went up and down.
âYouâre a hound.â
Steve pointed at Duncan. âYou run in the same pack, so I wouldnât say anything.â
Not anymore. Duncan hadnât dated anyone in ages. The few times he had gone out with a woman had been a disaster. Katie inevitably had a crisis, which meant calling him a half dozen times between the appetizer and the entrée.
Duncan hadnât gotten to dessertâor anything moreâin over a year.
The image of Allie Dean appeared in his mind, all legs and breasts and attitude. Standing there in his garden, confronting him with that fire in her eyes, making him wish he hadnât closed up the pool years ago so he could have thrown her and him into the clear blue waterâsans swimsuits. The woman drove him crazyâ
In so many ways, heâd lost count. What would it be like to have dessert with her?
Or even better, to make her dessert? Take a little whipped cream and smear it all over that lithe, sweet body, then see how long he lasted licking it off.
Definitely not the kind of thoughts Duncan needed in a meeting with his boss. He cleared his head, then refocused on his reason for being there. âI have a story idea.â
Steve, still busy typing, nodded. âRun it by Klein, see if heâs interested. He might have something similar in the hopper.â
âI donât want to give it to Klein or Jane,â Duncan said. âI want to cover it myself.â
Steve stopped typing with a jerk. â You ? After that Litter Box Dance thing, I thought youâd give up on the reporter idea.â
Duncan cringed. âThe piece wasnât that bad.â
âJeremiah Parsonâs cat decides to sneak a little feline bowel activity into the middle of the litter-scooping contest and you donât think thatâs bad? â Steve snorted. âWe were live, Dunk. I damned near had a heart attack. Johnâs been reaming my ass all morning about it.â Steve shook his head. Half the station had heard the advertising managerâs furious rant earlier today. âListen, Dunk, youâre great at the weather. Why not stick to your strengths?â
Because reporting the weather wasnât his strength. He didnât leap out of bed, excited to get to the Doppler radar and cloud patterns. He wanted a job that earned him respect, not perfumed fan letters packaged with lacy panties. âI want to do real news, Steve. Iâve been doing weather for five years. I want out of that box. Let me cover this piece.â
Steve leaned back in his chair and balanced a knee against the edge of his desk. âAll right. Whatâs the scoop?â He chuckled. âPun intended.â
âA production company is looking at shooting a movie in Tempest.â
Steveâs mouth made a little O of impressed. âNow thatâs a scoop. Tell me the Ws.â
The What, When, Where, and Why. âIâm working on those.â Duncan realized he knew very little beyond what Allie had told him. âGive me a couple days, and Iâll get an interview together.â
âKlein could do this, you know. Itâs right up his alley.â
âIâm the one with the source, Steve. I want this shot.â
Steve considered for a moment, toying with the wireless mouse on his desk, the Russian 36Ds temporarily forgotten. âYou want me to allocate valuable resources to this?â
âWhat valuable resources? Itâs me, a cameraman, and a couple of tapes. If you donât want the piece, I can always see if WISH or WTHR is interested,â he said, naming two of the main Indianapolis stations.
âBlackmail, huh?â
Duncan placed his palms flat on Steveâs desk and looked him in the eye. âI took the weatherman job because you said it could lead into reporting. So far, itâs been a way into nothing. I want more.â
âYour piece on the dance wasnât all bad,â Steve mused.
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