A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “What’s your true name?” he whispered.

  She chuckled sleepily and yawned. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not getting it out of me that easily.”

  Even as sleepy as she was, she felt him stiffen. “Whas wrong?” she slurred.

  “Nothing, lass,” he muttered. “Nothing at all. Just go to sleep.”

  P.J. smiled against his shoulder as she let herself fall asleep, glad she’d let her inhibitions go and made love with Connor. He was worth it.

  CONNOR WOKE in gradual stages, eventually becoming aware that he lay in bed spoon fashion with a very warm—and very naked—P.J. The events of the night before came flooding back in a rush as the feel of P.J.’s bottom nestled against his groin prompted him to firm in response.

  He groaned to himself. He wanted nothing more than to snug up against the cleft of her buttocks, to feel her turn soft and pliant, warm and passionate, in his arms once more, but it was out of the question.

  Slowly, gently, he eased himself out of bed and headed toward the bathroom, closing the door softly so he wouldn’t wake her. He splashed cold water on his face and stared blearily into the mirror. The evidence of his desire was reflected there, standing out in brazen splendor.

  He glared down at the recalcitrant thing. This small bit of flesh—well, maybe not that small—had taken over his body last night and had its way with him, and with P.J.

  Oh, Lord. His intentions had been so good, but he hadn’t been able to resist P.J.’s artless temptation, or the demands of this piece of flesh. It rose proudly, mocking him even more. “What have you gotten us into?” he muttered at it.

  That was a mistake. The memory of exactly what it had gotten into the night before overwhelmed him. P.J. had felt so warm and moist and tight…

  “Argh!” He cut the memory off abruptly and stepped into the shower, turning on the cold water full blast. He shivered in the freezing spray, but smiled in grim satisfaction as he glanced down and saw the object of his ire shrivel up and turn blue. “Serves you right,” he muttered.

  He turned the other spigot to mix the water to body temperature and began soaping up. P.J. was too fine a woman to be treated like a one-night stand, and he respected her too much to take her as a lover when he knew it could never go anywhere. He berated himself for not telling her that the night before, but her ardent response and her simple trust had been his undoing.

  Trust—there was that word again. Sure, she’d trusted him enough with the most intimate secrets of her body, but not enough to tell him her real name. Why? Did she know Connor couldn’t work any magic on her unless he knew her true name? True, glamarye would work on anyone who didn’t have true sight. But to do the really binding, lasting magic, he had to know the person’s true name.

  Aye, he could ferret it out right enough, by using magic or good old-fashioned mortal detective work, but that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t that he wanted to know her name so badly. It’s just that he wanted to know everything he could about her—and he wanted her to trust him enough to tell him herself.

  Connor stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Of course, she’d been half-asleep last night when he’d asked her. Maybe if he tried again this morning…

  He glanced down, relieved to see he was in full control of his body once again. “Behave yourself,” he admonished, and wrapped a towel around his waist, covering his manhood so it wouldn’t get any ideas. This time Connor intended to be in full control of all parts of his body.

  He walked back into the bedroom to see P.J. awake and sitting up, the bedclothes thankfully concealing the glory of her nudity.

  She must have seen the guarded look in his eyes, because her smile turned tremulous and tentative. “Good morning.” It was more of a question than a statement.

  Her simple words brought out Connor’s latent protective instincts. Though he was determined to ensure this never happened again, he couldn’t destroy her ego, either. She looked so fragile and pale—so vulnerable—he had to reassure her.

  He crossed the room and sat down next to her on the bed. Kissing her gently, he said, “And a good mornin’ to you, too, lass.”

  She relaxed visibly and he fingered a lock of her silky black hair. “You bewitched me last night, P.J. P.J…’tis such a harsh name for such a delicate flower as yourself. Tell me, what does the P stand for? Paula? Persephone? Or maybe Pollyanna?” He felt like a heel for asking, but he had to know.

  She smiled hesitantly. “I told you—it’s embarrassing and I’d rather not say.”

