Really Something

by Shirley Jump

  Well, she forgot.

  Was that Coppertone she smelled, too?

  Work. Concentrate on work. She’d get the job done, then leave Duncan in the Tempest dust.

  “Dinner?” Duncan asked again. He grinned at her, and she lost the battle with sound reasoning.

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  He arched a brow. “You’re picking me up?”

  She took a step closer to him and ran a finger down his chest. Her pelvis tightened at the feel of his hard, hot skin, but she refused to acknowledge the twinge. The way everything within her ached with want, and a bone-deep need to have more of him. Once she had what she wanted from him, she was dumping Duncan. Just as he had done to her years ago.

  “When I negotiate kissing, Duncan Henry,” Allie said, watching his reaction, ignoring her own answering rise, “I like to be the one driving. So wear your seat belt tonight because it might just get dangerous.”

  Then she picked up her shoes and left him. The scent of Coppertone hanging in the air, and reminding her that he wasn’t the only one who better remember to wear a seat belt tonight.

  Chapter 9

  After leaving Duncan’s house, Allie headed downtown. Which meant traveling exactly half a mile, past one four-way stop and three cross streets. She parallel-parked outside the offices of the Tempest Weekly. One way or another, she would convince Duncan to let Chicken Flicks use his property.

  She didn’t get it. If the farm was unused and vacant, why did he have such an aversion to the production company using it? Maybe he worried Jerry’s crew would tear the place up, like that Thai island where The Beach was filmed. If she could reassure Duncan nothing bad would happen, and find a price he would agree to, then she’d have her location.

  And then be one step closer to the producer job she’d dreamed of when she left Indiana for California. She wanted to make movies that mattered. Movies that spoke to women like her. That didn’t paint some idealized picture of a size-one woman who found true love in an e-mail.

  Love didn’t work that way. Men who said one thing usually meant another as soon as the sheets cooled. Geoff had taught her that—and taught her well.

  The only way to avoid a bad rerun of her past was to keep her mind on work, not men. Especially one particular weatherman who looked amazing without a shirt.

  The sign outside the offices of the Tempest Weekly said Ira Levine, son of founder Marvin Levine, now presided over the small-town paper. Ira, she remembered, had sat beside her in English class and cheated off her vocabulary tests. Apparently his synonym handicap hadn’t hindered his ability to take over the floundering family paper.

  A well-thumbed copy of Roget’s lay on Ira’s cluttered, paper-strewn desk. His “Editors Stet with Style” coffee cup anchored a stack of files, the coffee within it long gone solid and green.

  “Ira?”

  Ira swiveled in his leather office chair, lowered his glasses, and studied her. He was still tall and thin, a stick of a man whose hair had gone wispy and nearly bald.

  In school, they’d been friends. Well, not friends, exactly, more allies in an environment hostile to them both. Ira, the nerdy science whiz who’d been hated for his grades, his tiny size, his glasses. He’d been relegated to the end of the line, the back of the room. As the two exiles, she and he had talked often, even been lab partners more than once. She’d helped him with vocab words, and in return he’d helped her memorize the Periodic Table of Elements.

  “May I help you?” he said.

  “I’d like to place an ad.”

  He nodded, grabbed a pad of paper from beside him, then glanced at her again. His gaze narrowed and his copper-rimmed glassed slipped down the bridge of his nose. “You look awfully familiar. Have we met before?”

  Allie’s breath caught in her throat. “Uh—”

  Ira laughed. “Sorry. That sounds like the world’s worst pickup line, doesn’t it? Trust me, I didn’t mean it that way. Not that you’re not…well…stunning.” He reddened, fumbled with his glasses, cleared his throat. She wanted to reach out and ease his embarrassment, but instead she tightened her grip on the strap of her purse. “As my father would say, yours is a portrait I’ve glimpsed before in the museum.”

  Same old Ira. Full of odd sayings and a tendency to overexplain. “I arrived in Tempest recently,” Allie said. Not a total lie, which made it far easier to pull off.

  “Oh, okay.” But his sharp, analytical gaze stayed on hers. Allie’s pulse ratcheted up, her heart hammering so hard in her chest, she was sure Ira could hear it. If her identity was exposed too soon, the whole plan for the movie would fall apart.

  And, if people found out who she was, what kind of respect would she get around town? How many people would listen to her?

