Really Something by Shirley Jump Page B

went up and down.
    â€œYou’re a hound.”
    Steve pointed at Duncan. “You run in the same pack, so I wouldn’t say anything.”
    Not anymore. Duncan hadn’t 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 hadn’t gotten to dessert—or anything more—in 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 hadn’t closed up the pool years ago so he could have thrown her and him into the clear blue water—sans swimsuits. The woman drove him crazy—
    In so many ways, he’d 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. “I have a story idea.”
    Steve, still busy typing, nodded. “Run it by Klein, see if he’s interested. He might have something similar in the hopper.”
    â€œI don’t want to give it to Klein or Jane,” Duncan said. “I want to cover it myself.”
    Steve stopped typing with a jerk. “ You ? After that Litter Box Dance thing, I thought you’d give up on the reporter idea.”
    Duncan cringed. “The piece wasn’t that bad.”
    â€œJeremiah Parson’s cat decides to sneak a little feline bowel activity into the middle of the litter-scooping contest and you don’t think that’s bad? ” Steve snorted. “We were live, Dunk. I damned near had a heart attack. John’s been reaming my ass all morning about it.” Steve shook his head. Half the station had heard the advertising manager’s furious rant earlier today. “Listen, Dunk, you’re great at the weather. Why not stick to your strengths?”
    Because reporting the weather wasn’t his strength. He didn’t 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. “I want to do real news, Steve. I’ve been doing weather for five years. I want out of that box. Let me cover this piece.”
    Steve leaned back in his chair and balanced a knee against the edge of his desk. “All right. What’s the scoop?” He chuckled. “Pun intended.”
    â€œA production company is looking at shooting a movie in Tempest.”
    Steve’s mouth made a little O of impressed. “Now that’s a scoop. Tell me the Ws.”
    The What, When, Where, and Why. “I’m working on those.” Duncan realized he knew very little beyond what Allie had told him. “Give me a couple days, and I’ll get an interview together.”
    â€œKlein could do this, you know. It’s right up his alley.”
    â€œI’m the one with the source, Steve. I want this shot.”
    Steve considered for a moment, toying with the wireless mouse on his desk, the Russian 36Ds temporarily forgotten. “You want me to allocate valuable resources to this?”
    â€œWhat valuable resources? It’s me, a cameraman, and a couple of tapes. If you don’t want the piece, I can always see if WISH or WTHR is interested,” he said, naming two of the main Indianapolis stations.
    â€œBlackmail, huh?”
    Duncan placed his palms flat on Steve’s desk and looked him in the eye. “I took the weatherman job because you said it could lead into reporting. So far, it’s been a way into nothing. I want more.”
    â€œYour piece on the dance wasn’t all bad,” Steve mused.