“A small price to pay,” he said, and then he did trip, falling into her. She held him for a moment, then toppled to the rug beneath his greater height and weight. She groaned as the breath whooshed out of her lungs. “Barb? You okay?”
“You’re going to pay for that,” she said, twining her fingers in his hair and wrenching his mouth toward hers.
“I certainly hope so,” he murmured and kissed her, cupping her right breast as he did so. “For hours, I hope.”
“That’s more up to you than me,” she said into his mouth, then squealed as he pinched her.
Thirty-five
Thomas Pearson, M.D., Ph.D., and BIHSY-DWTMW (Boy In High School You Didn’t Want To Mess With), pulled up to Fred’s opulent rental house (man, this place really isn’t her)
and killed the engine. As if seeing Fred wasn’t stressful enough, today he had to contend with the captain. Man, if anybody but Fred had asked . . .
It was so stressful, in fact, that he tended to leave Fred’s place at dawn and sulk in the Starbucks down the street. And he didn’t have a key, which meant waking the house when he returned. Maybe Fred would answer, possibly nude . . .
He tried to shove that out of his mind as he approached the front door. Fred wasn’t his, was never his, would never be his. She was going to marry Artur, and who could blame her?
Artur could show her a world he never, ever could. The guy was a prince, for God’s sake. And could know a side of Fred that Thomas could never relate to—Fred was, after all, only half human. She would be cheating herself and her father’s heritage by starting a relationship with plain ordinary human Dr. Pearson, and Thomas knew that perfectly well.
Also, he was a fucking coward.
He rapped on the door.
Yep, a coward, a yellow-belly asshole, most definitely, yes, sir, and yes, ma’am, no argument, no question. How many times had he scuttled out of town because he knew he wasn’t good enough for her? And when Artur moved in, how many times had Thomas fled the fucking country so he wouldn’t have to watch the courtship close up? Knowing, always knowing, that whether he stayed or left, the end result would have been the same.
(but you didn’t even try you didn’t even)
He ignored the irritating inner voice. His father’s voice, so quick to point out shortcomings, so quick to spot weakness.
Jesus, he’d even tried to substitute Tennian for her, and that had worked for about eight whole seconds. It was stupid of him and horribly unfair to Tennian, and it hadn’t taken him long at all (eight seconds, in fact) to determine that he and Tennian would only, always be friends. Just friends. To her credit, Tennian had never tried to push it further
(Why would she? When she, like Fred, could have any man?)
and he was grateful for that.
He’d been gone on Fred even before he knew she was a mermaid—sorry, Undersea Folk. If Artur hadn’t killed the sadistic fuck who’d shot her, he would have taken care of it himself. As it was, jamming his knife into her shoulder to get the bullet out was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do.
So hard, in fact, that he had avoided her more or less regularly ever since. Because if he felt that way on such short acquaintance, how might he feel—how much would it hurt—to fall even more in love? What if he had to hurt her again to save her?
He still had nightmares about it. Fred, shot. Artur, holding her down so he could dig out the bullet. Fred, screaming.
Screaming.
He pounded harder. That was no way to be thinking. That was past, it was done, and he was here now because she needed his help and, by God, he was going to do everything he could to—
A yawning Jonas opened the door. “What? D’you know what time it is? Jeez.”
“It’s oh-eight-twenty,” Thomas replied, “and the captain will be here at oh-eight-thirty.”
“Seriously?”
“You can set your fucking watch,” he said glumly. “And good morning to you, too.”
“Not a morning person, so kindly drop dead and disintegrate into a thousand tiny pieces.” Jonas stepped back so Thomas could enter.
Thomas liked Jonas a lot. In another world—a world where he could be around Fred every day without destroying himself or ruining her life—they could have been best friends. Jonas did not take himself at all seriously, a quality Thomas greatly admired. He also loved Fred—a quality Thomas could relate to.
But, even though they weren’t best friends, he was fond enough of the guy to poke him in the gut as he passed him.
