Sleeping with the Fishes (13 page)

Artur
looked revolted. "You bipeds never fail to astonish. Do you not realize—
"

Thomas swallowed his annoyance, figuring that if the two of them had to choke down shit earlier, he could hold his temper. "Stop
lumping
us into one category. I'd no sooner dump my own waste into a body of water than I'd run over a cat.
I'm
the one who showed up and told Fred the problem.
I'm
the one who's done all the research.
I'm
the one who spent the morning in City Hall. And
I'm
the one who's been at work while you two went off for a romantic swim."

"Poor you," Fred sneered. "I guarantee your morning wasn't as miserable as ours."

Artur
looked wry. "I had thought it would be romantic, and it was.
Until."

Thomas almost smiled. He had not been happy, at all, when Fred had taken off with the big red lug, but at least the guy hadn't gotten very far during his alone
time
. Bad news: the guy was a prince. Good news: Fred didn't care. Bad news: the guy was huge and great looking and could show her a world the average person would never know. Good news: Fred didn't care.

Besides
, Thomas figured,
I can show her a thing or two right here on dry land, I bet. And I won't give her crap for being half-and-half, like some of
Artur's
people would
.

Fred was picking through the plans piled on his desk, looking intrigued.
Artur
watched her, shifting his weight impatiently.

Ha!
Got her
.
He knew the scientist in her couldn't stay away from the lab for long. Sure,
Artur
was a fellow Undersea Folk, but eight years of formal schooling left its mark, no matter if you grew a tail to swim or just put on swimming trunks from Target.

He watched her open up a plan and read it. Even from the back, she was breathtaking.
Long, graceful limbs, and that hair… and those eyes… and that gorgeous, pretty tail.
Green in some lights and blue in others, it was like a peacock tail, except a million times sexier.

He was aware that he had built Fred up in his mind because of what she was and not who she was. His mother had told him so many stories of mermaids by the time he was ten, he was hopelessly besotted with the idea of jumping into the ocean and finding a friend who could follow his family all over the world.

Whereas his mother entertained him for hours with her wonderful stories
(The Little Mermaid,
The
Mermaid Wife, The Sea Morgan's Baby)
, his father was simply not around much—he went where the Navy sent him. And when you were the new kid and knew you'd be moving in another eight or ten or twelve months, there really wasn't much point in making friends.

So he read. And dreamed,
And
listened to stories. And
dreamed
…

Even before he knew Fred's secret, he was taken with her. She was the first woman scientist he'd ever met who wasn't, on a subconscious level at least, interested in male feedback. Or even aware the person she was interacting with
was
male. She was also the first woman—person—who wasn't paralyzed by conventional mores and standards of behavior. What she thought, she thought, and if people didn't like it, she didn't care. Or notice.

He blessed the impulse that had brought him back to work the night before, figuring he'd fight insomnia with toxin tables. And then he'd seen her, lazily swimming back and forth in Main One, her gorgeous blue green tail shimmering, her long arms making graceful sweeping motions as she fed the fish, her green hair floating around her face in a gorgeous cloud that looked like liquid emeralds.

He had honestly thought, for a long moment, that his heart was going to stop. It just didn't seem possible. It was a hallucination brought on by fatigue and bad pizza. He had snapped under the pressure of not getting laid for seven months.

And then he'd stared some more. She didn't notice him right away, so he could look his fill. And he finally convinced himself: Fred, the cool, distant woman he'd met earlier, was a mermaid. An honest to God mermaid!

He couldn't help it: he'd raced to the top of the stairs and, once there, had to touch her.
Had
to.
And once his hands were on her, his lips soon followed.
Because here was the living embodiment of all his childhood fantasies, and he had no plans to let her go.

Ever.

And if a certain big red lug got in his way… well. He had a few ideas about how to stop a member of the Undersea Folk. And not just with aikido.

"Why don't you have a seat?" he said with forced politeness to
Artur
. "It looks like Fred and I will be here for a while. You know, frittering with paperwork and other things you're bad at."

Artur
gave him a black look, but said nothing.

"Careful," Fred warned. "That's your new roommate you're irritating. It'll make your nightcap together awkward."

He grimaced. He was already regretting the mad impulse that prompted him to offer up his suite to
Artur
. Still, in his own way, he was fascinating, and Thomas had plenty of questions for the man.

Too bad they were rivals. He knew it.
Artur
knew it. Jonas even appeared to get it.

Everybody but the object of their adoration, who was even now bitching, "
Thomas,
is English your fourth language? I can barely read your writing."

"Shut up," he said warmly. "You've got bigger problems than my writing."

"Impossible," she said, looking alarmed.

"If it's a new hotel—let's see, who do we know who just popped up at the NEA whose parents are rich and own half the
waterfont
?"

Now she was looking positively revolted. "No."

"There is a suspect?"
Artur
asked.

"No," Fred snapped.

"I'm just saying," Thomas added.

"No."

"It wouldn't hurt to talk to her."

Fred grimaced. "Obviously you haven't talked to her."

"Oh, I have, honey, believe me. She threw a pass at me that nearly knocked me unconscious with its subtlety."

"How awful for you," Fred sneered.

He ignored the sarcasm. "That whole 'look at me, I'm a sub-human twit' thing could be a front."

"Olivier wasn't; that good an actor."

"Have it your way. But you have to admit, it's an interesting coincidence. And talking to Madison
Fehr
can't be worse than sucking down shit." Her glare was so sizzling, he nearly flinched, and changed the subject.

