A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  “Well, of course, I hope it is never used against another human being, mortal or faerie, but I am most worried that it will be used against one of my guests. Why?”

  “No problem, then. Go see Madame Cherelle-she’s one of us, a pixie soothsayer. She should be able to tell you if and when something of the sort will happen.”

  Bernard frowned, obviously unhappy.

  “It’s all right, Bernard. You can charge it to me.”

  Bernard nodded and thanked him profusely. It just made Connor feel guiltier. He hadn’t actually done anything, after all. Everything he’d tried had backfired on him, but Madame Cherelle might have better luck.

  He escorted P.J. to their rooms. “What would you think, lass, about changing our plans? Instead of leaving tomorrow mornin’, what d’you say we leave tonight and find a different hotel to stay in so we can avoid the pesky Neil? After all, ‘tis Ireland we’re going to, and I’ve many more relatives to choose from.”

  P.J. agreed instantly. “Great. The sooner this is over, the better.”

  Connor frowned. Her meaning was plain. She couldn’t wait for this to be over—and to get away from him. For a fleeting moment he wished he knew her true name so he could cast a spell to make her forget all that had happened and they could start all over again.

  Guilt assailed him and he sighed heavily. No, it wouldn’t be fair to her. The evening flight was a better idea. It would keep him from succumbing to his baser instincts with the irresistible—and wholly mortal—Miss Sheridan.

  But…if she decided she didn’t care for the consequences and tried to seduce him, well, he wouldn’t be responsible for the outcome. A leprechaun could only take so much.

  Chapter Eight

  Connor shifted the rental car into gear as he and P.J. traveled to interview the fourth suspect, a shipping tycoon named Patrick Shaughnessy. It might be irrational, but he felt much better now that he was back on Irish soil. It buoyed his spirits, making him more confident they would eventually find their thief.

  Unfortunately it hadn’t changed his feelings for P.J., nor hers for him. Even now she edged away from him, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. But every time he shifted gears in the small space, his hand grazed her leg or her arm, making the attraction between them sizzle and spark until the air fairly pulsated with it.

  He rolled the window down, trying to get some fresh air—anything to clear this charged atmosphere. Regardless of what had—or, rather, what hadn’t—happened last night, there was no denying the strong attraction between them. If they didn’t come to grips with it pretty soon, it might well do them in.

  PJ.’s voice woke him from his reverie.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he said. “I was doing a bit of woolgatherin’. What did you say?”

  She cleared her throat again, obviously trying to make conversation to break the tension. “Oh, nothing, I just said I’m tired of traveling. There are only two suspects left—I sure hope this guy is the one.”

  “Bite your tongue!”

  P.J. looked definitely taken aback. “What?”

  “You’ll not be hoping an Irishman is the thief, will you?”

  “Well, no, I-”

  “I’m seein’ this man only as a courtesy to you, so that you can get additional information for your article. I doubt he’s the one.”

  “For heaven’s sake, you don’t know the man is innocent. Why, you admitted there were good and bad faeries…so why can’t there be good and bad Irishmen?”

  “Well, ‘tis possible, I suppose. But the man is filthy rich. What would be the point?”

  “So are most of the other suspects. Yet I don’t see you using the same arguments for them.” She cast him a concerned glance. “It seems you’re protesting just a bit too much.”

  Connor scowled in frustration. He didn’t want to admit it, but he, too, suspected the shipping tycoon might be the thief. If Connor’s bad luck continued, it was sure to be the one person he didn’t want it to be. “Mayhap you’re right,” he muttered. “But I pray you’re wrong.”

  P.J. patted his hand. Connor was sure she meant it to be reassuring, but it had just the opposite effect. The simple gesture caused a bolt of desire to streak through him like a single-minded spell headed straight for his libido.

  Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear P.J. was part nymph for the spell she was casting on him. His hands clenched on the steering wheel as he restrained himself from returning the gesture, with interest. This mortal was not for him.

