Catch of a Lifetime (4 page)

   "Okay, Angel, I know all about needing to prove yourself. But do you have any qualifications for child care? References?"

   Oh did she. Sadly, they were all Mer-related. "One of my degrees is in child studies." Human child studies, to be precise, but she knew better than to make that distinc tion. "As for references, well, word would get back and that would defeat the purpose of not calling, wouldn't it? But I do have them."

   "One of your degrees? How many do you have?"

   Angel headed down the length of the dock to where Michael was impatiently waiting for them. "Just three. Child studies, Humanol—um
sociology
, and biology."

   Logan's long legs caught him up to her quickly. "Hence the field study."

   "Correct. Oh, and a minor in basket-weaving."

   He stopped and grabbed her arm again, laughing. "Basket-weaving?"

   "Yes. What's so funny about that?" This time she didn't need a reason to yank her arm from his hand. She'd worked damn hard to get her degrees. That course had opened up a world of information about textiles and early Human craftsmanship. "It's quite fascinating." She shoved off with the right foot, toes providing momen tum. Or was it the ball of the foot? Damn, he'd made her forget the biomechanics.

   "If you find basket-weaving fascinating enough to study it, as well as have the drive to earn all those other degrees, I might have you tutor Michael instead of babysit him." This time when he caught up to her, he didn't put a hand on her, thank the gods.

   "Tutor? I don't think that would be—"

   "Relax, Angel. I was only joking. Michael's looking forward to hitting the books when school starts."

   Now it was her turn to stop him. "You hit books? Why?"

   Logan's eyebrows went up. "You've never heard that expression?"

   Oh, fish. She really had to watch her step—all of them. She plastered a smile on her face. "Now who's joking?"

   "Touché. So, we'll work out a schedule for your field study and my work. Sound good?"

   It sounded more than good. It sounded perfect. "Yes. Thank you, Logan. I won't let you and your wife down."

   "My wife?"

   "Rainbow? Michael's mother?"

   Logan rolled those brown eyes. "Rainbow, that is, Christine, is certainly not my wife, and if she hadn't signed the birth certificate she pinned to Michael's shirt before she took off, I'd be hard-pressed to call her his mother. Trust me, Angel, letting
her
down is the least of your worries."

   Michael stomped down the steps, his red sneakers flapping loudly on the planks. "Why do grown-ups al ways walk so slow? Rainbow never wants to hurry."

   Logan muttered something about Rainbow being in a hurry to get out of town, but low enough that Michael didn't hear him.

   Angel was sorry she had.

   It was one thing to have to look at him clinically as a Human subject.

   It was quite another to see him as a man.

MICHAEL CHATTED ALL THE WAY OFF THE DOCK AND BACK UP the steps, with his father patiently responding, discuss ing anything and everything. Who owned which boat in the marina, why Tony cussed so much when he didn't think Michael could hear him, what they were going to have for dinner; the little boy never seemed to run out of questions to ask. It was both interesting and beneficial to listen to the two of them.

   Interesting because Angel had wondered what Human conversations were like beyond Beach-Speak, the only dialogue she'd ever observed in the wild, and benefi cial because it gave her something to focus on rather than that near-miss of a kiss and the fact that Logan Hardington was a man.

   "You can ride in the back with me," Michael said when they approached the big, black vehicle. "Usually Rocky does, but he stayed home today. Rocky doesn't like boats."

   She'd have to thank Rocky, because she'd always wanted to ride in one of these. The purloined Jet Skis and other small watercraft her professors had had them test in the middle of the ocean were nowhere near as interesting as wheeled vehicles.

   She followed the little boy inside, mimicking his movements after he latched a belt across his chest and waist. She'd heard the reasoning behind buckling up, but, as a member of the ocean community, she had a natural aversion to being restrained by anything. But when in Atlantis… or, Florida, as the case may be.

   "I never went to a beach before Rainbow brought me here," Michael said, brushing hair out of his eyes and readjusting his hat when Logan turned on the cool air.

   Angel had heard about air-conditioning but the con cept of a man-made breeze still stumped her—not that it kept her from enjoying it. The cold air reminded her of the body-surfing trip she'd taken with friends off the coast of Greenland.

