Charles?” someone suggested. “We could change his makeup, add a beard, put him in a nice suit for once—”

“No, the newspapers will see through that in a minute,” Charles snapped. “I'm a well-known face. I'm famous, for God's sake! If this crackpot idea were going to work, we'd need a perfect stranger. Someone the papers have never seen before.”

Everyone turned and looked at Flynn speculatively.

Flynn realized something was in the air and spoke at last. “What's everybody looking at?”

“He could be from out of town,” Kiki said thoughtfully. “Florida, maybe. Or Las Vegas.”

“California,” said someone else, snapping his fingers. “He's too good-looking for Las Vegas.”

“He'll need a story,” said Charles, also eyeing Flynn with the expertise of an actor. “A background. Where did he get his money?”

“Oil wells?”

“Gambling?”

“How about professional sports?” suggested another voice. “He looks big enough to be a professional athlete.”

“Flynn,” Dixie said, “have you ever played any sports?”

“What's going on?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

“In school,” she went on, “did you ever play football or wrestle? Basketball, maybe?”

“I did a little boxing and—”

“Boxing!” Kiki crowed. “I love it! He's a former boxer with lots of money to sink into a Broadway show! Not only that—he's tall! Joey will hate him on sight!”

“Wait a minute,” Flynn began.

“Here, try this on,” said one of the extras. “This suit might fit you.”

The group hustled Flynn out of his corner and paraded him into the middle of the room. Various articles of clothing were tossed in his direction, then someone dashed for the costume shop and someone else for the prop room. Dixie hid a smile. Her plan had been greeted with enthusiasm from everyone but poor Flynn.

He was pushed into several suit jackets until one was found that did fit him beautifully. It clung to his shoulders and tapered around his lean hips, looking quite stunning. A pipe looked silly in his hand, a cane even worse, but a fake cigar managed to transform Flynn into a believable character.

A mustache applied by the makeup artist completed the picture. Suddenly Flynn looked like a high roller with a shady past—exactly the kind of character the press might sink its teeth into.

“Hold on,” Flynn protested as he was pushed and prodded by half-a-dozen enthusiastic actors. “I don't know what you're doing, but I can't—”

“Haven't you always wanted to be an actor?” Charles asked, finally siding with the idea but putting his own sarcastic spin on things. “Every man on earth wants to be a movie star! Well, here's your chance, Mr.—Flynn, is it? I don't suppose you can act, can you?”

* * *

Flynn returned to the Plaza with Dixie, totally opposed to the plan.

“I can't do this,” he protested. “Nobody's going to believe I'm a professional boxer!”

“I'll coach you.”

“All the coaching in the world won't help!”

“It's only for a few days,” Dixie argued breezily as they entered her suite. “Long enough to convince Joey that he needs to sign an extended contract to support the show. Once we get his signature on paper, you're free!”

She flipped on a few lamps and tossed her canvas bag onto the sofa. Her wig followed, and she fluffed up her short hair with a brisk rub.

Flynn closed the door and followed her into the suite. He dropped a fake Louis Vuitton suitcase full of clothing the cast had collected for him out of the theater's costume shop. They had thrown themselves into creating a character for Flynn to play.

Desperately, Flynn said, “Dixie, I can't do it!”

“Why not? You look the part! You look wonderful!”

“I feel like a fool.”

Flynn stopped and looked at his reflection in the mirror. It had taken only an hour for the transformation to take place, but he didn't look like himself anymore. Oh, maybe his own family would recognize him beneath the false mustache and the elegant Armani suit, but there was no doubt in Flynn's mind that his friends at the precinct wouldn't guess who he was. If they did, they'd bust their collective guts laughing.

Unmindful of his dilemma, Dixie kicked off her boots and started to make herself comfortable in the hotel suite. She yanked the tail of her T-shirt out of her jeans as if to undress right there in front of the windows overlooking Central Park.

“What are you doing?” Flynn asked, momentarily forgetting his problems. He wasn't prepared to start fighting his attraction to her all over again.

Dixie picked up the phone and began dialing purposefully. “I'm starving. I want to order some room service. What would you like for supper?”

“I don't feel like eating.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know—stage fright or something!”

“That always wears off, trust me. Oh, hello, room service? This is Dixie again. Could you send up some—let's see—how about a couple of Western omelets? Oh, yes, with potatoes and everything. And some fruit. Oh, and something chocolate! Yes, that sounds perfect. For two, of course. Yes, for two people. Thanks.”

She hung up and bounded for the bedroom. “You'll have to answer the door in your new getup. The hotel staff ought to get the first glimpse of my boxer with money.”

“I thought you were going to keep your presence here a secret.”

“Not anymore,” she said from inside her bedroom. She didn't bother to close the door. “Now we're going to pretend I'm staying here with my new lover!”

Flynn shot to the bedroom door and halted on the threshold. “You're kidding, right?”

With her back turned to Flynn, Dixie whipped off her T-shirt and replaced it with a comfortable-looking man's dress shirt. She fastened a couple of buttons casually. “Of course I'm not kidding. The best way to make Joey furious is to pretend you've replaced him in my affections. Except for one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Joey never stayed here.”

“You never slept with him?” Flynn said, not sure he should believe her. Unless Torrano was a man of steel, he
had
to have been attracted to Dixie.

“Of course I didn't sleep with him. I barely
knew
him! But we're going to make it look like you and I are—well, heavily involved. Trust me, it's the best way to get Joey's attention.”

Not to mention the attention of the police department. Flynn could almost hear his colleagues howling with delight over his predicament.

Dixie shimmied out of her jeans without revealing any skin. The large white shirt almost reached her knees and was actually quite modest when examined in a detached fashion. Flynn was anything but detached, however. She had great legs—slim and well muscled from hours of dancing, no doubt. And there was no hiding her famous bustline.