A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  It appeared his suspicions were correct. She didn’t want him in her office—didn’t want him to get to know the real P. J. Sheridan. That was too bad, because he intended to do so whether she liked it or not.

  P.J. CHECKED HER WATCH for the eighth time. It was still only ten minutes to seven. She was habitually early for everything: appointments, meetings, dates. Unfortunately most people she knew were exactly the opposite. Connor probably was, too.

  She checked her appearance in the hall mirror again. She’d taken special pains to give the right impression. Her simple black dinner suit with the black lace camisole top made her look professional but attractive. And her hairstyle added just the right touch. She’d piled it on top of her head in an elegant twist, allowing a few wisps of hair to escape to soften the effect.

  P.J. nodded in satisfaction. She wasn’t sure where he was going to take her to dinner, but chances were, it wasn’t a hamburger joint.

  Oh, Lord, she hoped he meant to serve her real food. She didn’t know how she’d react if her new employer pretended to conjure up a faerie feast or something. She gave her reflection a dubious glance. Why was she going to so much trouble for a man who was so obviously off his rocker? Was it too late to call him and cancel the whole thing?

  She reached for the phone but paused when she heard a car pull up outside. She checked her watch again. Five minutes to seven. She peeked out the window to see Connor emerge from the gray BMW parked outside her tiny apartment.

  Ordinarily she’d be gratified to find a man who was as punctual as she was. But now…She dithered. Should she go with him or just pretend she wasn’t at home?

  Connor strode up the walk, looking perfectly normal in a conservative dark suit—and sexy as hell, too. P.J. quickly made up her mind. She pulled on her wrap and grabbed her briefcase, going out to meet him before he rang the doorbell.

  She wasn’t exactly ashamed of her little place, but any discretionary money she had didn’t go into the house—it went into her wardrobe. She believed strongly in the dress-for-success principle and the importance of first impressions. So far it had worked very well for her, and she didn’t want to spoil it by letting her new employer see her shabby, tiny apartment.

  Besides, he’d already seen more than enough of her personal life when he’d invaded her office that morning. She didn’t know or trust him well enough to let him any closer.

  She met him on the sidewalk and said brightly, “I’m ready. Where are we going?”

  He seemed a bit surprised at meeting her outside, but smiled and helped her into the car. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already made reservations.”

  He named one of the fanciest restaurants in town and she relaxed. “No, I don’t mind. That sounds very nice.” Though her family’s shop was only a couple of blocks from the restaurant, she’d never eaten there. The establishments on that section of Gore Creek Drive were too expensive for her tight budget.

  P.J. settled into the luxurious comfort of Connor’s car, and he drove them across town, chatting lightly about ordinary things, putting her even more at ease. He pulled into the Vail Village parking garage and escorted her down to the pedestrian area. As they strolled companionably toward the restaurant, P.J. resolved to enjoy the evening. Connor was very attentive and it was almost possible to pretend they were on a real date—a far too infrequent occurrence of late.

  As they neared the restaurant, she spotted a sign on the other side of the street. Right between a fur store and a shop selling crystal, Something Extra was spelled out in ornate letters above a display window.

  “Wait,” she said. “I want to see your merchandise.” Though the shop was closed, the display was well lit. Inside were several pairs of fanciful shoes.

  One pair caught her eye, and P.J.’s lips curved into a smile as she leaned closer for a better look. The flatheeled shoes were made of delicate white netting, giving them a light, airy look. Dainty lace scallops arched around the foot, barely covering the toes, and a whimsical pink butterfly perched asymmetrically on the toe.

  P.J. chuckled. The shoes appealed to her sense of whimsy. They didn’t look as though they’d last an hour, and she’d never have the money to buy them-or the moxie to actually exhibit them in public—but wouldn’t they be fun to wear!

  “They’re more sturdy than they look, y’know,” Connor said with a smile.

  “So, you’re a mind reader, too, huh?”

  He grinned. “Nay, ‘tis what all the women say. But Stayle is a master at creating the illusion of ethereal, insubstantial shoes that are actually sensible and comfortable.”

  P.J. nodded and turned away from the display window. Connor escorted her across the street and into the posh restaurant, where P.J. was unsurprised to learn he was well-known. After they seated themselves and ordered, P.J. pulled out her briefcase.

  Connor seemed surprised. “What’s that, lass?”

  “My notes on the itinerary. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  He flashed his dimple again. “Aye, but why don’t we enjoy our dinner first and talk business afterward? That way we won’t be spoiling our appetite.”

  P.J. shoved her files back in her briefcase. “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  He took a sip of wine, his large strong hand somehow not looking at all incongruous on the delicate stem of the wineglass. “So, you know quite a bit about me, but I know very little about you, except that your family owns a New Age shop, you have a reputation for fairness and you’re as lovely as the Emerald Isle on a frosty morn.” His gaze turned serious, searching, though a half smile played around his mouth.

  Good Lord, her fondest dream had come true—the man was flirting with her. P.J.’s insides quivered in disbelief and longing, and she took a sip of her wine just to have something to do with her hands and her mouth.