“Keep your hands off my rock-hard abs, shithead,” Jonas said warmly.
“Rock hard? For a second I mistook you for the Pillsbury Doughboy. Hee-hee!”
“Lies,” Jonas yawned, “from a teeny, envious mind.”
That was a little too close to the truth, even if Jonas didn’t know it. “Is Fred up?”
“Up and in the pool since oh-God-thirty this morning. She’s been sulking on the bottom of the deep end for the last hour or so.”
“Great.” Oh, Lord, she would be in her tail, her glorious, gorgeous, amazing tail, and her unbelievably fine tits would be bare and her taut stomach would—“Uh, could I have some coffee?” To throw in my face so I can keep my mind on business?
“In the kitchen.” Jonas stretched. He was wearing Opus the Penguin pajama bottoms and nothing else. “I guess I better get dressed if your dad’s on the way.”
“Why? You don’t have to be there.”
“What? And miss meeting The Thing That Spawned Thomas Pearson? No chance, pal.”
Thomas laughed. His father would assume, as nearly everyone did, that Jonas was gay. When, in fact, Jonas was merely the most metrosexual fellow on the planet. Well, that was fine. Anything that irritated the captain was fine.
“Hey, will you give me an address where you actually pick up mail?” Jonas asked on his way back up the stairs. “We have no idea where to send the wedding invitation.”
“Send it care of my publisher,” he suggested. A navy brat, Thomas felt itchy if he was in the same place more than nine months. Funny, since when he was a kid he swore he’d pick one spot and never move again. He’d moved eighteen times since he became the legal drinking age. “They can always track me down. I’ll e-mail you their address.”
“Great, Priscilla.” Jonas yawned and continued up the stairs. “See if you can haul Fred out of the pool, will ya? And Artur’s gonna be here any minute.”
“No doubt,” he muttered and went through the sliding door and down the stairs to the pool.
Thirty-six
Yup, there she was, at the bottom of the pool. But she wasn’t sulking in the deep end. She was swimming back and forth, back and forth; it was almost hypnotic. She was so strong that it took just a few flicks of her tail to carom to the other end of the pool—which was Olympic-sized. Facedown. Back and forth. Flick. Flick. Turn. Back and forth.
She was thinking about something. Thinking hard. He almost hated to disturb her, but the captain would need to talk to her and Artur.
He knelt and lightly slapped his palm on the surface of the water. He could barely hear the splash, but she flipped over at once, spotted him, and shot to the surface.
“Morning.”
“Hi,” he replied, then realized his voice had actually cracked. Christ, he always felt sixteen years old when he was around her. He coughed. “Hi,” he said in a much more baritone-esque tone.
She bobbed out of the water, crossed her forearms on the cement, and rested her chin on her left wrist. “Say. I never thanked you. For yesterday, at the aquarium.”
“No big.”
“It was a ‘big.’ To me.”
He shrugged. “Can’t blame you for not wanting to show your boobs to a bunch of tourists, although, if I can offer a professional medical opinion, they’re probably the third-finest set in the country.”
“Third?” she cried with mock outrage, and splashed him. “You dog. How much research have you done in this field, exactly?”
/> “I almost went into plastic surgery,” he lied, and grinned down at her. “Listen, sorry to interrupt your ruminating—”
“Oooh, someone’s been using Word a Day toilet paper again.”
“Off my back, doctor. The Captain’s going to be here any minute.”
She was staring at him thoughtfully and he noticed, again, that her eyes were the color of creamy jade. He had heard her refer to them as “the hideous tinge of Brussels sprouts” and wondered, for the zillionth time, why beautiful women never knew they were beautiful.
“You did it again,” she said after a long moment.
Tell me, tell me she’s not reading my mind.
“Did what?” he asked with feigned lightness.
“Called your dad ‘captain.’ I call my dad Farrem, but I’ve known him less than a week.”
