A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  He swung her suitcase on top of his in the trunk and opened the door for her. He tried to catch her eye, but she avoided his gaze. Ah, no, he couldn’t have that. Softly he said, “You look nice today, lass.”

  P.J. looked up then, with surprise on her face. “Thank you.”

  She looked more than nice—she looked feminine and alluring. The soft outlines of a furry pink sweater over a pair of form-fitting burgundy pants faithfully revealed her gentle curves.

  Connor sighed inwardly. This woman was mortal—he had no business imagining how those curves would feel molded to his body, nor how she would look with passion warming her cheeks and lighting her eyes. He settled in the car, forcibly reminding himself he couldn’t get serious about a woman unless she had faerie blood flowing through her veins.

  As they drove off, P.J. asked, “Why the airport at Eagle? I thought that was only for private planes.”

  “Aye, but ‘tis a mite bit closer than Denver.”

  “But isn’t that rather expensive? In terms of your magic, I mean.”

  “Well, it would be if I had the payin’ of it, but the plane actually belongs to my cousin Sean.”

  “He doesn’t mind you borrowing it like this?”

  “No, y’see, we faerie folk have established an international bartering network to exchange goods and services. That way we can get what we need by tradin’ without having to use up our own gold or magic.”

  “But borrowing a plane surely isn’t comparable to making a pair of shoes.”

  “Ah, but did you see the price of our shoes, lass?”

  P.J. gave him a censorious look and Connor chuckled. She was great fun to tease. “No, lass, my contribution is as leader of the Fae. They reimburse me for administering justice and such. Besides, Sean is piloting the plane. He doesn’t mind—our family is a large one, spread all over the world, and he enjoys visitin’ them.”

  “I see. So, tell me, what’s our next suspect like?”

  “Steadman Jarvis is a stockbroker. Stayle’s records show he’s a slippery, cunning one, too. I’m bettin’ on him to be the thief.”

  Sudden disappointment stabbed through him at the thought. If Jarvis was the thief, would P.J. forgo the rest of the trip and the interviews? Connor almost hoped the man would be innocent, so Connor could spend more time getting to know her better.

  He parked at the tiny airport and took the luggage out to the airplane. When Sean spotted them, he straightened his rangy form, his eyes widening as he spotted P.J.

  His cousin’s overt appreciation generated instant feelings of possessiveness and protectiveness in Connor’s breast. Connor gave Sean a warning look, informing him in no uncertain terms that P.J. was off-limits. Sean grinned and raised his arms in a hands-off gesture, backing away. To emphasize his point, Connor placed a hand on the small of P.J.’s back to assist her up the narrow steps into the plane.

  She stiffened at his touch. Gone was the warm, inviting woman of their dinner date. Instead, he was stuck with the hard-bitten reporter who’d evidently decided to have none of Connor O’Flaherty.

  The thought disturbed him more than he’d expected, kindling to life an instant challenge. Unfortunately none of the O’Flahertys had ever been able to resist a challenge.

  And though it went against everything he believed in, Connor had the urgent desire to make love to this mortal, to continue what they’d started at the covered bridge and have her soft and yielding in his arms again.

  He eyed her speculatively as she took her seat. Of course he couldn’t get serious about her, but if he made his intentions clear up front, maybe they could enjoy a warm, intimate interlude with no strings attached.

  Aye, that would be the tough part—keeping her from attaching strings to his heart.

  Chapter Five

  After a comfortable night in a well-appointed New York hotel, Connor went downstairs to meet P.J. in the restaurant. When he spotted her he grinned, and she smiled back hesitantly with a murmured “Good morning,” then returned to perusing her menu.

  Connor frowned. Today he wasn’t going to let her get away with that. Today he was going to rediscover the warm, responsive woman he’d found at the covered bridge.

  Connor glanced at the hovering waitress. “No coffee, thank you, and none for the lady, either.” He shared a smile with P.J., subtly reminding her they did have some things in common.

  They placed their breakfast orders and his smile grew warmer. “And how did you sleep last night, lass?” A caressing note crept into his voice at the thought of how she must look in bed. Curled up like a kitten, he’d bet, with her soft pink lips slightly parted and all that lovely long dark hair loose and swirling about her creamy white shoulders.