  Thank heavens, they reached Shaughnessy’s country manor then. Connor exhaled an explosive sigh of relief and exited the confines of the car as quickly as he could—out of range of her beguiling presence.

  P.J. shot out just as quickly, and they both hurried to the door, avoiding each other’s eyes. He knocked, and a maidservant escorted them into the den, where a burly silver-haired gentleman sat waiting for them in a cozy, intimate grouping around the welcome heat of a fireplace.

  Shaughnessy looked like a cagy old codger with the map of Ireland on his face—not at all what Connor had expected. The man looked more as if he belonged on the docks than officiating in a boardroom.

  Connor strode forward, hand outstretched, eager to touch the man’s palm and ascertain, once and for all, if he was the thief.

  Shaughnessy rose and held up his bandaged right hand apologetically. “I’m sorry I cannot greet ye properly,” he said. “A small accident at the office yesterday. Please, won’t ye have a seat?” He gestured toward the other two seats in front of the fireplace.

  Connor shared a glance with P.J. This didn’t look good. How could he clear the man of any wrongdoing if he couldn’t even touch his hand?

  They seated themselves and P.J. introduced herself and Connor.

  At Connor’s polite acknowledgment, Shaughnessy gave him a speculative look. “Is that an Irish brogue I hear? I thought ye were American.”

  Connor grinned. “Aye, that I am, but my greatgrandparents came from County Cork, and I’ve always considered myself to be Irish. After all, ‘if you’re lucky enough to be Irish…’“

  They finished the phrase in unison. “‘…you’re lucky enough.’“

  They both chuckled and Connor’s resolve to prove Shaughnessy’s innocence strengthened. Not only was the man Irish, but Connor liked him.

  P.J. poised her pen over the notepad. “Mr. Shaughnessy, as I explained before I’m doing a story on the Something Extra boutique. I understand you bought a pair of shoes there?”

  The man nodded toward his feet. “Yes, I did. They don’t look like much, do they?”

  Connor and P.J. focused their attention on Shaughnessy’s feet. He was right—they didn’t look like much.

  They were plain brown loafers, much like those Connor himself wore, but they carried that distinctive Stayle O’Flaherty difference. The shoes looked brand-new, yet molded to the man’s feet like a pair of comfortable old slippers. And, rather than having well-defined seams and topstitching, the lines seemed to blur into each other so that the entire shoe looked as though it had been made from a single piece of leather, created just for that purpose.

  “Yes…and no,” P.J. replied. “They appear plain at first, yet they’re somehow altogether…extraordinary. Is that what they’re supposed to convey of your personality?”

  She glanced at Connor and he nodded. Yes, this was the impression Stayle had intended—he could feel the effects of the magic from here. The man might look like a comfortable old shoe, but there was something unique, something special about him. He had to capture that on film. Connor rose to start taking pictures.

  The man sighed. “I suppose ‘tis, at least that’s what my wife says.”

  P.J. gave him a curious look. “You sound as if you don’t believe her. Why did you agree to purchase the shoes, then?”

  He shrugged. “She talked me into them. Y’see, she’s a bit enamored of anything smacking of mysticism or magic, and when she learned about the magic s
hoes, there was nothing for it but that I had to have a pair.”

  “For you, not for herself?”

  “Aye, she’ll have it that I don’t get enough respect and she was certain sure the shoes would do the trick.”

  “And have they?”

  Shaughnessy gave them a wry smile. “Now, I’ll not be saying they have, and I’ll not be saying they haven’t. ‘Tis a wee bit early to know yet, but I’ll not be doubting that lately I have been treated with a mite more…deference than usual. ‘Tisn’t me who has the problem, ye understand, but in the social circles me wife likes to run in, ‘tis important to her.” He shrugged. “It makes her happy.”

  P.J. smiled at him and Connor could tell she liked the old man as much as he did. “So, Mr. Shaughnessy,” P.J. said, “you must be a smart, hardheaded businessman to have come as far as you have. Would you say the shoes have magic?”

