A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  “I never gave up hope of finding real magic.”

  She risked a glance at Connor to see how he was taking her revelations. Would he be incredulous, condescending, amused?

  No, he wore a look of tender understanding that made her heart turn over in her breast.

  He took her face in his hands and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll help you, lass,” he promised. “I’ll help you find your magic.”

  Mesmerized by the sincerity and intensity of his declaration, P.J. leaned toward him and tilted her face up in wonder. “You will?” she breathed.

  “Yes, I will,” he affirmed and bent to kiss the lips she so trustingly offered him.

  Dear Reader,

  You’re about to meet one of the most mysterious, magical men!

  Connor O’Flaherty is many things, but none of them is ordinary, as P. J. Sheridan—and you—are about to find out.

  And neither are any of the heroes in American Romance’s ongoing series MORE THAN MEN. Whether their extraordinary powers enable them to grant you three wishes or live forever, their greatest power is that of seduction. So turn the page—and be seduced by Connor O’Flaherty. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.

  Regards,

  Debra Matteucci Senior Editor & Editorial Coordinator Harlequin

  300 E. 42nd St.

  New York, NY 10017

  A Little Something Extra

  Pam McCutcheon

  For Mom and Dad, who were so enthusiastic about my

  screwy leprechaun story, with thanks to Pikes Peak

  Romance Writers for inspiring the orange scene, to

  Dick Gandolf for the pepper, and to the Wyrd Sisters

  for laughing in all the right places.

  Chapter One

  “Y’know,” Amaranth said as she plucked the lone orange from the fruit bowl on the restaurant table and gazed at it thoughtfully, “sex is like an orange.”

  P. J. Sheridan groaned. This was why she’d been so reluctant to accept her sister’s lunch invitation. Amaranth’s penchant for making her mystical pronouncements in a clear and carrying voice could be embarrassing at times.

  Of course, P.J. knew Amaranth didn’t mean to embarrass her, she just lived in a different world, one where everything had a mystical connection to everything else. It was Amaranth’s way of trying to make sense of the universe and her place in it, to find where she fit into the scheme of things. Most people thought P.J.’s sister was a flake. She wasn’t, not really. She was an intelligent, caring person—she just had a touch too much gullibility, that’s all.

  Amaranth’s time-lost hippie look didn’t help. She would’ve been unremarkable in the midst of a sixties peace rally, but here, in the haute monde surroundings of the chic restaurant, she looked strange and out of place. P.J., on the other hand, casually yet classically attired, would have fit in anywhere. It helped in her profession.

  Amaranth eyed the orange once more and opened her mouth to speak. P.J. glanced quickly around the restaurant. Damn. There were two elderly women sitting at the next table. With her luck, they’d have perfect hearing. Her only hope was to destroy Amaranth’s inspiration.

  Tearing the orange from her sister’s loose grasp, P.J. dug her nails into the depression next to the stem and peeled away an irregular patch of rind.

  Amaranth leaned forward and watched the operation with rapt interest. “You see, the unpeeled fruit is like a man’s body, ripe for desire—and you are his lover, stripping away the protective trappings of civilization.”

  P.J. examined her would-be lover and giggled despite herself. This poor guy was pockmarked all over his body and had a smeared blue Sunkist stamped on his derriere.

  She’d better change the subject. Fast. “Okay, Sis. You asked me to lunch. What did you want to talk about?”

  “Hmm?” Amaranth just continued to gawk as P.J. finished peeling the orange and dropped the spent pieces of rind on the plate in front of her.

  Earth calling Amaranth. Come in, Amaranth. “Sis?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Amaranth said vaguely. “A man came into the shop. Said he wants to hire you.”

  Amaranth and their parents ran The Cosmic Connection, a successful New Age shop there in Vail, Colorado. Their clientele ranged from the very rich to the very strange. Chances were, this guy was one of the latter.

  “Hire me? Amaranth, I’m a free-lance investigative reporter, remember? People don’t just walk into a store and say they want to hire you. It isn’t done that way.”

