The Cop And The Chorus Girl. Nancy Martin
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gun means you have to do what I say!”
“I don’t think so, lady.”
She stared at him, and Flynn heard an emergency alarm start blaring inside his brain. In fact, his entire body was suddenly flooding with panic. It was crazy—crazy—to stand up to a gun-wielding nut like this! But he couldn’t obey her. He couldn’t. Not even with half-a-dozen goons bearing down on them like paratroopers storming the beach at Normandy. Every cop had to make a stand sometime, and this was Flynn’s time.
Her beautiful face registered shock. “Listen, sugar, I’m gonna put a bullet through that thick head of yours if you don’t help me right this minute!”
“Sorry. There’s nothing you can do to make me get involved.”
“Nothing, huh? We’ll see about that!”
She grabbed the front of his black T-shirt with one hand and swooped close. Before Flynn could take a breath, she was suddenly kissing him.
Kissing him! Her full lips fastened on to his as if she were staking a claim, making her mark, claiming a prize. She was hot, wet, delicious, Flynn realized dimly. Sweet and spicy at the same time. Sexy and teasing and oh, so good. Her kiss packed a wallop of excitement.
For Flynn, time stopped. Talk about crazy. The city spun like a carousel and disappeared in a puff of sensual smoke. His whole world was suddenly this big, beautiful woman who smelled wonderful, tasted magical, and felt something like a wild animal as she pressed up against him. Jolted by a surge as powerful as any electrical current, Flynn felt all his strength drain away. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move.
And he didn’t want to. It was magic. Black magic, maybe. Her kiss turned Flynn’s insides to a cauldron of boiling hormones. He forgot his job, forgot his mission—hell, he even forgot his name.
Sex, he thought. The idea pierced him like an arrow. That’s what he wanted. Now. With her. Let the kiss go on forever, prayed a voice he didn’t recognize at first. Let their mouths melt together for eternity. Let their clothes evaporate, let their bodies meld into one hot, pulsing—
Just as suddenly as she’d started the whole thing, she pulled away and stared straight into Flynn’s eyes with magnetic power. Her face was instantly carved into his mind forever. Those lashes, that pointed nose, those delicate brows. And that delicious, perfect mouth.
“Help me,” she breathed.
Flynn didn’t think. There wasn’t time—there wasn’t any need. He’d had one kiss and he wanted more. Lots more. Logic self-destructed. Common sense died a fiery death.
The men in tuxedos arrived in a puffing, sweaty pack, all grunting commands at each other. One of them grabbed the woman’s arm. She cried out.
Flynn threw a punch—a lucky left-handed one. It connected with the man’s chin and sent him sprawling on the sidewalk.
Another man—this one bigger and more determined—aimed a karate-style kick at Flynn’s head. But he was far too slow. Flynn ducked instinctively, then seized the flying ankle and sent the man sailing backward. He landed on the curb with an explosive “Ooof!”
“My hero!”
Flynn slammed on his helmet and gunned the Harley as the woman gathered up her dress and climbed on sidesaddle behind him. Then he laid a patch of burned rubber on the pavement and they took off.
As they whipped into traffic, his passenger gave a whoop of triumph that sounded like “Yii-ha!” She tore the veil off her cowboy hat and threw it up into the air as they roared down Fifth Avenue. Taxis swerved, horns blared and pedestrians stopped to watch as Flynn opened the throttle and shot the Harley through an intersection with his passenger laughing and waving her hat with triumphant glee behind him.
“Use your spurs!” she cried, hugging him tight with one slender arm. “Oh, I’ve always had a hankering for men in black leather!”
“Are you insane?” Flynn demanded, shaken. His lips were still burning as they roared away from the church and cut up a side street.
“This is the sanest I’ve felt in weeks, sugar. How fast can this clunker go?”
“Clunker? This is a genuine— Why, I rebuilt this machine myself and I won’t have anybody— Good God, put that gun away!”
“This little ol’ peashooter? Honey, back in Texas we’d call this a toy!”
It was one of those miraculous Saturdays in May—not a cloud in the sky and New York’s streets were newly washed of winter grime. Thousands of people were strolling on the sidewalks—now all pointing and shouting at Flynn’s Harley, it seemed. He could hardly keep the bike moving in a straight line and it wobbled dangerously in traffic.
She leaned close. “Am I making you nervous, sugar?”
“Hell, yes, you’re making me nervous!” In more ways than one, he wanted to add, not exactly sure of what had happened back there at the church. One kiss was turning him into a brainless mass of jelly.
“Whaddaya know,” she mused with another whooping laugh. “An honest man!” She put her chin against his shoulder and snuggled close enough for her breath to tickle Flynn’s ear. “Tell you what—I’ll put away my peashooter if you promise to behave yourself.”
“Behave my— What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Just do what I say.” She waggled the pistol in front of him. “Promise?”
A sweat had broken out on Flynn’s brow. “All right, all right! I promise.”
“Good.” She wriggled around, no doubt tucking the pistol back inside her garter. “Now,” she commanded serenely, once the weapon was dispatched, “take me someplace safe.”
“I have a feeling no place on earth is safe with you around,” he retorted, meaning it.
She laughed delightedly and slid both arms around his waist. “That’s what my daddy always said! You’re a pretty perceptive guy, sugar—for a Yankee.”
Flynn’s perceptions were working overtime as she tightened her arms snugly around his waist and trailed one hand up his chest to balance herself. He could feel the curve of her breasts against his back, and the heady scent of her perfume filled his helmet in a dizzying cloud. Her body melded naturally with his as they took a corner.
What the hell was happening?
If Flynn hadn’t been able to feel her body against his, he couldn’t have been sure that she was real. Something had happened. Something amazing and somehow terrible. Flynn had never bolted out of a surveillance detail before. But here he was—acting like a maniac for one fantastic kiss.
Worse yet, he was contributing to a public spectacle!
Her trailing white gown and yellow hair whipping out from under her hat caused heads to turn up and down the street, but Flynn had to rely on his other senses to make a judgment about her. The Texas drawl and cowboy laugh sounded brash and cocky, but he thought he could feel the swift hammer of the woman’s heart beating against his shoulder blade. And the tremble of her hand as she clasped Flynn’s chest felt as if it was caused by something other than the shudder of the Harley’s engine.
But she kept up her bluff, saying blithely, “You’re in charge of this rescue, sugar, so go ahead and get me out of here!”
“Where do you want to go?” Flynn guided the bike up the street, half hoping she’d declare her desire to be nowhere but in the nearest bed with him. But his mind was beginning to function again, so he said, “The airport? Grand Central?”
“Heavens, no, there’d be a riot.”
“A riot?”
“I have to go someplace quiet—where nobody recognizes me.”
“Why?