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you’re not armed,” he said when he reached her side.
    She looked at him. A Mona Lisa smile curved across her face. “You again.”
    â€œGuilty as charged.” A few people were trying to get past them, so Duncan took a few steps back, to stand by the long table holding the scooping competition.
    Every year, Kitty Kleen Litter Company sponsored the annual race to clean out the clumps. This year, thank God, they’d finally gotten smart and filled the boxes with Tootsie Rolls.
    Rock-thrower slid in beside him, upwind from the mint-scented litter. “You never told me your name,” he said.
    That smile again. “You’ll live without it.”
    He clutched at his heart. “I don’t know about that. I’m already having palpitations.”
    She rolled her eyes, not impressed by his bad attempt at flirting. He’d been out of the game way too long.
    â€œI’m going to get a beer.” And then she was gone.
    â€œWait,” Duncan said, catching up to her. Behind him, he heard Esther tell Lenny, “See? That’s how you go after a girl.”
    â€œI’m not nearly as awful as you think,” Duncan said.
    â€œAnd I’m not nearly as interested in you as you think.”
    He put a hand to his chest again. “You hit a man where it hurts.”
    She arched a brow, indifferent to his pain.
    â€œAt least tell me your name. Then I can add you to the list of women who have rejected me.”
    â€œAnd I bet I’d be what, number two?”
    He chuckled. The odd feeling that he knew her nagged in his brain. Duncan would have never forgotten a woman this beautiful. Still, she seemed to have some kind of inside knowledge about him. “Would it help if I said you’d be number one?”
    She rolled her eyes. “Excuse me. I need a drink. Not another guy who thinks he’s all that.”
    He knew he should let her go. Whatever interest he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes had evaporated. Behind them, the band hired by Kitty Kleen started up with a tinny rendition of “Stray Cat Strut.”
    â€œDunk,” Jim said, touching him on the shoulder, “let’s get that shot and get out of here.”
    Rock-thrower turned back to him, taking in the camera, the sound equipment. “Shot?”
    He nodded. “I’m, ah, covering the dance.”
    â€œCovering it? As in for the news?”
    â€œWTMT-TV in Tempest.”
    If she was impressed, she didn’t show it. Apparently there were regions where his S-factor didn’t reach. Steve would be disappointed. “Well then, Mr. Henry, perhaps you can be…beneficial to me.”
    â€œBeneficial?” He arched a brow. Then it hit him. How did she know his name?
    Beside them, Jim flicked a questioning glance from one to the other, but didn’t say anything. His cell rang and he stepped away to answer it.
    â€œYes.” She grinned. “As in a little quid for my quo. That is, if you’re interested.”
    Oh, he was interested, all right. In whatever quid, or quo, she was offering.
    She thrust out her hand. “I’m Allie Dean, and I work for Chicken Flicks, a movie production company in L.A. I’m scouting a location for our next film as well as for extras. I could use some media coverage. Which means I could use you.”
    â€œWell, I’m not—” Duncan cut off the words, knowing if he said he was the weatherman, he’d lose this shot to talk to her. “Sure, I’d be glad to do a story on you. But why are you working on the location instead of starring? With looks like that, you could be the next Reese Witherspoon.”
    â€œFlattery won’t get you into my bed.”
    â€œThen what will?” he asked, taking a half step closer.
    She laughed, a deep throaty sound that awoke something hot in Duncan’s chest. “You’re one determined man, aren’t you? You really want to know what will get you