  Amaranth shifted her otherworldly gaze from the orange to P.J.’s face. “It isn’t? Maybe he needs help with, you know, bookkeeping.”

  P.J. sighed. She only maintained the shop’s records because her sister and parents didn’t seem to recognize the importance of such mundane chores. P.J. loved her family, but their habit of living in a fantasy world grated on her nerves sometimes. “I doubt he wanted to hire me to do his books, either,” she explained patiently. “Did he say what he wanted me for?”

  Normally P.J. wouldn’t care, but she hadn’t sold a story in weeks and her bills had become rather pressing. If there was a chance this guy was on the level…well, she needed the money.

  Amaranth screwed up her face in thought. “Uhuh,” she said finally.

  “Well, did he at least leave his name?”

  Amaranth brightened. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “Uh, I don’t remember.”

  P.J. sighed again, resigning herself to the inevitable game of twenty questions before she’d learn who this guy was and what he really wanted.

  “Wait,” Amaranth said. “I just remembered—he gave me a card.” She rummaged inside her macramé handbag and unearthed a dog-eared business card. “Here,” she said, handing the card to P.J. as proudly as if it were a Pulitzer prize.

  P.J. suppressed the urge to pat her sister on the head and perused the card: Connor O’Flaherty. Something Extra. Fantasy Shoes Designed for Your Unique Personality. Oh, yes, the new store in town. She gave her sister an incredulous look. “A shoe salesman?”

  Amaranth squinted at the card. “There’s something written on the back.”

  P.J. flipped it over. The handwriting was bold and masculine: Ms. Sheridan, I have a story and a proposition for you on your favorite subject: magic. If you’re interested, please come by my office anytime to discuss it. I promise you won’t regret it.

  He certainly knew how to get her attention. Magicreal magic—was what she’d searched for all her life, and never found. She’d developed a reputation as an unbiased reporter of psychic phenomena because her inquisitive nature wouldn’t give up until she’d proved or debunked promising stories of magic or mysticism. Unfortunately she hadn’t been able to authenticate any of them so far.

  It was enough to make anyone a cynic—anyone but P.J. She’d give this guy the benefit of the doubt until she heard what he wanted. First thing Monday she’d look him up.

  Absently, P.J. popped an orange section into her mouth. As she bit into it, the cool, sweet liquid gushed over her tongue. She squeezed all the juice out with her teeth and swallowed it, leaving the depleted pulp in her mouth.

  Yuck. It tasted like wet, soggy string. How could people swallow this stuff? Surreptitiously she spit the pulp into a napkin and glimpsed Amaranth’s enthralled expression as she stared at the remnants of the orange. Uh-oh.

  “You do see it, don’t you?” Amaranth asked. “As you join together in sweet ecstasy, you become one in a simple act as old as time itself.”

  Thank goodness this was a navel orange. No telling what analogies Amaranth would’ve drawn if there’d been seeds in it. To distract her sister from further contemplation of her navel, P
.J. covered the spent rind with another napkin.

  Too late. Amaranth gazed sadly at the litter on the table. “And when it’s over—”

  “Never mind.” P.J. suppressed a giggle. After all, it hadn’t been too bad—the old ladies had only sent one curious glance their way. Maybe she could escape without further embarrassment after all.

  P.J. quickly wrapped up the debris and deposited it on the tray of a passing busboy. So much for lover boy.

  She turned back to face her sister and recoiled in horror. Flourishing a banana in P.J.’s face, Amaranth said, “Y’know-”

  P.J. fled.

  TWO DAYS LATER, after P.J. apologized to Amaranth for deserting her and patiently endured another soliloquy on the role fruit played in the cosmic scheme of things, she decided to look up the shoe salesman.

  Entering the Swiss-inspired building where Something Extra had their offices, she walked up the stairs to the second floor and glanced around, pleasantly surprised. It was different from what she’d expected. Maybe she was wrong—maybe this O’Flaherty was one of the very rich instead of one of the very strange. It would certainly be a nice change.