  The man’s face creased in another smile. “I may be a businessman, but I’m Irish, too. Who am I to say whether ‘tis magic or no? That’s for the likes of you to determine.”

  P.J. closed her notebook, a sure sign she was about to wind up the interview. It was too soon—Connor hadn’t come up with a plan to touch the man’s hand yet.

  As P.J. made polite noises prior to leaving, Connor formulated his plan swiftly. Pretending to change the film in his camera, he concentrated on casting a small glamarye.

  Gripping his ring to help him focus, Connor called upon his power, murmuring the Gaelic words of the spell and releasing it in a spate of power.

  As Shaughnessy gestured with his bandaged right hand, Connor created the illusion of him knocking over the pipe stand and one of the pipes falling to the floor.

  “Damn my clumsiness,” Shaughnessy muttered, and bent over to pick up the illusory pipe.

  Relieved that someone could still see his illusions, Connor moved swiftly to grasp the pipe before Shaughnessy’s fingers passed through the illusion. “Here, let me.”

  Under cover of picking up the nonexistent pipe, Connor contrived to touch his talisman ring and the back of his hand to Shaughnessy’s as their hands brushed the carpet together.

  Connor sighed in relief. There was no telltale tingling, nothing to indicate the man had ever held a talisman in his life. Connor couldn’t help grinning as Shaughnessy held the pipe stand and Connor pretended to replace the imaginary pipe.

  Once Shaughnessy had escorted them out, P.J. said, “Now what was that all about?”

  “What, lass?”

  “That little ceremony you two did with the pipe stand.”

  “Ceremony?”

  “You know—when I was saying goodbye. All of a sudden you both muttered a few words and bowed down to the carpet, rubbed the back of your hands together, then twiddled with the pipe stand.”

  Connor chuckled. With her true sight, it must have looked a little strange. “Aye, I imagine that’s how it looked to you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “So what’s your version?”

  “Well, lass, you’ll not be liking the answer.”

  P.J. sighed. “I suppose not, but I’d like to hear it, anyway.”

  “Well, y’see, I had to touch the man’s hand before we left, and since I couldn’t think of any other way to do it, I worked a bit of glamarye.”

  “Somehow I knew you’d say that,” P.J. muttered.

  Connor ignored her. “I made it appear as if he’d knocked over his pipe, and when he leaned over to pick it up, I had to beat him to it, since it was just a glamarye. All illusion, no substance, y’see. I couldn’t have the man trying to pick up a pipe that wasn’t there. And, saints be praised, I touched his hand in the process.”

  “And…?” P.J. prompted.

  “And he isn’t the thief—nary a trace of magic anywhere on his hands,” Connor concluded triumphantly.

  “Right,” P.J. said flatly.

  Connor sighed in frustration. She still didn’t believe him.

  “So, that means there’s only one suspect left—our magician,” she said.

  “Right you are. When is our appointment with the Magnificent Ambrose, anyway?” He felt silly just saying the man’s title. What sort of man needed a word like “Magnificent” in front of his name to impress people? He had to be their thief.

  P.J. consulted their itinerary. “Not until tomorrow afternoon. We fly out first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Good, then I have time to show you a bit of the Ireland I know—the Ireland all the Fae know in their heart.”

  P.J. WAITED IN THE LOBBY for Connor. He’d dropped her off at her room a half hour earlier with the admonition to dress comfortably, so P.J. had donned blue jeans and layered a sweater over a blouse. With sturdy shoes and a heavy coat, she was ready for anything.

  The wait left her with nothing to do but think. That business with Connor and Shaughnessy groveling on the floor had certainly been strange. What was all that about? Connor’s explanation was hard to buy, but it sure fit the facts.

  P.J. replayed the scene in her mind. Shaughnessy and Connor had leaned over in unison to touch the carpet and rub the backs of their hands together, almost as if they were exchanging some bizarre Irish fraternity greeting or something.

