A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  “I will,” he promised. “I’ll just watch until your trail disappears, then I’ll go back to the cabin and confront Neil. Don’t worry, everything will be fine. With any luck I’ll be able to find the talisman right away, send Neil off to jail and join you on the path.” He touched the pocket where she’d tucked the comb. “This’ll help me find you.”

  P.J. sighed and started the long trek down the hill. She might as well hurry up and get it over with. Her spirits lifted as she realized the sooner she got out of sight, the sooner Connor could get the shoehorn and join her.

  The going was a lot easier than she’d expected, and soon she started moving faster, with more confidence. It was actually kind of nice, being out here in the midst of nature all alone, knowing she was in no danger and couldn’t get lost.

  If only Connor were here, it would be perfect. She smiled ruefully. Just a week ago she would’ve scoffed at the idea that he could protect her magically, and now she was accepting it like it was a natural part of her life. It wasn’t difficult, when the evidence was so clear all around her: the green path, the heated clothing, which seemed to cool as her body generated its own heat, and the—

  “Oof!” She tripped over a rock hidden in the snow and twisted, landing on her side. “Damn!” Unfortunately the magic didn’t protect her from her own stupidity. If she’d been watching the path instead of daydreaming about Connor, she would’ve seen the damned rock and wouldn’t have tripped.

  Oh well, she’d live. Only her pride was hurt. She glanced back up the path. The hut was long since out of sight, so Connor hadn’t seen her ignominious fall from grace. P.J. stumbled to her feet and brushed the snow off, then continued walking, watching her steps more carefully this time.

  Two hours later she finally reached the end of the trail and found Neil’s snow-covered car still waiting at the bottom. There was no sense waiting for Connor. He could join her wherever she was, and Neil didn’t deserve to find his car.

  P.J. patted her jacket pocket, relieved to find the keys still there. She hadn’t thought to check for them when she’d fallen, and thank goodness she wasn’t paying the price for her inattention.

  She started the car and turned the defrosters on, then popped the trunk to see if Neil had an ice scraper. She rummaged around in the cluttered trunk and finally spotted a length of flat red plastic sticking out from under a tarp toward the rear. That had to be it. She grasped the tarp and pulled, then stared in surprise at what she had revealed.

  A ruby-and-diamond bracelet winked and sparkled in the sunlight, next to a silk scarf, a pair of expensive leather gloves, a silver penWait, was that…? P.J. picked up the pen and examined it. Sure enough, it had her initials on it. This was her pen. So that’s where it had disappeared to. But how had Neil…?

  She glanced down at the stash where her pen had been hiding. Amaranth’s crystal snowflake was there, too. She froze, stunned as the truth struck her. Neil had stolen it, just as he had stolen all of this other stuff.

  But why? He was a rich, successful producer. What did he need with a woman’s scarf, or a stolen bracelet, or a monogrammed pen, for heaven’s sake?

  Kleptomania—that had to be it. P.J. tried to recall what she knew about the condition. From what she remembered, kleptomania caused the sufferer to steal. The usefulness or cost of the item was irrelevant, it was the stealing that was important.

  So that’s why he’d stolen the shoehorn—up until now, P.J. had been at a loss to discern his motive. She glanced back at the loot in the trunk. Well, now that she knew, what should she do about it? Try to return it to the real owners? But how would she find them?

  The winking diamonds caught her eye and she was suddenly struck by the memory of the woman at the hotel who’d complained of her bracelet being stolen. Aha! That string of thefts that had followed them around was now finally explained—Neil was the culprit. She searched her memory. What else had come up missing? There was the pen, the bracelet-Oh, no. The gun.

  Quickly she searched the rest of the trunk, tossing things aside in her haste. Everything else was here. Where was the damned gun? She suddenly felt nauseous—Neil had to have it with him.

  She froze. Connor was waiting up there and about to confront Neil, not knowing the man carried a pistol.

  Sudden realization made her relax. What was she worried about? Connor’s magic would protect him. She grinned, imagining what Neil’s reaction would be to Connor’s nonchalance as he pointed the cold steel-Steel! Dear God, guns and bullets had iron in them. What could she do? That was the one thing Connor’s magic couldn’t protect him from. She had to do something to help him, warn him. But what?