  Her gaze turned back to his and he gave her a lazy smile. “So, lass, tell me why you agreed to my offer.”

  “Why?” She was proud of herself—her voice hadn’t cracked a bit on the single syllable.

  “Yes, why? You’ve obviously decided I’m not quite all there, and you have enough professionalism not to take my offer just for the money. So, why did you take it?”

  P.J. felt her face flush in the wake of his searching gaze. Now what? She could hardly admit that the main reason she took it was because she wanted to see more—much more—of this drop-dead-gorgeous hunk.

  Just then the waiter served her salad and offered her the pepper mill. She nodded, grateful for the interruption.

  “Tell me when you’ve had enough,” the waiter murmured.

  He ground the pepper over her salad, and she’d just opened her mouth to tell him she’d had enough when the bottom fell out of the pepper mill. It landed in her salad with a thunk, and a stream of peppercorns rushed out to mound on her plate, then rolled off to bounce over every available surface of the table.

  As the waiter and Connor looked on in horror, P.J. picked up her fork and said politely, “That’s enough, thank you.”

  Connor burst out laughing, and the waiter breathed a sigh of relief, then bustled about, cleaning up the mess and apologizing profusely. He moved them to a different table, one nearer the window with a nice view of the softly lit street.

  As the waiter deftly slid fresh salads in front of them, P.J. murmured, “I think I’ll forgo the pepper this time, hmm?”

  Crimson-faced, the waiter nodded and backed off. Connor chuckled. “It’s a fair treat to see you have a sense of humor, lass. We’ll get along just fine.” His green eyes twinkled as he took a sip of his wine. “But you still haven’t told me why you agreed to my offer.”

  The short interchange had given her a chance to formulate her answer. “I’m still building my reputation as an investigative reporter,” she reminded him. “And this’ll be a good way to do that. It’s a terrific story with lots of different angles.”

  He smiled at her, curiosity and genuine interest plainly written upon his face. “Angles? I’m
afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Each time I write a story, I try to find as many markets as I can to sell it to. Regardless of the outcome of my investigation, I can usually write a dozen different stories, each with a slightly different slant, to sell to entirely different markets and readership.”

  “Like what, for instance?” he asked, obviously intrigued.

  “Well, with a focus on your product, it might sell to a shoe-trade quarterly or a fashion magazine. Focus on the magic, and it might sell to a New Age magazine. Talk about the type of people who buy your product, especially if they’re rich and famous, and celebrity magazines might buy it.” She shrugged. “I’m sure there are lots more. I’ll know better once the investigation is complete.”

  “So you don’t write just psychic investigative pieces?”

  She grimaced. “No, there isn’t much market for such a narrow specialty—I couldn’t afford to do that. I focus on magic when I can because it’s what I enjoy.”

  He continued to ask questions to draw her out, and she chatted comfortably about her work and her family. Though they spoke of inconsequential things, Connor’s warm friendliness and genuine interest encouraged her to open up. Over a delicious meal followed by a decadent dessert, they learned they both loved chocolate and caramel but hated nuts and coffee. Small things to build on, but it was nice to know they had something in common.

  Finally getting around to the reason for the outing, Connor asked about her itinerary and they made arrangements to visit each suspect in turn. Then, having finished dinner and their business, Connor paid the bill and they reluctantly left the restaurant.

  The wintry air outside was nippy, and P.J. pulled her wrap more tightly around her as they walked in companionable silence past the Children’s Fountain, which was turned off for the winter, and down to the little covered bridge.

  As she crossed it, P.J. slipped slightly on a patch of ice and Connor caught her arm to steady her, bringing her up close against his solid body. P.J. lingered for a moment in his welcome warmth, then reluctantly pulled away to lean on the wooden railing, her head slightly muzzy from his intoxicating nearness.

  Her head cleared and she breathed deeply of the fresh air, drinking in the quiet charm of the gurgling stream flowing beneath the little wooden bridge, and the beauty of the mountain scenery cradling the small town. This was one of her favorite places in Vail.

  Connor stood beside her and turned the conversation back to her work. “Why magic?” he asked softly. “Why did you choose to focus on it?”

  “You’ve met my family. You must realize I’ve been surrounded by tales of magic all my life.”

  “Aye, but your family believes. You don’t.”

  “No, but I want to believe. I love the idea of magic, ‘I’ve just been… disillusioned—more than once.”

  She allowed a wistful smile to cross her face. This man was so easy to talk to, and the night itself was almost magical. A light dusting of snowflakes drifted down from the sky, painting the moonlit night with glittering stardust. Nearby, lovers strolled hand in hand, yet none came near enough to disturb their magic circle of contentment. It was almost as if they were isolated in their own small pocket of enchantment.

  He covered her hand with his, warmth radiating from his strong palm and long fingers. “Would you care to tell me about it?”

  She shrugged. “My first disillusionment came at the age of seven when Tommy Johnson told me Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny weren’t real.” She gave him a sad half smile.

  He returned her smile gently, not amused or condescending, just waiting for the rest of the story.