"I'm getting pretty hungry. Are you guys?"

Both Undersea Folk looked positively ill.

"Oh. Sorry. Yeah, that'd put me off my feed for a while, too. But I can't help being hungry. It's lunchtime."

"Well, Jonas can run out and get you something…" Fred suddenly looked around,
then
looked at her watch. "Where the hell
is
Jonas? Not still with Dr. Barb, I hope.
Poor guy."

Thomas thought of the way Jonas had run off with Dr. Barb, who was in awfully good shape and pretty young to be running the NEA, and didn't think the guy had it so bad at all.

"Hey,
Artur
.
Maybe you could get me a sandwich." He couldn't resist.

He chuckled at the prince's expression, deciding it was worth Fred's sigh of exasperation. Yes, the day was definitely looking up.

"Okay, come out."

"Jonas, I can't."

"Will you come out already? How can I tell you how it looks if you won't let me see?" "I'll tell you how it looks. It looks silly." "I'll be the judge of that, Dr. Lab Coat.
Out."
Blushing to her eyebrows, Dr. Barb pushed open the dressing room door and stepped into the tiny hallway. She was wearing one of the four outfits Jonas had bullied her into trying on and, in his opinion, the most flattering.

It was a navy two piece suit, the skirt falling softly just above the knee, the jacket double-breasted, and held together in the middle by one big button. And it was a
Givenchy
.
On sale
!

Jonas stared at the button. "We have to pick out a bra in the same color as the jacket."

"No we do
not
. Jonas, I feel half naked in this thing! You can see my brassiere, for heaven's sake."

"News flash, Dr. Barb: people stopped saying brassiere forty years ago."

"I'm trying to be an authority figure not a—a Playmate of the Month."

"Barb, bras are trendy right now. Women are buying
strappy
tees and then buying bras so they can coordinate. And don't forget the whale-tail trend—you
know,
when you can see a woman's thong above the waist line of her jeans?"

"That," she said firmly, "was a trend for the young."

"Well, the young can't afford this suit. Showing an inch of the front of your bra is hardly the same as forgetting to wear shorts and bending over a tractor to be Miss February."

Her face went, if possible, even redder and without a word she turned around to duck back inside the changing room, but he caught her by the elbow and gently pulled her back. "Come on, let me get a good look," he coaxed. "I think it's fabulous. Let me tell you why."

He led her to the three mirrors at the end of the room. "See, the skirt is long enough so you don't look like an escapee from the
Ally
McBeal
set, but short enough to show off your legs. You have really terrific legs. And the color is awesome. Brings out your eyes, puts some color in your cheeks,
even
brightens up your hair.
Which we'll get to in a minute.
Now, the jacket… wrist-length sleeves, but not too much padding in the shoulders, so you don't look like you've OD'd on
I Love the 80's
. The cut in the front really doesn't show much skin. See, you could wear this under an open—
open
—lab coat and look like a million bucks, and still be the boss, and show everybody how gorgeous you are at the same time."

She tried to pull away. "Oh, Jonas, you're sweet, but I'm not—"

"That is a gorgeous forty-year-old woman in there," he said, not letting go of her arm, and pointing to the mirror with his other hand.
"Sexy and smart and The Boss.
I mean, what could possibly be hotter than that?"

"Forty-five."
She added, a little bitterly, "As my ex never failed to remind me, I'm never going to see thirty again."

"Fuck your ex. I think this is the one. We should get this one.
And a matching bra."

Dr. Barb stared at herself for a long minute. "Well. The color
is
nice."

"The color is fucking phenomenal, I'm telling you, it brings out all your natural color, brightens up your—oh, right.
Your hair."

She clutched her braid and tried to back away. "Never mind my hair."

"Come on, Dr. Barb. All I'm asking is that you cut two feet off of it."

"No!"

"But it would look
so
much better if it wasn't dragging your whole face down. I'm thinking layers around your face, and shoulder length. And," he added slyly, "
everybody
could still read your name on the coat."

"No, Jonas. No. Not the hair."

"Yes, the hair, listen, trust me. I'm an impartial observer. Besides, you think I do this for every woman?"

"Certainly you've never done it for Dr.
Bimm
," she said slyly, and he laughed. She looked at the mirror, and it was almost like his laughing reflection helped her make up her mind.
"All right.
I'll take it. But when the board fires me for dressing like a slut, I'm moving in with you."

"Done," he said fervently. "Okay, hurry up. We've got time to hit the lingerie counter and then it'll be lunch time."

"
Lunch
time?" Dr. Barb practically shrieked, looking at her watch. "Oh, Lord! I should have been back—"

"Dr. Barb, what in the world is the use of being The Boss if you can't fuck off for a Saturday? I mean, a
Saturday
. Come on."

"You are very bad for me, Jonas," she scolded, stepping into the dressing room and (rats!) closing the door. "You are a bad, bad boy."

He leaned against the wall so he wouldn't fall down. God, he loved the older teacher type thing she had going, but when she
scolded
him! He hoped to God she didn't notice the raging boner lurking in his boxers.

"I never even let Phillip pick out my clothes," she said from the other side of the door, and laughed. "I can't imagine what he'd think of this."

"He'd think 'when did I turn into the world's biggest dumb shit?' is what he'd think."

She laughed and he heard the sound of rustling clothing. He squashed the urge to mash his ear against the door and imagine what she was putting on.
Or taking off.
"Considering the fact that you never had the pleasure of meeting him, you certainly have strong opinions about him!"