  The comb!

  All she had to do was pull out the comb and call Connor. He could just pop back to the hut the same way he’d pop here, but this time he’d be forewarned. She stuck her hand in her pocket to pull out the comb.

  It wasn’t there.

  She searched deeper. Still no comb.

  Maybe her other pocket? Frantically she searched all her pockets, to no avail. Where was the damned thing?

  Her fingers stilled as she remembered her fall. She’d fallen on the same side where she’d put the comb. Hell, that’s where it was—two-thirds of the way up the trail.

  She slumped in despair. Now what was she going to do? Her only hope of warning Connor was two miles up the mountain and she was here at the bottom. She couldn’t even follow the trail back up, because the magic had disappeared.

  She glanced at the snow-covered path in despair and straightened, her hopes rising. Well, the green was gone, but her footsteps were clearly visible in the snow. She could follow them to the top and warn him herself.

  P.J. nodded decisively. She wasn’t looking forward to the trek back up the mountain, but how else could she warn Connor? It should be easy to find the comb—the snow was bound to be a lot more trampled where she’d fallen.

  Then again, her fall hadn’t been too far from the cabin. She could just as easily hike all the way back to the hut and save as much of Connor’s magic as possible. Yes, that was much better.

  Resolutely, P.J. turned off the engine and locked the car, turning back to the path before her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Connor watched until P.J. was out of sight and sighed in relief when he could no longer see the magical path. Now he could concentrate on Neil without having to worry about protecting her. Just to ensure she was safe, he gave her enough time to make it all the way to the bottom of the mountain before he put his plan into effect.

  Devising a plan to persuade Neil to reveal the location of the shoehorn hadn’t been easy—the best he could come up with was the old pretend-to-be-drunk trick. If Neil thought Connor was soused, the thieving bastard might relax his vigilance long enough for Connor to learn something.

  Connor nodded decisively and conjured up a bottle of Chivas to make his story more authentic. No, on second thought, that would be pushing belief too much. Regretfully he consigned the Chivas to oblivion and called up a quart bottle of a less expensive brand. He splashed about a third of its contents on his clothing, then took a swig and converted the alcohol to water in his stomach. Time to put on his own oneman show.

  Connor made his way to the cabin and opened the door, then slammed it shut. Pulling his jacket off, he dumped it on the floor, then staggered in drunkenly. Neil looked up from where he was reading a book at the table—the same book Amaranth had just sold him—and grabbed a metal cup.

  Good, his audience was in place. Connor crossed the room to join Neil, banged the whiskey down on the table and slumped into a chair. “Damn woman,” he muttered, just loud enough for Neil to hear.

  Neil’s eyes widened as he took the bait. He glanced back at the closed door. “Where’s P.J.? What happened?”

  “Ah, nothin’.” Connor intentionally slurred his words. “We jus’ had a little fight, thas all.” Would a hiccup be too much? Probably. He squelched the urge to overact.

  Connor squinted up at Neil
. “She gave me hell about my comin’ out almost starkers this mornin’. Hell, ‘tisn’t as if you were a woman. I don’t know what her problem is.” He took another swallow.

  Neil’s face contorted in mock sympathy. “Yes, women can be the very devil. Where is she now?”

  Connor waved the bottle grandly. “Took off. Said she wasn’t going to stick around and watch me make a macho fool of myself. Me, a macho fool? Ha! Said she’d walk all the way back to town or hitchhike if she had to.” Connor took another swallow as Neil appeared to digest that information.

  “Wan’ some?” Connor offered the bottle. It wouldn’t hurt to get Neil a little drunk, either.

  “No, thanks—”

  Ignoring Neil’s protest, Connor grabbed a metal cup and filled it with whiskey. With the trouble those cups had given him, they might as well be good for something. “C’mon—join me, thas a pal. Man should never drink alone, y’know.” He tipped some into the cup Neil was clutching.

  Neil took a sip. “Not bad. Where’d you get it?”

