Free The Cop and the Chorus Girl by Nancy Martin

a borrowed suit and wearing a ridiculous false mustache, to boot.
    And the worst of it was obviously going to be spending the night in Dixie’s suite. A terrible thought struck him, and Flynn stopped pacing. He wondered if she slept in the nude.
    A soft knock at the suite’s door announced the arrival of dinner. The waiter didn’t seem to notice anything silly about Flynn’s mustache. He seemed very curious about Flynn’s presence in the suite, however, and he certainly heard Dixie singing in the bathtub—complete with splashing. If he was one of Torrano’s spies, he was going to have plenty of stories to tell the boss later.
    Just behind the waiter came the hotel’s bellman, gingerly wheeling Flynn’s Harley out of the elevator. Flynn forgot about food and leapt to take possession of his bike. Running his hands over the motorcycle, he checked for dents or scratches. It seemed to be in perfect condition.
    â€œNice bike,” said the bellman, clearly trying to figure out who Flynn was.
    Since he couldn’t come up with a plausible reason why the mysterious ex-boxer from California would have a vintage Harley-Davidson in the city, Flynn said curtly, “Thanks,” and sent the curious bellman on his way.
    Alone again, Flynn parked his bike beside the white piano and wheeled the room-service cart into Dixie’s plush bedroom.
    â€œIs that our food?” Dixie called from the tub. “Or your motorcycle?”
    â€œBoth.” Flynn checked under the lids of several dishes and called, “Food smells delicious!”
    â€œAnd the motorcycle?” she called back, laughter in her voice.
    â€œPerfect shape.”
    â€œGreat. Bring the supper in here!”
    Obediently, Flynn wheeled the cart through her cluttered bedroom to the doorway of the bathroom.
    â€œCome on in,” Dixie said. “I’m decent.”
    Cautiously, Flynn stuck his head around the door.
    She was not decent.
    At least, she probably wasn’t. Dixie had filled the bathtub with steaming hot water and loaded it with bubbles. The water was still running, and the bubbles had risen high enough to cover her breasts. Just barely.
    â€œI think I’ll wait out here until you’re dried off,” Flynn said hastily.
    â€œDon’t be silly,” she said. “I’m covered up. The food will get cold. Just wheel it in here and we’ll eat. Come on. It’s no big deal.”
    Flynn leaned against the doorframe and passed one hand through his hair. “For me, it’s a big deal.”
    Dixie laughed. “In the theater, we get used to changing our clothes in front of fifty people backstage between scenes. If you hang around with us for more than a couple of days, you’ll see what I mean.”
    â€œI’ve seen plenty already, thanks.”
    â€œCome on in. Really, I don’t mind.”
    Flynn argued with himself for about thirty seconds. But he realized he’d like nothing better than having dinner while admiring Dixie Davis in her bath. Besides, he might actually learn more by interrogating her.
    What the hell, Flynn, he said to himself. How many perks does this job have? Not many, pal. Take advantage of this one while you can. So he shrugged and pushed the cart into the warm bathroom. It was mostly marble and mirrors, with an enormous Jacuzzi and a huge window that overlooked Central Park.
    Dixie had sunk down into the bubbles as far as her chin. “Now, won’t this be cozy? Park the cart right here, sugar. And you can sit on the dressing table chair, see? I have some beer in the ice bucket over there. Have one.”
    She was sipping from a bottle herself. Three more bottles of Mexican beer were floating in a large ice bucket on the bathroom counter alongside an enormous display of makeup bottles, tubes and pencils. Flynn helped himself to a beer.
    Dixie took a long swallow and relaxed into the tub with a sigh. “This tastes