  “I see,” he said softly. She still didn’t trust him. Sadly, he kissed her softly on the forehead. “Well, we’ve a suspect to interview in a couple of hours, so we’d best be getting ready, don’t you think?”

  P.J. gave him a puzzled look but nodded and departed for her own room. Connor followed his own advice and dressed, trying to come to terms with the feelings roiling inside him. Why was learning her name so important to him—and what was the matter with him lately, anyway? He didn’t seem to be able to control his body or his mind anymore.

  P.J. Sheridan—she was the reason. Aye, the lass had his emotions so mixed up he could swear she was a nymph or a sprite—or one of the original faeries who had played such havoc with mortal hormones in times past. Unfortunately he knew she was none of those things. If she were, he wouldn’t have to worry about courting her.

  Court her? Where had that thought come from? He stopped abruptly in his dressing, stunned by the implications. Yes, he wanted to court her, to explore this developing relationship of theirs and see how far it would take them. With her whimsical sense of humor, her loving attitude and deep abiding wish to believe in magic, Connor knew P.J. was a woman he could love, maybe even marry.

  He sighed and jerked his pants on with unnecessary force. But, saints preserve us, he’d sworn to marry only one of the Fae. How could he have known he’d meet and fall for a mortal? He’d have to nip this in the bud now, before it went too far. And what’s worse, he had to tell P.J. why.

  P.J. HEARD A KNOCK on the adjoining door and opened it to see Connor standing there, looking sexy as hell in his casual photographer’s gear. “You’re early…” Her voice trailed off as she noted the set look on Connor’s face.

  Her heart sinking, she asked, “What’s wrong?” What could be wrong after the wonderful night they’d shared together?

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  Connor raked a hand through his hair. “Last night should never have happened—I shouldn’t have made love to you, lass. It wasn’t right.”

  A sharp pain lanced through her, followed by a feeling of dread. She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like this. “Why…why not?”

  He turned to look at her, his expression reflecting the pain and agony she felt. “I can’t take advantage of you. You’re too good, too fine—and I’ve promised my people I’ll not commit myself to any lass but one of the Fae, preferably one with magic as strong as my own.”

  P.J.’s heart almost rent in two. That damned delusion of his again! “That’s ridic—”

  “Nay, lass, it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  Confused, and starting to get a little angry, P.J. said, “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that you can’t marry me, right?”

  Connor nodded, his expression glum.

  “Well, who asked you to?” Irritated at the surprised look on Connor’s face, P.J. fumed anew. Okay, so she’d been daydreaming along those lines, but it had only been wishful thinking. With his belief in the little people, she knew it would never work. “How arrogant can you get? One night of making love and you assume I want to be shackled to you for life?”

  Connor spread his hands in bewilderment. “I didn’t mean—”

  “And if you’re so all-fired worried about my feelings, why’d you wait until now to tell me? Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

  “I tried to tell you but…I lost my head, lass. I me
ant for last night to be merely a romantic dinner for two. I didn’t mean to get carried away, but you were so soft and warm and sweet, you were irresistible.” His expression was sad, pleading for understanding.

  Her insides quivered anew at the memory of exactly how good they’d been together. “Yeah, you were pretty irresistible yourself,” P.J. muttered.

  Hope kindled in Connor’s eyes, but she hardened her heart to him. “But since I don’t have faerie blood, and I’m not good enough for you—”

  “‘T’isn’t that, lass—”

  She swept over his protestations. “Then let’s just forget it ever happened, okay?”

  Her anger must have shown in her eyes, for Connor said, “Will you be wanting to call the whole thing off, then? Forget the rest of the interviews?”

  She pondered that briefly but discarded it. She wasn’t giving up on him that easily. “No. No, I’ll stick by our agreement. But let’s try to keep it professional, shall we?”

  Yes, professional. Until he could admit his delusions were just that she wasn’t about to let him make love to her again, no matter how much she wanted to. She just hoped it wouldn’t take too long. Damn it, she wasn’t going to let his unfounded beliefs and overdeveloped sense of responsibility keep them apart.