  “Found it stuck in a hole. Damn near tripped over the blasted thing.” He blinked at the bottle. “P.J. didn’t like that, either. Hell, she knows I don’t drink. At least not usually.” He leaned over and added in a confiding tone, “I don’ hold my liquor well, y’see. But there’s no call for her to be so nasty about it.”

  Neil’s eyes gleamed as he raised his cup to Connor. “Well, to hell with her and all womenl”

  “Amen!” Connor said, and downed the contents of his cup. Now, how to get Neil onto the right subject?

  He glanced down at the book Neil was reading. “Thas a pretty good book,” he said. “But it leaves a lot out, y’know.”

  Neil perked up at that. “Oh, like what?”

  Connor shrugged. “Lots of things.” He busied himself by peering with what he hoped was a brooding look into the depths of the shallow cup, inwardly chafing at Neil’s slowness in taking the bait.

  “Can you be more specific?” Neil asked.

  “Depends on what you’ll be wantin’ to know.” Connor laid a finger against his nose. “There be lots of things we Irish know that we’ll not be after tellin’ the likes of some writer. We have our secrets, too, and we’ll be keepin’ ‘em.”

  Neil poured Connor another cup of the whiskey and took a sip himself. Damn, the man wasn’t drinking as much as Connor would’ve preferred. Surreptitiously, Connor concentrated on changing the whiskey in Neil’s stomach to pure alcohol, but was balked by a wall of magic. Stayle’s talisman must be close by, if it was protecting him this well. Connor upped the stakes.

  “Ha! Most of what P.J. learned, she learned from me.” He winked at Neil. “But I didn’t tell her everything, y’know. After all, I’m the only one who can identify the thief when we find him. But it makes it really tough when she won’t even tell me what we’re looking—” He broke off suddenly, making it appear as if he’d said too much. “Ah, never mind.”

  “No, this is fascinating. I might be able to use it in my movie.”

  Connor almost grinned but schooled his voice to sound suitably indignant. “Here she is, with a hefty fee to find a missin’ talisman, and she’s sure she knows who the bleedin’ thief is, and she won’t even tell me what the talisman is!”

  Neil’s expression turned sly and crafty. “Who’s the thief?”

  “Oh, some Brit magician who won’t even let us near him,” Connor muttered.

  Neil visibly relaxed. “So, you don’t know what the talisman is?”

  Good, he’d swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. “Nay, all I know is the client is a woman—it’s probably some gewgaw or other.”

  Neil brightened. “Say, I’ve got a talisman I bought with the book. They told me it was magic, but I don’t know what it does. Do you think you could tell me?”

  Hooked! Now all he had to do was reel him in. Connor shrugged, continuing to play it cool. “Sure, ‘tis easy enough, and I’ll not be needing the Killarney Ritual, either. Thas only for magic-blind folk like her, y’know.”

  “Good, I’ll get it.” Neil rose and headed toward the door.

  No, don’t tell me… Connor had dismissed the jackets and packs as being too obvious, too easy. He cursed himself as Neil reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. If only P.J. hadn’t found the keys in the first pocket she’d checked.

  Connor fought to control a surge of elation as Neil pulled his hand out and Connor caught the glint of gold. The talisman! Continuing the sham, Connor stumbled to his feet. “Whas—”

  He froze as a call resounded through his mind. Connor! P.J. called, using the magic comb he’d given her.

  P.J. was in trouble! But now, with victory so near, what should he do? Try to wrestle the shoehorn away from Neil, or go to P.J.? He hesitated for only a moment. Neil would keep. P.J. came first.

  But it wouldn’t do to disappear in front of the man, who was even now beginning to look wary. Connor quickly changed his stumble into a stagger toward the bathroom. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered.

  At least Neil wouldn’t be suspicious. He’d never believe a man would take a detour to the bathroom when he had success so close at hand.

  Connor closed the door and concentrated on teleporting himself to P.J., preparing himself to be ready for anything that might be threatening her. He concentrated on the comb in P.J.’s possession and poured all his power through the ring to transport himself instantly to her location.

  He moved through space and found himself abruptly outside—in front of the cabin. What the devil?