  She approached the receptionist and glanced at her nameplate. “Hello, Glenna, I’m P. J. Sheridan. I have an appointment with Mr. O’Flaherty.”

  “Oh, yes,” the perky redhead said. “You’re early. He’s out for a moment, but he’ll be right back. Please, won’t you wait in here?”

  Glenna ushered P.J. into an elegant office that commanded a wonderful view of the ski slopes, blissfully free of snow this time of year. Unfortunately they wouldn’t be for long. Nature’s lush green beauty would soon give way to dirty snow and the ugly tracks of rabid skiers. In silent protest P.J. had refused to learn to ski.

  She turned her attention back to her plush surroundings, feeling a little out of place. Having expected the man to be one of the very strange, she’d worn her tight faded jeans and a white ruffled poet’s shirt. With her long black hair feathered back from her face and hanging to her waist, she looked as though she belonged at The Cosmic Connection herself.

  It was intentionally deceiving. Most people who knew her family ran a New Age shop took one look at her in this outfit and treated P.J. the way they treated her sister—as someone not quite all there. It was a useful camouflage in a profession where she met all sorts of self-proclaimed mystics. It made them feel more relaxed, more willing to open up around her. Besides, it was comfortable and she liked it.

  But glancing around at the posh appointments of this office, she wished she’d worn something different. Something extra? The door opened, catching P.J. in midchuckle.

  The chuckle died in her throat as she took in the giant standing there. He was gorgeous. Tall, with rumpled red-gold hair and broad shoulders filling out a tailored silk suit, he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. This was a shoe salesman? Take my feet, please!

  He smiled back at her, revealing an engaging dimple. “Ah, so you’ll be Miss Sheridan?”

  What a lovely accent. His voice was as smooth and deep and rich as Irish whiskey—and just as intoxicating. She nodded and somehow maintained the presence of mind to hold out her hand. “Yes, I’m P. J. Sheridan. Mr. O’Flaherty?”

  He took her hand and shook it gently yet firmly. “The same,” he said with a twinkle in his beautiful eyes. “P.J.? Is that your full name or will it be standing for something else?”

  “No, it stands for—” P.J. halted, shocked. She’d been so mesmerized by the sheer physical presence of this man that she’d almost revealed her real name. Nobody knew her real name, except her family, of course. “It stands for…something else. I’d rather not discuss it.”

  For one thing, it was embarrassing. For another, if the legends were true, entrusting someone with her true name would give that person power over her. Though she hadn’t been able to prove magic was real—yet—P.J. hedged her bet and kept her name to herself.

  He nodded, amiably accepting her answer. “Won’t you have a seat, then?”

  P.J. gratefully sank onto the nearby wing chair. The big Irishman leaned against the front of his desk and crossed his ankles, still smiling at her. Curious as to what kind of shoes the owner of a fantasy shoe store would wear, P.J. glanced down at his feet.

  Penny loafers. How…ordinary. If he designed shoes to fit people’s personalities, just what did penny loafers say about him?

  He spoke, drawing her attention back up to his smiling face. “Now, you’ll be wanting to know why I asked you here?”

  P.J. nodded. She was curious, and she could listen to his lovely Irish accent all day long.

  “I’m very familiar with your work, y’see. You’re a fair woman, Miss Sheridan, when it comes to psychic investigations, neither believin’ nor disbelievin’ until you uncover the true facts of the case.”

  He seemed to expect some reaction from her, so P.J. nodded again. The twinkle in O’Flaherty’s eyes brightened and he cocked his head to one side. “That’s why I’d like you to help me,” he said.

  P.J.’s heart did a little extra pitter-patter. She’d love to help this man, get to know him better—a lot better. “Certainly, Mr. O’Flaherty.”

  His smile deepened. “Please, call me Connor.”

  The name fit him—strong and bold. “Certainly, Connor,” she said, liking the sound of his name on her tongue. “And you can call me P.J.”