Thomas shrugged and started to stand. Quicker than thought—than his eyes could even track—one of her hands shot out and grasped his wrist with the strength that never, ever failed to surprise him.
She could snap my wrist without breaking a sweat. But she would never. And she doesn’t even know how marvelous that makes her on a planet where you can get knifed for the five-dollar bill in your pocket.
Artur will tell her, he tried to comfort himself. He’ll tell her how great she is every day.
“I didn’t realize,” she admitted. “When Artur and I thought about asking you to call your dad. I didn’t know you didn’t have a, um, loving-type relationship.”
He shrugged. “How could you?”
“But you called him anyway.”
“Sure.”
She shook her head and smiled and released his wrist. Thank God, because his fingers were starting to lose all sensation. “You’re too good, Thomas. You were a dope to let Tennian go.”
“There was never anything to let her out of,” he explained (again). “Ask her.”
“No chance . . . she might bring that Wennd girl around again.”
“Oh, my God,” he said, staring up at the sky. “The eyes. The hair. Could you believe it?”
“I know! I felt like El Frumpo just being in the same room with her. Did you believe how shy she was? She was actually nervous to meet us. Us! And we’re completely harmless!”
Thomas, who had a somewhat more objective view of Fred and her gang, said nothing.
“Speaking of difficult fathers, I had a really cool conversation with mine,” she said and laid it out for him in about five minutes.
“So he got rich? He owns a fleet? And multiple houses on land?” Thomas shook his head, smiling. “Not bad for the traitor of his people.”
“Tell me. And he’s getting out of town pretty soon, too. He’s worried that him being around will be a constant goad to the old guard. That it’ll threaten my throne, if you can believe it.”
“Thirty years is a long sentence.”
“And it’s not over yet. He’s still banished from Undersea Folk society. But even the king couldn’t banish him from land. But I think you’re forgetting something. Thirty years is nothing to a UF. It’s a Sunday afternoon. It’s a sick day.”
“Point,” he admitted. He glanced at his watch, and she noticed.
“All right, I’m coming.” She started to heave herself up and Thomas handed her the robe on the lawn chair, politely (and reluctantly) averting his eyes as he did so. He’d seen her breasts a few times, but only when she had a tail. “I better throw some clothes on before ‘the captain’ gets here.”
“That would be nice,” he agreed.
Thirty-seven
Captain Pearson pulled up to the unbelievably showy mini-mansion and shut off the car. He glanced at his watch: oh-eight-thirty.
He got out. Marched up the walk. Rapped precisely three times on the front door, automatically making sure his slacks and shirt were neat, his shoes shined. His hair, military short, needed no adjustment, despite the mild breeze.
His boy had called and he had come.
The boy never called.
The boy was all he had of his dear wife, cruelly snatched away by breast cancer forty-two months and eighteen days ago.
The boy did not like him and was quite correct to feel that way. He, Capt. James T. Pearson (ret.), decorated veteran of the Vietnam conflict, had been a shit father.
He hoped to have a chance to make up for the past. For his carelessness and close-mindedness and cruel comments. Because his wife had been right all along, and he was just a stubborn old man who had made too many mistakes.
The door opened, and there he stood. His boy, tall and strong and handsome—so handsome! With (oh, God) his mother’s eyes staring out at him.
Book smart, too, plenty smart—a doctor! Two kinds of doctor, actually. And he wrote silly stories for the fun of it and even though it was just a hobby, the boy had turned it into a seven-figure-a-year income. In his spare time! The captain had tried to read one of the stories and didn’t care for it, but plenty of other people sure seemed to. He had researched the romance—what did they call it? The romance genre. He’d been astounded to discover it was a billion-dollar industry . . . and his boy had cleverly tapped into it.
Whenever he had to fly somewhere, he always checked the airport bookstores and was always pleased to find one or more of the boy’s stories on a shelf.
Once, it had seemed so vitally important that the boy serve his country. It seemed like a slap in America’s face when the boy had gotten a scholarship and gone to medical school. He had not spoken to the boy for many years.