  None. Allison Gray had been a nobody. A big piece of trash to circumvent in the halls. Lithe, blond Allie Dean, however, commanded attention. She’d seen that in the gas station kid’s gaping, in Ira’s stammer. In Duncan’s kiss.

  Allie Dean could—and did—get things done.

  “I never forget a face,” Ira said, still looking at her. “And though it may sound crazy, I know I’ve seen yours in the Tempest Weekly. Not lately, but…sometime.”

  The image catapulted through Allie’s mind, frame by frame. Her, running from her graduation ceremony, tears streaming down her face, the extra-large navy-colored gown too small to fit her girth, the parted panels of fabric flying out behind her like blue wings. She couldn’t remember the photographer’s name—probably one of the suck-up kids from the Photography Club who worked for the paper in exchange for a college reference—but she remembered the headline: VALEDICTORIAN DITCHES IN MASSIVE CASE OF NERVES.

  “No,” Allie said quickly, stuffing the memory down, down, down. Away with the Thanksgiving dinners, the too-small cafeteria chairs, the continual hum of whispers. “I was never in the paper.”

  “Huh.” Ira shrugged. He rubbed at his eyes, then slipped his glasses back on. “My apologies. After too many hours in front of a computer screen, everyone starts to look like a celebrity.” He unearthed a pen from somewhere on his desk. “All right, what can I do you for?”

  She handed him the classified ad she’d composed last night, handwritten on the Ramada’s stationery. “Can you get this into next week’s issue?”

  “Nice handwriting,” Ira said. “My dad always said good penmanship is the mark of good personship.” He glanced up at Allie, flashed her a smile, then bent down to read the words. “Extras sought, for movie set in Tempest. Seeking males and females, between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five. Acting experience not required but a definite plus.” He glanced up at her, surprise in his features. “A movie? Filmed here?”

  She nodded. “We start shooting in two weeks. I’d like to round up the extras before the director and the producer arrive. There are several shots we can get out of the way before we bring in the talent.”

  “You get permission from Earl yet?” Ira asked.

  “Earl? As in Earl Hickey? The mailman?”

  Ira chuckled. “He’s the mayor, too. No one wanted the job and Earl won on a write-in vote a couple of years ago. He’s the resident complainer, and I guess all his carping finally paid off because they made him the guy in charge.”

  “He’s the mayor?” Oh hell, that really screwed things up. She’d never get permission from that man to film within the Tempest city limits. The last thing Earl would want was more strangers traipsing all over Tempest, disturbing the peace. “I’ll be sure to talk to him.”

  Ira’s chuckle became heartier. “Good luck. He’s not exactly a fan of tourism.”

  “I’m sure once Earl sees the money something like this can bring to the town, he’ll change his mind.” She hoped.

  Once again, Ira gave an unconvinced shrug. He tapped the ad. “Okay if I cover this for the paper?”

  She hesitated, then chided herself. The chances of Ira connecting the thin, blond Allie with the fat brunette girl who had sat in
front of him in Mrs. Anderson’s English class were slim. And if she refused to cooperate, she’d lose her chance at some decent prepromo. The only thing Jerry found sexier than a stripper on a pole was free publicity. “Sure. I’m Allie Dean, the location scout for Chicken Flicks.”

  “Allie.” Ira noted the information on his pad. “Is that short for Allison?”

  Panic rushed through her. Of course someone would connect her nickname with her given name. How could she have been so stupid? She’d never even thought about using a different first name. She glanced at Ira’s pen, perched over the pad. To his right sat a camera, the Nikon’s lens seeming to wink at her. If Ira ran her picture, how long would it be before someone else put the pieces together?

  Someone like Ira, who was still watching her intently, wheels turning behind his glasses. “It is Allison, isn’t it?”

  Allie dug in her purse, fished out a twenty, and dropped it on his desk. “I’m sorry. I really don’t have time for an interview right now. Here’s the payment for the ad.”

  She turned away, hurrying toward the door.

  “Wait!” Ira called. “Don’t you want a receipt? And what about the interview?”

  “Later,” Allie said over her shoulder, then bolted from the office.

  Ira Levine may not have been able to figure out the meaning of “pseudonym” if his life depended on it, but there was nothing the former Sleuth Club president loved more than a good mystery.

  That was the last thing Allie needed to add to her growing mountain of problems—a homegrown Columbo.

