A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  She hadn’t believed it possible, but he looked even more devastating now than he had in a suit. The T-shirt stretched tautly across his broad shoulders, hugging his muscular arms and chest and revealing a man who obviously kept in shape. His jeans snugged his slim waist and powerful thighs, faithfully outlining every inch of his impressive anatomy.

  “Well, lass, do I pass muster?” Connor inquired as he leaned down next to her car window and flashed his dimple.

  P.J. blushed again, hoping he hadn’t noticed the direction of her gaze. “You’ll do,” she replied curtly, and unlocked the door so he could climb inside.

  He squeezed his large frame into the small car, and P.J. immediately felt claustrophobic. Connor filled the compact import with the full force of his vitality, making her head swim with his intoxicating nearness. To keep her heartbeat on an even keel, she avoided looking at him and tried to ignore the effect his proximity was having on her.

  Connor let out an exclamation of disgust. “Would you mind helpin’ me here, lass?”

  She turned to look at him and couldn’t help but giggle. Her tiny car wasn’t built to hold a man of Connor’s heroic proportions. He was scrunched over in what had to be a painful position, his head denting the fabric of the car’s roof. His legs were so long they were pressed up against the dashboard, and his chin was almost resting on his knees. He reminded her strongly of the genie in the movie Aladdin, stuffed into the “itty bitty living space” of his tiny lamp—only Connor’s skin wasn’t blue. Huddled in that position, he groped around on the right side of the seat.

  P.J. unfastened her seat belt and leaned over him. “No,” she said, “it’s here.” She reached over his knee to find the catch in front of his seat, and her senses were instantly engulfed by the power of his presence. Time slowed to a crawl as she registered the sensuous feel of his denim-clad legs against her breasts and inhaled his heady masculine scent. She froze for a brief, sweet moment, wishing she were back in his arms again.

  “P.J.?”

  She blushed. Lord, what did he think she was doing? P.J. shook herself out of her daze and back to the task at hand—the lever. Turning her head sideways to give her arm more room to maneuver under the seat, her eyes widened as she found herself nose-to-nose with Connor. Their breath mingled. With only a small movement, their lips would touch. Her hand tightened on the seat lever as she stilled, hoping he’d cross that tiny distance, yet dreading it, too.

  “Ah, lass,” he breathed, and turned his head to grant her wish.

  Embarrassed, P.J. jerked back, and the seat shot back to its farthest length. Connor expelled a sign of relief and his eyes twinkled at her. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  PJ. could feel herself turn red, but she stopped from blurting out an apology just in time. What could she say? I’m sorry, but I really wasn’t begging for another kiss? Pretending the incident hadn’t happened, she said, “There’s a lever on the right side that will bring the back down so you can straighten your neck.”

  He fumbled around on the right side of the seat and said, “I can’t seem to find it. Would you mind helpin’ me, lass?”

  P.J. blushed at the thought of leaning her torso across his lap again. She gave him a wary look. It was just as she’d thought—the twinkle in his eyes gleamed unabated. He was teasing her again—in more ways than one. “Keep looking,” she said tersely, and fastened her seat belt.

  Connor found the lever remarkably quickly and reclined the seat. It still wasn’t a perfect fit, but at least he looked a little more comfortable.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Aye, at least now I don’t think I’ll be gettin’ a cramp, anyway. Are you sure we can’t take my car?” he asked in a plaintive voice.

  “No, I represented myself as a free-lance reporter eager to make a few bucks. Your BMW would spoil the story. Besides, if we don’t get going now, we’ll be late.”

  He sighed in resignation and fastened his seat belt. “All right, let’s go. But I beg you, don’t be takin’ your time about it.”

  P.J. chuckled and pulled the car into traffic. “Okay, tell me what you know about our first suspect, Melissa Matthews.”

  “Well, now, according to Stayle’s records, she’s an actress on the rise in Hollywood—primarily sciencefiction movies.”