He had thought the boy frivolous and silly and maybe, maybe even a coward.
He was a stupid old man.
“Hello, Captain.”
And, even though he was stupid, he would never show the boy how much it hurt to be called captain by the only son he would ever have . . . the only living reminder of his wife. Because he had it coming, all that and more.
How arrogant he had been to think that he would never have to pay for his sins. That the past didn’t have teeth.
“Good morning, Thomas. May I come in?”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain followed the boy into a large room that seemed to be a combination kitchen/dining room/living room. An exuberant blond fellow was fairly bouncing down the stairs, heading straight for them.
“Hey, hi there!” The man—compact and muscular, with a friendly smile—extended a hand. “I’m Jonas Carrey, I’m a friend of your son’s. It’s great to meet you.”
The captain shook hands. “Hello, Mr. Carrey. I’m James Pearson.”
“So, you really unleashed the thing that is Thomas upon the world? And you own up to it and everything?”
The captain was startled into laughter and, from the look on the boy’s face, he wasn’t the only one who was startled. “Yes, Mr. Carrey. I freely admit to it. He is my son. Fortunately, he takes after his mother.”
The boy raised his eyebrows.
“It’s Jonas, Captain Pearson. Thomas said you earned about a thousand medals in Vietnam, and led men into battle, and you were always the last one in retreat, and you saved a whole bunch of soldiers.” Mr. Carrey actually gasped for breath after this recitation.
The captain, shocked, glanced at the boy, who shrugged. He had no idea Thomas ever spoke of him, much less in complimentary terms he did not deserve.
“I did what I could for my country,” he replied carefully. “That’s the best any soldier can hope for.”
“Spoken like a man used to kicking ass. I like you, Captain Pearson, despite the fact that you fathered Thomas, here, who’s irritating in almost as many ways as my friend Fred. If you’re in town long enough, you ought to come to my wedding.”
What an interesting and—yes, it was true—odd man. Wedding? Jonas had seemed so bouncy and, er, overly friendly, the captain had assumed . . . Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he was wrong about one of Thomas’s friends.
“You’re very kind. Perhaps I will, if my schedule allows.”
“Lots
of cake,” Jonas wheedled. “You want some coffee?”
“Please.”
Jonas bounced toward the kitchen, leaving the captain alone with the boy.
“You’re looking well,” he said after an uncomfortable silence.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I was surprised to hear from you.”
“No doubt, sir. Thank you,” the boy said formally, “for coming so quickly.”
“I was intrigued.” Inwardly, the captain cursed himself for lying. Or at least not telling the whole truth. Yes, he had been intrigued. But he would have come no matter what the boy’s request.
“Have you—have you had a chance to visit your mother’s grave recently?”
“Yes,” the boy said distantly.
“She, uh, always liked irises. Maybe sometime, we could—”
“Hi,” a female voice said, and the captain glanced over the boy’s shoulder.
Ah. The famous Fredrika Bimm. A doctor, like his boy. But not a real doctor—she was a scientist.
A damned good-looking one, too. The hair—such an unusual color! And green eyes—true green, not hazel. Tall and slender, neatly dressed in a button-down shirt and khaki shorts. Bare feet. There was something fresh and vital about her, something he couldn’t help responding to, even though he was an old man.
He wished, again, that his poor wandering boy would settle down in one place and find someone to love, start a family. The boy deserved more family than he currently had: which was, of course, just the captain.
“Dr. Bimm,” he said and tried not to wince when she shook his hand. Holy hell, she’s strong! This was his first experience with a mermaid, though they’d certainly been all over the news lately. He’d been following the stories quite carefully. The military applications alone were so exciting, it was—
But then, that was why he was here, wasn’t it?
“Captain Pearson. Thanks a lot for coming. We’re just waiting on Prince Artur and then we can get started.”
“The one who wanted the meeting is late?” he said, more sharply than he intended.