  Could that be it? Is that what she’d really seen? No, it was too farfetched. She’d never heard of carpetfondling lodge brothers before. Besides, such a strange greeting would be awfully difficult to keep secret.

  Okay, so they weren’t lodge brothers, but maybe…maybe they were old friends and had cooked up this whole thing between them to convince P.J. of Connor’s magic.

  No, that didn’t hold up under scrutiny, either. The demonstration hadn’t convinced her—it wouldn’t have convinced anyone. If they’d wanted to trick her into believing in magic, they had the wherewithal and the time to concoct something far more believable. So, why?

  She could just hear her sister saying, “When all else fails, and nothing else explains the unexplainable, whatever is left, however unlikely, must be true.” If that was so, P.J. would have to accept that it had been glamarye in action. Then that meant…Connor was on the level.

  Her heart soared at the thought. If he really was king of the little people, then she could understand his belief that he could marry only one of the Fae. And if he wasn’t? Well, then he was just another huckster spinning her a line—albeit a very convincing one—to get her into bed. Unfortunately, that was an all too feasible explanation.

  Her logical reporter persona took over, bringing her wayward heart back to earth. Just because she couldn’t think of another reason to explain the event didn’t mean a logical reason didn’t exist—she just hadn’t thought of all the possibilities yet.

  So which was he? Faerie king…or con man? She sighed heavily. She hadn’t been able to prove either one—yet. For now she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, even murderers were presumed innocent until proven guilty.

  She smiled, relieved. The decision made her feel better, as if a weight had been lifted from her heart.

  Just then Connor emerged from the elevator. “I’m sorry to keep you waitin’, lass, but I had a bit of business to take care of.” He looked her over, appearing to approve of the way she was dressed. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and they headed out to the rental car, to find “the Ireland all the Fae know in their heart.”

  They headed into the country, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, chatting comfortably of this and that until Connor said, “Ah, here ‘tis.”

  He pulled the car over to the side of the small winding road at the top of a hill. P.J. could see nothing for miles in any direction but the green hills of Ireland and the rich blue sky.

  Connor opened the car door and went to look over the edge, and P.J. moved to stand beside him. He stared wistfully out over the panorama spread below them, the wind blowing fiercely through their hair. “‘How sweetly lies old Ireland, emerald green beyond the foam, awakening sweet memories, calling the heart back home,’“ he murmure
d.

  “What is it? What have we come to see?”

  He grinned at her and hugged her close with one arm. She relaxed against him, telling herself it was only normal to want shelter from the biting wind.

  “This,” he said, gesturing expansively with his free arm. “All this land, as far as the eye can see—’tis ours.”

  “Ours?”

  “‘Tis the heritage of the little people.”

  “But…there’s nothing there.” Not a person, not a cottage, not even a fence as far as she could see. Only the rolling green hills and natural wild beauty of the land.

  He sighed. “Aye, and that’s the way ‘twill stay. One of my predecessors, a former king of the Fae, began buying land here in Ireland and I’ve continued the tradition.”

  “It’s yours, then?”

  “Nay, lass. ‘Tis in the name of the Fae—Faerie Folk, Inc., to be exact. What else?”

  What else, indeed? She supposed it had a strange kind of logic. After all, who would question the name? The Fae would know it was true and everyone else would just think they were being cute.

  I can’t believe I’m thinking they’re real. Were Connor’s persuasions starting to get to her? “Doesn’t the expense of buying it cost you some of your glamarye?”

  “Aye, but for my people, ‘tis worth it.”

  “How? I don’t get it. How can empty land that no one is allowed to build on be your heritage?”

  He smiled. “Well, y’see, ‘tis like this. The Fae are spread out all over the world, though we originated here.”

  “In this valley?”

  “Nay, lass, I meant here in Ireland. Anyway, spread out as we are, we’ve seen the results of pollution and mortals’ disregard of the land. This small piece of the Emerald Isle is our heritage for our children. We keep it pristine and natural so that when life becomes too much or we feel a yearnin’ to return to the native sod, we have a place we can come to.”