  Faerie king, my great-aunt Martha’s behind!

  Connor nodded sadly. “All right, lass. We’ll do it your way. And thanks.”

  P.J. nodded briskly and grabbed her briefcase, then said in her best no-nonsense tone, “Okay, let’s go. Our next suspect, Madame Cherelle, is meeting us for breakfast at a café in Montmartre.”

  Chapter Seven

  As they took the metro to Montmartre, P.J. was grateful Connor did as she asked and kept the conversation strictly business. Though it pained her to see Connor so cool and aloof when yesterday had been so wonderful, P.J. ignored the pain in her heart and reminded herself it was for the best.

  “How familiar are you with Madame Cherelle’s work?” he asked.

  “I know her as a debunker of false mystics, but she’s best known as a psychic. A psychic who debunks other psychics is so unusual, I’ve been wanting to meet her. I figure she must either be a very gifted charlatan herself, to be able to spot others, or—”

  “Or she’s truly psychic,” Connor said.

  P.J. cast him a sideways glance as they exited the metro. “Well, I guess we know what your opinion is.”

  “Aye, but not for the reason you’re thinkin’. Remember I told you Stayle had identified Madame Cherelle as a member of the Fae?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right.” She kept forgetting how consistent his delusions were.

  “Well, that’s why I’m fairly certain her abilities are real. Stayle tells me she has quite a bit of pixie in her-that’s what gives her the sight.”

  So this woman had faerie blood? Terrific. That’s just what P.J. needed—for Connor to meet a woman he believed was one of the Fae—a woman he could marry.

  P.J. shot him a suspicious glance. Could that be one of the reasons he’d been so eager to make this trip? To meet a sexy French pixie? Viciously P.J. hoped the woman was married with six screaming kids.

  They found the café, and since they were early they ordered hot chocolate and croissants. When their order came Connor asked after Madame Cherelle in what sounded like excellent French. The proprietor shrugged and gestured expressively toward the door.

  They turned in that direction to see a tiny elderly woman enter, leaning on a cane for support. Smallboned and delicate, she looked exactly like the pixie Connor claimed she was.

  The first thing P.J. felt was relief. The woman might not have six screaming kids at home, but Connor couldn’t possibly see her as a matrimonial prospect.

  The relief faded, replaced by disbelief. This was the famous psychic debunker? She looked more like someone’s sweet white-haired grandmother, not like the woman known for her ruthlessness in exposing charlatans.

  Connor rose and took the woman’s hand to escort her to their table. Obviously accustomed to chivalry, Madame Cherelle allowed Connor to cater to her, seemingly oblivious of the strange picture they made together as he hulked over her, at least three times her size.

  P.J. suppressed a smile. Connor was naturally solicitous, which was a good cover for him to press his talisman ring against the woman’s hand. He gave P.J. a faint shake of the head, indicating that he had cleared Madame of any wrongdoing. P.J. sighed in relief—for some reason, she didn’t want this woman to be the thief.

  Madame Cherelle seated herself next to P.J. and gave her a sweet smile. “You must be the American writer, yes?” she asked in beautiful English with only a trace of a charming accent.

  “Yes, Madame, I’m P. J. Sheridan, and this is my photographer, Connor Michaels.”

  Connor bobbed his head at her and greeted her in French. They conversed for a few moments in that beautiful, mellifluous language, then she said, “Excuse us, Mademoiselle Sheridan. We did not mean to exclude you, but it is rare to find an American who speaks my language so beautifully.”

  P.J. couldn’t help smiling at this charming, gracious lady. “I understand. Tell me, did you wear the shoes you purchased at Something Extra?”

  Madame glanced down at her feet. “Oui, mademoiselle, as you requested.”

  P.J.’s gaze followed Madame’s, down to her feet. The shoes were a modest pair of pumps made of handsome brown leather with a wedge-shaped low heel. The topstitching was picked out in a contrasting beige that matched the color of the heel, and the toe was decorated with a series of punched holes in a design P.J. recognized as the yin-yang symbol.