  His thoughts must have been evident, for a faint blush stained her cheeks, complementing the maroon of her jacket. “I slept fine, thank you. And you?”

  Connor grinned. He liked to see the very professional P.J. blush, make her aware of him as a man, no matter how hard she tried not to be. He ignored her wary look. She was obviously expecting him to come back with an innuendo, so he’d surprise her. “Not bad. ‘Tis an advantage havin’ connections in the hotel business. They know what a big behemoth I am, so they keep a few extralong beds around for people like me.”

  P.J. visibly relaxed. “I imagine that would be difficult.” She cast a furtive glance around the dining room and lowered her voice. With a slight tinge of embarrassment, she said, “Are all of your…connections leprechauns?”

  “No, though they are all Fae. Most of the old legends have a bit of truth to them, and different types of Fae have an affinity for certain types of professions. For example, the owners of this hotel have more than a touch of the domestic hob in them.”

  She compressed her lips into a thin line and raised one eyebrow. Connor was beginning to understand that look. It meant he’d just said something she found preposterous, but was too polite to challenge him. “I thought hobs worked only for milk left on the hearth overnight.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. So she’d been reading up on the legends, had she? “They used to, but ‘tis mighty hard to raise a family or get anywhere in life if you’re paid in nothing but milk!”

  She chuckled along with him as the waitress brought their breakfasts. Connor continued, encouraged by P.J.’s relaxed mood. “‘Twas one of the reasons the faerie folk joined forces—our kind was dyin’ out fast, and we needed to find a way to keep the mortals from dilutin’ our blood further or runnin’ us off the land out of sheer ignorance. So we banded together to share our strengths.”

  P.J. nodded in comprehension, but her expression turned serious again. Ah, no, he couldn’t have that. Casually he stroked the back of her hand, wanting her to notice him, not just his words.

  She blushed a lovely rose color and drew her hand away under the guise of reaching for a piece of toast. Connor grinned as she determinedly changed the subject.

  “You keep talking about mortal blood diluting your race. Just how much faerie blood must you have to be considered Fae, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “‘Tisn’t really how much blood you have so much as how much power you can raise. They are related, though. Being one-eighth faerie gives you a measure of power you can use, but when it gets down to one-sixteenth you lose a lot. Bein’ one-sixteenth leprechaun, for instance, just makes you a wee bit luckier than other mortals when it comes to dealing with gold or money, especially if you’ve managed to key a talisman. I’m almost full faerie, and I’m very lucky,” he said, unable to suppress a wicked grin. “I met you, didn’t I?”

  Ignoring his verbal sally, P.J. said, “Only leprechauns have talismans to focus the magic?”

  “No, lass, the others use whatever seems more appropriate for their particular talent. Most faerie folk have an affinity for gold, but only we leprechauns have the ability to use it to wield our power. ‘Tis why you find us so often as leaders of the little people.”

  Her gaze turned distant again. “I see.” She g
lanced at her watch and pulled her briefcase onto her lap.

  Saints, but she was hard to reach this morning. Connor sighed and gave up—for the moment. “I guess ‘tis almost time to be leavin’ for our meeting with Steadman Jarvis.” He reached into his breast pocket to pull out Stayle’s notes. “I’ve his profile here—”

  P.J. frowned. “No, wait. I don’t think that’s such a good idea. If I’m to write a story about how well your sister’s shoes enhance people’s personalities, I’d prefer to make my own judgments first, then compare them to her notes.”

  P.J. searched through her briefcase. “Darn,” she muttered. “I must have left my pen at home.”

  She looked uncharacteristically upset about the loss of a pen. “‘Tisn’t the end of the world, y’know. I have one you can borrow, lass.” He offered her his gold pen.

  She took it. “Thanks. It’s just that I’ve had that silver pen since my first assignment. It’s brought me luck on every story I’ve covered so far. I know it’s silly, but it’s kind of my good-luck charm, like a—” She stopped, a stricken look in her eyes.