  “All right, P.J. Now, what I’m about to tell you may sound a wee bit…odd at first.”

  Odd? He was the picture of masculine normality.

  He glanced at her anxiously and said, “You see, I’m fairy.”

  P.J.’s jaw almost dropped to the floor as she clutched the arms of the chair in disbelief. No, it couldn’t be. Disappointment stabbed through her. She regarded him incredulously. “You mean you’re…”

  Connor burst out laughing. “No, no, lass. You misunderstand.”

  P.J. sighed in relief.

  “I’m faerie.” He spelled it for her. “One of the little people. A leprechaun, to be exact.”

  She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I thought you said leprechaun.” She couldn’t have heard him correctly, but what else could it be? What else could possibly sound like leprechaun?

  He nodded, grinning. “Yes, I’m a leprechaun.”

  That did it. She had to get out of here. P.J. rose slowly to her feet. Shaking her head in denial, she backed toward the door. “No, no. Leprechauns are Irish—little people with pots of gold who make shoes…”

  He spread his arms. “Well, I’m Irish and I make shoes.”

  She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. “So where’s your pot of gold?”

  He laid a finger against his nose. “Ah, now that would be tellin’.”

  He had to be putting her on. Okay, she’d play along. She grabbed his thick wrists in both hands. “All right, Mr. Leprechaun,” she said smugly. “I’ve got you now. According to legend, you’ve got to tell me where you’ve hidden your pot of gold.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, lass, you’ve trapped me, you have. But I’m a modern leprechaun, you know. You sure you want to know where ‘tis? It won’t do you any good.”

  She nodded decisively. “Tell me where your gold is hidden.”

  He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his warm breath tickling the strands of hair on her neck. “I’ve got it hidden in…mutual funds.”

  She thrust him away. “Stop playing games with me.”

  The look on his face was serious. “I’m not playing games. I am a leprechaun.”

  “With your gold in mutual funds?”

  “Well, yes. It makes it harder for those tricksy mortals to get at it, y’see.”

  “Yeah, right. But leprechauns are little people.” She took in his full height—the man must be six feet four inches tall at least. “You’re not exactly little, you know. What happened to you?”

  He shrugged expressively. “I grew.”

  The twinkle in his eyes betrayed him, and P.J. gla
red at the overgrown faerie.

  “No, lass, I’m sorry for teasin’ you. The truth of the matter is, we leprechauns weren’t all that small to begin with, y’see. And we’ve intermarried with mortals over the years until we’re as tall as you are. Sometimes taller.”

  He had a pat answer for everything, but did he really expect her to believe he was a leprechaun?

  He must’ve seen the skepticism on her face for he held up an admonishing finger. “You’re supposed to be unbiased, remember? So, why don’t you assume I’m tellin’ the truth for now, and save the investigatin’ for later. All right?”

  He was right—she wasn’t being objective. But to hear such a bizarre statement come from such a normal-looking man was disconcerting, to say the least. “Okay, but you’ll have to show me proof.” A sudden thought struck her. “Is that why you want to hire me?”

  “Yes and no. Please, lass, sit yourself down. I promise I won’t bite.”

  P.J. felt herself flush as she resumed her seat in the wing chair. She’d like to see those even white teeth nipping their way down her…No! Stop that, she admonished her libido. She wasn’t about to get involved with a man who thought he was a leprechaun, for heaven’s sake.

  Connor’s lilt interrupted her musings. “I need to tell you a little more about our magic and how it works. The glamarye—”

  “Glamarye? What’s that?”

  “‘Tis the leprechaun magic. Most of us can cast only a sort of glamour, or glamarye, over an object or a person to make it appear something other than it is. ‘Tis a seeming, you understand, not an actual change.”

  “So you’re basically illusionists? Like magicians?” How disappointing. She’d hoped he was going to be more clever than that.

  “Yes, but it seems real to the person it’s happenin’ to. They can’t tell the difference between the glamarye and reality.”