  P.J. nodded. As part of her market research, she kept close tabs on all the major publications, and Melissa Matthews had started to figure prominently in them. It had made it easier to persuade the actress to let P.J. interview her for this story. “Your sister keeps records on her customers? Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “No, she only keeps records on the customers who order custom-made shoes. In order to fit the shoes to their personality, Stayle has to know a bit more about them, y’see. She uses a sophisticated personality test that reveals more than the subject realizes, along with a bit of glamarye to ensure they answer truthfully.”

  “That’s convenient. So, what do we know about Melissa, besides the fact that she’s blond and beautiful?”

  “Is she, now?” Connor said noncommittally. If P.J. had been hoping for a reaction, it was obvious she wasn’t going to get it.

  He paused in thought. “Stayle’s records show that Melissa is ambitious and hardworking with a definite talent for actin’. That’s what Stayle enhanced in the shoes. It’ll be interesting to see how she designed them to reflect that.”

  “Don’t you see your sister’s designs?”

  “Not usually—I’m just the silent partner. She has me handlin’ the business end so she can concentrate on the artistic side.”

  P.J. could understand that—she did essentially the same thing for her family. It wasn’t easy acting as the anchor for a bunch of creative head-in-the-clouds types.

  She pulled up in front of Melissa’s condo, and while Connor slowly unfolded himself from her car, P.J. reached into the back seat for her briefcase.

  They walked up the short path and rang the doorbell. Soon, a maid greeted them and ushered them into a spacious living room, furnished all in white.

  P.J. set her briefcase down on the glass-topped coffee table and clicked it open, removing her notepad. She stopped, suddenly struck by a thought. “I forgot to ask, what if she is the one who stole the shoehorn?”

  “If she’s handled it recently, the magic will identify itself to me as soon as I shake her hand. Once I know that, I’ll worry about how to get it back.”

  A rustling noise halted their conversation, and P.J. glanced around nervously. Had they been overheard?

  “Hello,” came a throaty voice from above.

  P.J. and Connor turned toward the stairs as Melissa Matthews paused on the landing. She wore a dramatic white jumpsuit with a plunging V neckline that showed off her remarkable tan and her considerable curves.

  P.J. and Connor rose to meet her, and Melissa’s mouth curved in a cool smile. She strolled down the rest of the stairs, and Connor returned her smile, appearing suitably impressed. P.J. couldn’t help but feel a small stab of jealousy. How could anyone compete with a woman who looked like that?

  Glancing briefly at P.J., Melissa said, “Ms. Sheridan?” At P.J.’s nod, Melissa turned her gaze back to Connor. “You didn’t mention an associate. Who’s this?”

  P.J. hesitated. She couldn’t give Connor’s real last name. Melissa might recognize it was the same as Stayle’s. “This is my photographer, Connor—”

  “Connor Michaels,” he interrupted.

  Good—he’d chosen one she could remember. P.J. knew from her research that Michael was his middle name.

  Connor took a step toward Melissa as if to help her down those last few steps. Irrationally annoyed, P.J. pushed between the two of them. “Connor, why don’t you get a picture of her on the stairs?”

  “There will be plenty of time for that later,” Melissa said, and gestured gracefully toward the living room. “Please, won’t you have a seat?”

  As P.J. followed Melissa, she met Connor’s quest
ioning look and shrugged apologetically, hoping to pass it off as a momentary aberration. How else could she explain it without looking like a jealous shrew?

  They all seated themselves, and Melissa glanced around the room. “Neil? Neil, darling, are you here?”

  A man appeared from just beyond an open doorway, holding several drink glasses in his hands. Neil “darling” was perhaps fifteen years older than P.J.’s twenty-five, with sandy brown hair and an engaging smile.

  “Neil,” Melissa said, “this is the reporter I told you about. P. J. Sheridan and her photographer, Connor Michaels.” She turned back to P.J. “This is Neil Chalmers, my producer.”

  Neil smiled and waved the glasses at them. “Welcome. Would you like something to drink?”

  “The usual,” Melissa replied. Both Connor and P.J. declined.

  Neil moved to the bar in the corner of the room to fix the drinks, and Melissa turned to them. “Now, Ms. Sheridan, what would you like to know?”

  “As I explained on the phone, I’m here to do a story on the Something Extra boutique,” she explained. “I understand you recently ordered a pair of their custom-made shoes?”