  P.J. appeared then, motioning to him from behind a tree. He joined her, exasperated. “What are you doin’ here? I told you—”

  “Shh,” P.J. cautioned. “He’ll hear you. I lost the comb when I fell on the trail and had to come back and find it.”

  He grasped her shoulders. “Why? What was so important that you had to risk your life?”

  “Remember all those things that were stolen on the trip—my pen, the bracelet—”

  “Aye, but what has that to do with this?”

  “I found them in Neil’s car—he’s a kleptomaniac and he’s been behind all the burglaries on our trip.”

  “All right, so now we know why he took the shoehorn. You came back to tell me this?”

  “No, no, I came back to tell you he’s also got the—” Her eyes widened as she stared openmouthed at something behind Connor.

  He whirled around—too late. Neil whipped past him to grab P.J. and point a very lethal .38 at her temple. Connor froze.

  Neil smiled nastily, saying, “He’s also got the gun.” His arm tightened across P.J.’s neck. “Isn’t that what you were about to say?”

  Connor could see the fear in P.J.’s eyes as she looked at him imploringly. Fear constricted his heart—he couldn’t breathe. What could he do? How could he save her?

  He aborted the instinct to call upon his magic. It had always been there for him, but now, the one time in his life he really needed it, he was helpless. Because of P.J.’s inability to trust him with her name, he was unable to use his only means of rescuing her.

  Connor clenched his fists in frustration. He couldn’t affect Neil magically, either, not when Neil had P.J., the gun and the shoehorn. How ironic. If only P.J. hadn’t been there, he could’ve very easily protected himself—there were ways of avoiding iron even if he was vulnerable to it. But now…

  Connor was stymied. Neil had won.

  Neil must have seen the defeat in his eyes. “So you thought you could fool me, eh? Well, you’re not as clever as you think. I saw the change in your eyes, and knew then you weren’t drunk. I heard you talking and came out to find you plotting with this sweet little thing.”

  Neil waved the gun around as if he were the villain in a bad melodrama and sneered. “You were good, real good. You almost had me buying it, too, but I can spot a lousy actor a mile away.”

  Connor grimaced, and Neil laughed in triumph. “Besides, you forgot one little thing. I overheard y
ou talking about the talisman in Melissa’s condo that first day. You said then you’d be able to identify the man who stole the shoehorn if you could just touch his hand. You knew all along what the talisman was. You lied to me.”

  Neil sounded highly indignant, and it was all Connor could do to control the urge to laugh hysterically. The man had stolen Stayle’s talisman, had cut a thieving swath across half of Europe and God knew where else, was holding P.J. hostage with a gun at her head and he was upset at Connor for telling a little fib!

  Wisely, Connor chose not to point this out. He didn’t dare antagonize the man further. Especially since the fear in P.J.’s eyes pulled at him, pleading with him to do something.

  Neil smiled grimly. “Now let’s go back inside where it’s warmer, shall we?”

  Connor nodded and walked slowly back into the hut, his fists clenching and unclenching as he fumed inwardly at his helplessness. Neil followed him closely, clutching P.J. as if she were his lifeline. She was. The moment Neil released P.J., he was history. Connor would make sure of that.

  Neil kicked the door shut behind him and gestured with his gun toward an empty wall. “Stand over there where I can see you.”

  Connor did so and Neil smiled evilly. “Now, finally, tell me how to work this thing.” He gestured with the shoehorn, pressing it cruelly, ludicrously, into P.J.’s white throat like a knife.

  Connor played for a little time. “In order for you to key it properly, I have to know why you want to use it and what you plan to use it for.”

  Neil frowned and his grip on P.J. tightened noticeably. “If you’re putting me on—”

  Connor allowed genuine fear to enter his voice. “I’m not—really. This is an important part of keying the talisman to you. Tell him, P.J.”

  P.J. gamely nodded beneath Neil’s grip. Connor’s heart constricted. She must be terrified and desperate to be away, yet she still played his game like a trooper.

  Neil’s grip loosened and he nodded slowly. “All right, the book did say something about that. I didn’t know what I had until you explained it so nicely at Melissa’s. I realized then it was the very thing I needed.”