  “I didn’t believe him at first, so I stayed up one Christmas Eve to prove him wrong. It was my first investigation and my first disappointment. Of course Santa Claus never showed up, it was just my parents pretending to be him, lying to me.” She shrugged. “I don’t know…the whole idea of magic was just so wonderful, exciting. In childhood you’re ready and willing to believe in magic—in mystical beings like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.” She glanced askance at him and raised an eyebrow. “One of your relatives, perhaps?”

  He chuckled. “Nay, lass, I’m afraid the Tooth Fairy is pure myth.”

  P.J. sighed dramatically and laid a hand over her heart. “Another belief shattered.” She stopped playacting and turned serious. Somehow, discussing this with a man who believed he was a leprechaun didn’t seem absurd at all. It seemed right and fitting. Who could better understand her quest for magic?

  She gazed out at the chuckling stream and avoided his gaze. “But to a seven-year-old girl who longed to fly with Peter Pan and Tinkerbell, or to be rescued from a dragon by a handsome prince, it was quite a letdown to find out they weren’t real. In fact, it was devastating.” Even now the incident had the power to fill her with a sense of painful loss.

  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. Tipping her chin up with one finger, he asked gently, “And did you get over it?”

  P.J. licked her dry lips. This man was beginning to weave his own kind of spell about her. “Oh, I survived, but I never gave up hope of finding real magic. I know it’s out there somewhere—I just have to find it.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “So, that’s what I’ve been doing all my life.”

  Connor’s face was mysterious and beguiling in the silvery evening shadows. He 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.

  The kiss was exquisitely tender—just the soft brush of his lips against hers and his remarkably gentle fingers caressing her cheek. No other part of their bodies touched. When she moaned and reached up to tangle her fingers in his thick hair, he tightened his arms around her and deepened the kiss, sending thrills chasing along her nerve endings.

  Her body cheered, but her mind screamed no. No, this wasn’t right. This man was her employer—and a deranged one at that. Reluctantly she pulled away and whispered, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

  Bringing her hand to his mouth, Connor brushed her knuckles with his lips, his eyes dark under the shadowed moon. “Aye, lass, mayhap you’re right.” He gazed deep into her eyes, then gently dropped another kiss on her upturned lips and took a step back.

  P.J. admired his restraint. She doubted she’d have been able to break their embrace so easily, and she silently thanked him for doing what she lacked the strength to do.

  He held out a hand. “We’d best be gettin’ home.”

  She smiled and took his hand, feeling a little thrill course through her when he unselfconsciously threaded his fingers through hers and tugged her across the bridge toward the parking lot. All too soon they arrived at his car and he released her hand, helping her into the vehicle.

  They chatted of the upcoming trip on the way home, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred—as if they hadn’t just created their own special sorcery back on that bridge. It was a warm, comfortable feeling that P.J. was loath to see end. But end it did, and by the time they’d reached her home, they’d made arrangements to meet two days later to interview their first suspect.

  As she climbed out of the car, Connor caught her hand again and favored her with a slow, lazy smile. In his wonderful lilting voice, he said, “I’ve another Irish blessing for you, lass. ‘May good luck be with you wherever you go, and your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow.’ Bless you, P.J., and I’ll be seeing you later.”

  P.J. stood in the cool evening air and watched as Connor drove away. What a wonderful man. She hugged the special enchantment of thi
s night to herself. It was almost enough to make her believe in magic.

  Almost.

  Chapter Four

  P.J. stood in front of her closet, indecisive. What should she wear today? She needed something that would present the image of a professional reporter, something that would make her look approachable enough so the suspect would open up and talk to her, yet not so severe that it would make her look unattractive.

  She grimaced. Attractive. There was that word again. Until she’d met Connor O’Flaherty, she’d never worried about how desirable she looked.

  Oh, he’d noticed her all right. P.J. blushed at the memory of their embrace. She’d been so caught up in his spell that she’d thrown caution to the faerie winds and practically begged him to kiss her.

  He’d obliged her so sweetly, but the memory was pure torture. She played the events of that night over and over again in her mind. She couldn’t decide: had he been merely polite, humoring her, or had he enjoyed it as much as she had? The uncertainty was agonizing.

  And he was so damned amiable all the time, it was difficult to discern his real feelings. Too amiable, as far as P.J. was concerned. She’d bet she could call him nasty, filthy names and he’d just smile and nod and allow how she was probably right.

  P.J. shook her head and turned her attention back to her closet. Blue. Blue inspired confidence. She pulled out her navy blue blazer and slacks and selected an open-necked blouse to go with them. The blouse added the right touch of casual appeal and just happened to be a flattering shape of aqua.

  P.J. fussed over her appearance until she was satisfied, then had to hurry out the door so she wouldn’t be late picking up Connor. She drove quickly to their arranged rendezvous in front of the Vail Village visitor’s center and spotted him immediately.

  He was hard to miss. He’d followed her instructions to dress down and was wearing a pair of wellworn jeans and a T-shirt, with a sports jacket casually draped from one hooked finger. With the camera bag slung around his neck, he was the image of the aspiring photographer.