  Melissa raised one elegantly shod foot. “Yes, aren’t they marvelous?”

  The high-heeled white sandals-were barely held on Melissa’s feet with one wide strip across her toes and thin straps of gold-tipped white leather that crisscrossed her slender ankles. They reminded P.J. of the shoes her Barbie doll used to wear, only Melissa’s had a clear acrylic heel containing a liquid that glittered with drifting stardust with her every move. On anyone else they would’ve looked gaudy. On Melissa they gave the impression she was competent and sure of herself.

  “Yes, they’re wonderful,” P.J. said, meaning it. But did they have magic?

  True, P.J. did get the impression Melissa was a proficient actress, but was that a result of magic or just Melissa’s own considerable presence? There was no way to tell, but P.J. had to believe it was the latter.

  As Connor started photographing the actress, P.J. leaned forward. “Something Extra advertises there’s magic in these shoes, to enhance their owner’s personality. Do you believe that?”

  Melissa laughed softly. “I don’t know if they’re magic or not—I’ve only had them a few days. All I know is that I feel good when I wear them. Neil says they can’t help but enhance my natural personality.” She smiled up at Connor as he moved in for a close shot of her face.

  P.J. frowned. It was Melissa’s feet he was supposed to be interested in.

  Neil moved in to hand Melissa her drink and sat down. Connor continued shooting, but Neil ignored him. The producer seemed content to merely observe the conversation, rather than join it.

  “So what attracted you to the shoes in the first place?” P.J. asked.

  Melissa shrugged. “It was Neil’s idea. He’d heard about them at a party in Hollywood and persuaded me to see them since he was coming here to ski, anyway. I fell in love with them. And they’re so wonderfully whimsical, I wanted to be one of the first to get a pair of unique, one-of-a-kind Stayle O’Flaherty shoes.”

  P.J. continued to ask questions about the shoes, and eventually allowed Melissa to steer the conversation back to her career and her upcoming film. Sensing a possible sale to the celebrity fan magazines, P.J. asked, “What’s the film about?”

  “Oh, it’s a wonderful fantasy, something along the lines of Romancing the Stone, but with a decidedly Tolkien feel to it—with elves and dragons. Neil is producing it,” Melissa said, and smiled fondly at him. “He’s going to do for magic-and-fantasy films what Spielberg did for science fiction.”

  P.J. glanced at Neil and watched his eyes take on an acquisitive gleam.

  “Well,” he said with an obvious sense of false modesty, “that remains to be seen.” He gave P.J. an appreciative glance. “Melissa plays the faerie princess, but there’s a part for a lovely elf queen, too. Your looks are exactly what I need. Have you done any acting?”

  “No, I’ve never been interested in acting.”

  She risked a glance at Connor. Just as she expected, he was grinning wickedly at the thought of her playing one of the faerie folk.

  Neil persisted. “You’d be perfect for the part. Perhaps—”

  “No,” P.J. interrupted. “I’m not interested.” She shuddered at the thought of the damage that kind of thing could do to her professional reputation.

  Connor rescued her. “If you’re finished with the interview, could I get some pictures of Melissa outside?”

  P.J. jumped up. “That’s a wonderful idea—get some pictures of Melissa and her shoes against the mountains.”

  Melissa rose gracefully and moved toward the sliding glass door. “There’s a wonderful view here, outside on the balcony.”

  Connor and P.J. followed her outside, and Melissa struck an elegant pose against the rustic railing. “How’s this?” she asked.

  P.J. knew Melissa wasn’t trying to seduce Connor, but the actress was so stunning, she just couldn’t help but look seductive and alluring.

  “Perfect,” he agreed. He began snapping pictures furiously, encouraging Melissa to loosen up as P.J. watched in tight-lipped silence.

  When he paused to change the film, Melissa smiled at Connor. “Can we take a break now? I’m a little thirsty.”

  “Good idea,” Connor said, and glanced at P.J. “Would you mind getting her a drink?”

  P.J. didn’t know how to refuse without appearing boorish, so she nodded curtly and went in to fetch one.