  Duncan was back at work and sat behind his desk, a remote control in his hands, replaying the video from last Friday night’s Litter Box Dance report over and over again. He’d smiled too much. Came off as too glib. He looked about as much like a serious reporter as a Fluffernutter looked like gourmet food.

  At this point, given how slow Tempest moved, he was going to have to generate some major national news of his own. Or—

  Wait. He didn’t need to pull a single news rabbit out of the Tempest hat. He already had his story. He shut off the TV, then crossed into Steve’s office. “You got a second?”

  “Sure,” Steve said without looking up from his computer. “Let me just say good-bye to my Russian love.”

  Duncan chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’re still looking for true love in a chat room.”

  “Hey, these women are in dire straits. Natasha just escaped an abusive marriage and is looking for a man who likes long walks on the beach and piña coladas.”

  Duncan laughed. “Uh-huh. And that’s exactly why you’re chatting with her, to share rum recipes?”

  “Hell no. I like her because she has an awesome set of 36Ds. She showed them to me last night. I’m hoping to see what’s below them later today.” Steve’s brows went up and down.

  “You’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.”

  “I 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.”

  “Jeremiah 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.”

  “A 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.”

  “Klein could do this, you know. It’s right up his alley.”

  “I’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?”

  “What 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.

  “Blackmail, 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.”

  “Your piece on the dance wasn’t all bad,” Steve mused. “If you discount the live shot of a tabby dumping her partially digested 9-Lives.”

  “And I’m the only one with the inside scoop—pun intended—” Duncan said, shooting Steve’s words back at him, “on this deal. We’d have an exclusive.”

  Steve tapped a finger against his chin. “It would be nice to have our little upstart network scoop the big three. That is, after all, how Fox got started.”

  “Exactly.”

  “All right. It’s yours. Get me something by the end of the week so I can beat those Indy guys to the punch.”

  Excitement bloomed in Duncan’s chest, something he hadn’t felt in years. It reminded him of the feeling he’d had when he’d met that reporter from NBC, seen how the guy had taken on John Henry, gnawed at the Henry patriarch’s cocky arrogance. “Count on me, Steve,” Duncan said and turned to go.

  “Dunk?”

  He turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Wear the blue shirt when you tape. The latest station survey says the women go nuts when you’re wearing blue.”

  Just when Duncan thought he was being taken seriously—it all came back to his damned S-factor. This time, he intended to use the S-factor and Allie Dean to get what he wanted.

  Chapter 10

  Having Allie in the driver’s seat gave Duncan a decidedly nice view. She had worn a skirt, which showed off her long, lean legs, and high heels with little tiny straps and even tinier gold buckles. He wanted to run his hands down those legs, slip off t
hose delicate shoes, then raise her onto his hips and put an end to the desire that had been pounding in his head ever since he met her three days ago.

  He’d put his own life on hold for so long, he’d forgotten what it was like to have one. “So, where are you taking me?” he asked, before he acted on fantasy number one hundred and ten.

  He was supposed to be working on getting her to agree to do an interview for WTMT-TV. But the station—and his reporter aspirations—had never seemed so far away.

  Focus, Duncan.

  Yeah, he was focusing all right. On her legs. Her breasts. Her lips. Not his job.

  “Do you like Thai food?”

  When he nodded, she smiled. A recognition bell dinged in his head. Her smile, so familiar. Had he seen it somewhere before?

  “Good,” she continued. “I know this little place, on the outskirts of Indianapolis. I’ve got this thing for anything with cilantro and lemongrass.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Once again, the feeling he knew her returned. He’d known someone who’d been a fan of Asian foods, who’d loved this little Chinese place that had opened in Tempest, but hadn’t lasted long. A few years or so, because foreign food hadn’t exactly been a hit with the stoic, traditional Midwest palates. But the memory, just a snippet of a conversation from years ago, flitted away before he could grasp it. “You know a lot about this area for someone new to it.”

  “I’m a location scout. I’m supposed to be exploring.” But her smile held a hint of a secret, as though there were more.

  Duncan shook off the feeling. They were talking Thai food here, not international espionage. “They say what someone eats says a lot about them.” His gaze roamed over those incredible legs again. “Hot and spicy, is that you?”

  She grinned. “Not all Thai food is spicy.”

  “And not all women eat Thai. Either way, you didn’t answer my question.” The memory again tickled at the back of his mind, surrounded by the haze of high school.