She glanced at the clock. “Damn! Twenty-four minutes, thirty-nine seconds. You know, Cronkite,” she said as they went down the stairs, “I think they do that on purpose just to build our hopes up.”
Luigi himself delivered. He was a short, rotund Italian with a rosy sweating face, fleshy cherub lips, and a mop of curly black hair—on his chest. His head was completely bald.
“Miss Travis,” he said, tsking as he took in her attire. “I was hoping the extra pizza tonight was for a lover.”
“Nope. The meatball one’s for Cronkite. Hope you didn’t go too heavy on the garlic. It gives him gas. How much?”
“I put it on your bill.”
“Thanks.” She reached for the two boxes, whose aroma was causing Cronkite to do an ecstatic do-si-do around her feet. Cronkite’s circles, the merlot, and hunger were making her dizzy.
Luigi, however, wasn’t going to relinquish the pizzas without the lecture that came as a standing side order. “You’re a movie star—”
“I’m on TV news.”
“Same thing,” he argued. “I say to the missus, ‘Miss Travis is a good customer. Two, three nights a week, she calls us. Good for us, but bad for her. She’s alone too much.’ And the missus says—”
“That maybe Miss Travis prefers being alone.”
“No. She says that you don’t meet men because all the time you work.”
“I meet men, Luigi. But all the good ones are taken. The ones I meet are either married, gay, creepy, or otherwise out of the question. But I appreciate your concern.” Again she reached for the pizzas. Again they were withheld.
“You’re pretty, Miss Travis.”
“I don’t stop traffic.”
“You got nice hair. Nice reddish color. Good skin, too. And very unusual green eyes.”
“Very ordinary hazel.” Not spectacular at all. Not like, say, Vanessa Merritt’s limpid sapphire pools.
“Kinda small up here.” Luigi’s eyes moved to her breasts. Barrie knew from long experience that if she allowed it, he would now begin an evaluation of her figure.
“But not too small,” he reassured her hastily. “You’re slim all over.”
“And getting slimmer.” She snatched the pizza boxes. “Thanks, Luigi. Add a good tip for yourself to my bill, and give my regards to your wife.” She closed the door before he could launch into another lament on her lacking love life.
Cronkite was whipping himself into a frenzy, so she served him his pizza, box and all. Then she sat down at the kitchen table with her pizza, another glass of wine, and the library books she’d checked out that afternoon. The pizza, as always, was scrumptious. The second glass of wine went down even smoother than the first. The research on SIDS was fascinating.
Of the three, the research was the one she finished completely, craving more.
Chapter Three
Frowning skeptically, Howie Fripp dug into his ear canal with the jagged tip of his car key. “I dunno.”
Barrie had a primal urge to leap across his desk and tear out his throat with her teeth. No one else unleashed this feral aspect of her personality. Only Howie. It wasn’t only his disgusting personal habits and his flagrant chauvinism that aroused such savage instincts. It was his whining gutlessness and lack of vision.
“What don’t you like about it?”
“It’s depressing,” he replied, executing a shiver for effect. “Babies dying in their beds. Who wants to watch a series about that?”
“New parents. Prospective parents. Parents to whom it’s happened. Anyone who wants to be informed and enlightened, which I hope includes at least a portion of our viewing audience.”
“You live in a dream world, Barrie. Our audience watches because Cheers reruns come on after the news.”
Barrie tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. If he knew she was getting riled, he would become even more obtuse. “Because of the subject matter, the series won’t be jolly. But it doesn’t have to be maudlin, either. I’ve contacted a couple who lost a child to SIDS two years ago. They’ve since had another baby, and they’re willing to do an on-camera interview about how they’ve coped.”
Coming to her feet, she tried to close the sale. “The thrust will be light at the end of the tunnel. Victory over adversity. It could be very uplifting.”