  As she slid the door shut, P.J. heard Connor’s low voice and Melissa’s tinkling laugh. P.J. snorted in disgust and moved swiftly inside. Neil sat in the spot P.J. had recently vacated, running a cloth over the table.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I spilled Melissa’s drink and got some of your papers wet. I was just trying to wipe them off.” He shrugged apologetically.

  “Don’t worry about it. They’ll dry and I’ve got everything on disk, anyway.” There was less than an inch of liquid left in the glass. Good enough. P.J. scooped it up and hurried back outside.

  Melissa peered over Connor’s shoulder where he sat changing the film. Connor glanced up and grinned at the actress with a gleam in his eye.

  “Here’s your drink,” P.J. blurted out.

  Melissa turned to face her and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the glass.

  P.J. frowned. “Are you finished here, Connor?” she snapped. “We have a trip to pack for.”

  “Yes, we’re finished,” he said, and packed the film and camera inside his bag.

  Back inside, P.J. shook Melissa’s hand. “Thank you for the interview. I’ll send you a copy when it’s published.”

  Melissa thanked her and turned to Connor, who held her hand for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time.

  P.J. gave him a sidelong glance. Was he working his so-called magic on Melissa now, to see if she had the talisman? If so, P.J. couldn’t see any visible signs of it. Nothing, that is, but the obvious magic his considerable masculine presence was having on the actress. P.J. knew that magic well.

  Connor glanced at P.J. and gave a small shake of his head. Okay, so Melissa wasn’t the thief. Or at least Connor hadn’t fingered her as the thief. Why didn’t that surprise P.J.?

  “And what about the pictures?” Melissa asked. “Will I get copies of those, as well?”

  Connor gave Melissa one of those heart-stopping smiles that P.J. had come to think of as hers alone. “I’ll be happy to give you copies,” he said.

  They said their goodbyes and Neil waved his farewell from behind the bar. “So long, folks. And remember, P.J., if you ever change your mind, just look me up. I’m in the book.”

  P.J. nodded curtly and headed out the door behind Connor. As he folded himself into her car, he said, “He’s wrong, y’know.”

  Annoyed, she snapped, “Wrong? Wrong about what?”

  Connor chuckled. “Oh, you look nothin’ like an elf. Elfin women are
slight creatures, flat as a board, with sharp features and silver hair.” His gaze raked her. “And while you’re slight, you’ve got curves in all the right places.”

  “But not as many curves as Melissa,” she said flatly, daring him to disagree.

  “Perhaps not, but yours is a warm, passionate beauty, whilst hers is cool and aloof.”

  P.J.’s mouth dropped open in astonishment as she took in his lazy smile. Just when she thought she’d gotten good and mad at the handsome hunk, he had to go and say something really nice. If he kept this up, she’d fall for him soon—and hard.

  She clammed up for the rest of the ride, not wanting to let him know how much he affected her. When she dropped him off at the Vail Village parking lot, he leaned down next to her car window. “I’ll not be wishing to put myself inside this torture chamber again, so I’ll be picking you up tomorrow for our trip. What time was it, now?” He lightly stroked her cheek with one finger, sending her insides fluttering again.

  “Oh, yes. Just a moment.” Flustered, P.J. reached into the back and pulled her briefcase into the passenger seat. “I made you a copy of the itinerary. It’s a little damp, but you can still read it.”

  Connor accepted the paper and scanned it. “Thanks. Well, I’ll be picking you up at eight, then.”

  P.J. glanced down to check her copy of the itinerary, but it wasn’t there. No matter, she could print out another one. “I’ll be ready,” she promised, and started the car.

  He waved goodbye and she eased into traffic, resisting the urge to glance back for another look. He’s off-limits, she reminded herself. Not only was he her employer, but he still thought himself a leprechaun.

  Of course, if he really was a leprechaun, that was another matter entirely…Her heart leapt in hope, but her logical mind discarded the possibility. What were the odds of that?

  THE NEXT MORNING, Connor parked in front of P.J.’s house and got out of the car. Before he could even make it to the sidewalk, he spotted P.J. hurrying out the door, lugging a large suitcase in one hand and her briefcase in the other.

  “Here, let me take that,” he chided.