  These were fantasy shoes? She’d expected something far more exotic after seeing the others. These looked so…sensible.

  Remembering her promise to keep an open mind, P.J. narrowed her eyes and concentrated hard for a moment, trying to see if she could pick up an impression of the woman’s personality from the supposed magic in her shoes.

  Yes, her initial impression was still strong. Sensible was the operative word here, along with honesty, and a touch of otherworldliness that gave the woman a piquant charm. Is this what Stayle had intended?

  Her confusion must have shown on her face, for the elderly woman’s face wrinkled into a smile and she chuckled. “You are thinking I paid too much for such a drab pair of shoes, no?”

  Not at all taken aback, P.J. laughed. “Well, yes, I was,” she admitted. “The others I’ve seen were rather ornate, gaudy even. Why are yours so plain—and why did you decide to buy a pair, anyway?”

  Madame shrugged. “It’s not so hard to understand. I journeyed to Denver last month to investigate a new psychic whose powers are said to rival those of Uri Geller. His pretensions were easily unmasked, and since I was so close to Vail and had several days to wait for my flight back, I decided to visit the boutique. I couldn’t resist investigating a store that claimed to make magic shoes. You are doing the same, no?”

  P.J. nodded. “And what did you find?” Had the famous debunker been taken in?

  “I found Stayle O’Flaherty, a truly gifted designer of wonderful shoes. Since I couldn’t determine the credibility of her claims without experiencing her magic for myself, I bought a pair.”

  “But why are yours so plain?”

  The woman smiled slightly and patted P.J.’s hand. “I’m an old woman and have no need for fancy shoes. After a lovely chat, Mademoiselle O’Flaherty reviewed my personality profile and recommended these.”

  Madame held out her foot and twisted her ankle back and forth to get a good look at the shoes. Connor finally seemed to remember what he was there for and began to take pictures.

  “Tell me, ma petite,” the old woman said. “What impression did the shoes give you?”

  As P.J. hesitated, Madame Cherelle shook her head in admonition. “Don’t try to be polite. Be honest and tell me what you saw.”

  P.J. considered for a moment. “Sensible. That’s what I first thought when I saw them—that you were se
nsible.”

  P.J. could see Connor grinning behind his camera, and the elderly woman gifted her with a smile, as if P.J. were her star pupil. “Tres bienl That was exactement the image we were trying to project.”

  “Sensibility? But why?”

  “When you’re a psychic—especially one who goes around exposing charlatans—it is very important to ensure your potential client trusts you. Psychics have a bad reputation and I needed something to counteract my clients’ fears.”

  “So you’d say the shoes work for you?”

  The woman nodded. “Absolument.”

  “But what about their claims?” P.J. persisted. “Do you believe these shoes are magic?”

  “Oui. I’m certain they do possess the magic that is claimed for them.”

  This from one of the most famous debunkers of their age? P.J. stared speculatively at her. “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” the woman said serenely.

  Connor stopped taking pictures and leaned down to whisper something in the woman’s ear.

  She patted his cheek. “I thought your resemblance to Mademoiselle O’Flaherty had to be more than just coincidence.” Turning back to P.J., she said, “I know they have magic, because his sister has magic—she proved it when her talisman turned my aura to gold.”

  P.J. hoped she didn’t look as startled as she felt. “Gold?” she managed to croak out.

  “Aye, gold,” said Connor. “I told you Madame Cherelle was part faerie—that’s how the talisman identified her.”

  “I see,” P.J. responded, not at all sure she did. How had Connor persuaded this woman to corroborate his story? Was his charm such that he had only to whisper in her ear and she’d make up any lie to support him? No, P.J. decided reluctantly, Connor wasn’t that good, and besides, Madame’s sterling reputation belied that.

  “Oui,” Madame said. “And it explains why the vision is so strong in me.”

  P.J. was totally baffled. The Frenchwoman had an unimpeachable reputation for debunking charlatans, but as far as P.J. knew, she’d never been investigated herself. Reluctant to display her rude skepticism before this gracious lady, P.J. merely glanced obliquely at her.