  He grinned. “Like a talisman?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” She avoided his gaze as she scribbled a few notes on her pad, then handed the pen back to him.

  “That’s all right, lass. We’ve yet to find one of the Fae who use silver in their talisman,” he teased her. He gestured dismissively. “You can keep the pen if you’ll be needin’ it.”

  She rubbed her hand on her skirt. “No, thanks. All that gold makes my hand itch like crazy. I’m sure I’ve got a pencil somewhere in my purse—that’ll do for now.”

  Itching, allergies—where had he heard that before? And why did it seem so important? Connor thought hard for a moment, but the memory eluded him, so he shook his head and turned back to the task at hand. “All right, then, shall we go?”

  He laid a couple of bills on the table and followed P.J. out the door, slinging his camera case over his shoulder. They rode a taxi to the high-rise building where Jarvis worked and took the elevator to one of the top floors. Approaching the receptionist, P.J. said, “We have an appointment with Mr. Jarvis. Is he in?”

  The receptionist nodded toward a group of people clustered around a young man who was telling a convoluted story that involved much hand waving, accompanied by bursts of laughter from the admiring crowd. “Yes, that’s him,” she said flatly, clearly unimpressed. “The one in the middle.”

  Connor watched as Steadman Jarvis continued his story. Young, handsome, with his hair precision cut in the latest style, Jarvis plainly had the crowd enthralled and the world at his feet. Speaking of feet…had Jarvis worn Stayle’s shoes as P.J. requested? Connor glanced down when a gap in the crowd appeared.

  Yes, he had. The shoes were a deep rich brown of the finest leather, the welt and eyelets ostentatiously trimmed in what had to be pure gold. Saints, even the shoelaces were tipped in little gold dollar signs.

  How vulgar. Had Stayle really designed these shoes? They did have her distinctive flair, but what had she been thinking?

  Connor concentrated on Jarvis, trying to see him as the shoes projected him. Stilling his mind, Connor let the shoes’ magic take hold. He received a strong image of a ruthless young entrepreneurial genius—a man well on his way up the ladder of success who wouldn’t worry about how he got there. A man who’d lie and cheat his own grandmother if he thought it would make him an extra buck.

  Amused, Connor realized Stayle had kept her customer agreement to the letter. She’d enhanced his natural personality all right, and obviously played up on what he thought was important—his ruthless success. To others like him, the shoes would project an attitude they wanted to emulate. To those honest folks Steadman Jarvis sought to cheat, they would see him for what he really was—a weasel. Stayle had outdone herself on this one.

  Curious as to P.J.’s reaction, he glanced down at her. She watched Jarvis with an apprehensive frown on her face, much as a minnow would watch a shark. Good. Stayle’s magic was working.

  Jarvis’s story came to an end when he spotted them. He left his group of admirers, saying, “The press, you know.” He took a good look at P.J., then smoothed his hair and straightened his tie. He strutted over, oozing self-confidence.

  Holding out his hand, he said, “Ms. Sheridan, I presume? May I call you P.J.?”

  “Certainly,” P.J. said as she clasped the man’s hand. She didn’t seem to enjoy the sensation and drew back quickly, though Jarvis seemed inclined to linger.

  She gestured toward Connor. “And this is my photographer, Connor…Michaels.”

  Connor held out his hand in anticipation, but Jarvis had already turned back to P.J. and was escorting her into the office, his head bent attentively toward hers and his hand against the small of her back. Annoyed, Connor just sighed and followed them into the office. He’d just have to find an excuse to touch the man’s hand later.

  Jarvis waved Connor and P.J. to guest chairs before seating himself at his high-tech Plexiglas desk, with a magnificent view of the city behind him. Connor noted with amusement that Jarvis’s chair was raised about six inches higher than theirs. Faith, he doesn’t miss a trick, does he?

  Jarvis leaned back, steepled his fingers in front of his face and gave them a toothy smile. “So, what did you want to know?”

  P.J. pulled out her notepad and pencil. “As I said on the phone, I’m doing a story on Something Extra and the famous people who shop there.”

  Connor hid a grin. P.J. had certainly caught this guy’s measure, all right. She knew just how to play him.

  “So,” she continued. “I understand you had a pair of shoes especially made to fit your personality. Can you tell me why?”

  “Of course. I specialize in finding unique securities for my clients—stocks that are little known but have a high potential for growth. When I received the prospectus on Something Extra, it looked too good to be true, so I took a look for myself.”

  “Too good to be true?”

  “Yes, the high concept was intriguing—an upscale shoe boutique catering to the very rich has a certain appeal.”

  Yeah, snob appeal. Though, to be fair, it was also designed to appeal to anyone with faerie blood. Connor grimaced. It was obvious which category Jarvis fell into—he was just the type to steal a faerie’s shoehorn.

  Jarvis gestured enthusiastically. “My guess is it’s going to be one of the hottest properties in the near future, and my guesses are seldom wrong.”

  He went on at length, painting a glowing picture of the boutique’s prospects and his own brilliance in discovering it. Connor wondered when P.J. was going to shut him up, but she just let him talk, nodding every once in a while. Bored, Connor decided to start acting like a photographer. He moved around the room, snapping the man’s picture at various angles.

  Jarvis became more expansive, leaping to his feet and gesturing dramatically with his hands, playing to the camera. “And the best part is, I learned that Connor O’Flaherty is one of the partners.” A look of surprise crossed his face. “Hey, big guy,” he said as he lightly punched Connor in the arm. “You two have the same first name. Bet you wish you had his talents, too, huh?”

  Connor just grunted noncommittally and squinted through the camera to see P.J.’s reaction. She had an arrested look on her face. “Oh? Who’s this O’Flaherty?”

  “He used to be a Wall Street whiz kid—one of the best mutual-fund managers ever. Managed a whole family of funds, but primarily specialized in gold securities and unique corporations like this one.”

  “Used to?” she queried.

  “Yeah, I guess he burned out or something. Happens to the best of us, you know,” he said with cocky self-assurance, implying it would never happen to him. “I figure if he’s in on it, it’s gotta be good.”

  “I see,” P.J. said, and gave Connor a speculative look. Uh-oh, it looked like he was in for a grilling later. “So, I understand why you’d want to check out the company. But what made you deci
de to buy a pair of their custom-made ‘magic’ shoes?”

  He glanced down at his shoes. “Dunno, really. I guess because they’re a great conversation piece—a real one-of-a-kind item. No one else will ever have a pair like these. I kinda like that idea.”

  “And the magic? What about that?”

  He grinned. “Oh, I’m not saying they’ve got the real stuff, but they’ve sure worked magic for me. It’s strange, but I’ve been totally honest with my customers—not that I wasn’t before, you understand,” he added hastily. “But I’ve been more forthcoming than I strictly need to be and it’s really paid off. My accounts are doing great, I’m getting more respect and I’ve been given this great corner office. It probably would’ve happened anyway—” he sat down and placed his feet on the desk, with his hands behind his head “—but just in case, I’m not taking these babies off!”

  Connor captured his pose on film—the consummate self-indulgent snob.

  Irritated, Connor straightened, then thanked the man for his time, holding his hand out. Jarvis had to either take it and ruin his pretty pose or look like a jerk in front of P.J. Jarvis frowned, but did the polite thing and reached to shake Connor’s hand.

  Ah, the moment he’d been waiting for. Connor grinned in triumph as he clasped Jarvis’s hand firmly and pressed his talisman ring against the man’s fingers.

  His grin faded. The man’s handshake was firm and quick, but unfortunately devoid of any trace of magic. At P.J.’s questioning look, Connor shook his head in disappointment. No, Jarvis wasn’t the one.

  P.J. nodded, then wrapped up the interview and finally took her leave.

  Connor followed dutifully behind, trying to give the impression of the dull but faithful photographer and wondering how long it would take the inquisitive P.J. to start ferreting out his past. Surprisingly, she asked a wholly unrelated question as he hailed a cab.

  “Didn’t you say Stayle added more glamarye to make her less honest clients turn to ‘the direction of the right’?”

  “Aye, that I did.”