   If only she could write all of these impressions down. Her fingers were itching to get hold of the tools of her trade.

   "We had lots of snow in the winter," Michael contin ued. "I'm real good at building snow forts. I bet you're really good at sand castles, aren't you, Angel? Logan and I made one, but it fell down. Will you show me how? I want to build the biggest one ever. And we can decorate it with fish and mermaids and sharks and sea shells and everything."

   "Sure—"

   "And what about lunch?" The little boy barely paused to breathe. "Can we eat seaweed? How about clams? I've never had those. I bet they're good, huh?"

   "Actually—"

   "And tuna fish. Well, I've had lots of that and I really like it with mayonnaise but no relish. I don't like that. It's good with cheese sometimes and I like chips with it, but you have to have cranberry juice with it because orange juice tastes yucky and ruins everything. What do you want for dinner? Logan can buy us whatever you want. He got me a cheeseburger last night with extra pickles. I like pickles but not relish. How 'bout you?"

   Angel caught Logan's eyes in the mirror he looked into occasionally. Those brown eyes had been so close and so warm when they'd almost kis—

   No, dammit. She had a once-in-a-lifetime opportu nity here—and since she'd become Immortal at some point, that was a really long time. She wasn't going to blow it for a good-looking guy. Logan Hardington was a Human
and
her ticket to the job she wanted more than anything.
A-n-y-thing.

   Luckily, Michael's chatter discouraged conversation between her and her
subject
. The little boy didn't need any encouragement to keep chatting, nor did he slip up and ask her about being a mermaid. He also didn't seem to require answers. A noncommittal
hmmm
from her every now and then was an invitation to keep asking.

   She kept glancing out the windows, dozens of ques tions springing to her lips, but she didn't voice them. Logan would know something was up if she started ask ing about things he considered commonplace.

   To her, they were anything but. The world looked so different from this side of the beach. The palm trees weren't quite as tall as they looked from the water, growing next to buildings that reminded her of the walls of an undersea trench. Streets were laid out just like Atlantis, but traveling them was so different. Back home, if she wanted to go to the next street, all she had to do was swim over the buildings, but here Humans had to maneuver around them.

   Birds were the only ones who had the same kind of freedom on land as Mers had in the sea, where the shortest distance between any two points was a straight line, no matter the direction. It was an odd concept to get used to.

   And there were so many vehicles. And the noises. The smells… The refuse. So many people walking alongside the roads. Weren't they worried about getting run over?

   She looked out Michael's window. More of the same traffic. More palm trees, hedgerow after hedgerow of hibiscus and oleander, and… Wait.

   "Is
that
a real sand castle?"

   The biggest, most ornate building she'd seen so far stretched along a good portion of the road. Two staircases at the center swept up to a balcony that fed into double glass doors beneath an arched portico. Parapets and tow ers lined the roof and corners, with intricate scrollwork decorating the sand-colored façade. Three stories tall and almost as long as The Coliseum back home, with beautiful gardens out front, palm trees swaying in the breeze like sentries, the place
could
be a palace.

   She'd seen remnants of sand castles Humans had made on beaches, some incredibly large and intricate, but she'd never heard of them living in one.

   "How did they do that? How is it shored up to with stand hurricanes? Are there any more around here?" Where was her tablet, dammit?

   The Council would love to hear about this. Think of the ease of construction if they could learn the secret to building with sand. No longer would they need to con fine housing projects to the bases of islands. No more worries about the dwindling supply of Human torpedoes they'd confiscated for blasting through rock to fashion Mer homes. This would revolutionize home building. Colonies could spring up anywhere on the ocean floor. Affordable housing was another thing she wanted to pick Humans' brains about since they'd done such an amazing (though others had different words for it) job of populating the planet.

   Michael started giggling. "A sand castle? No, silly, that's a house!"

   A house?

   "They don't have anything like that in Kansas, I take it?" Logan glanced at her in the mirror again.

   Right. Kansas. "Not that I've seen, they don't." And since she'd never actually been to Kansas, that wasn't a lie.

   But it
was
one more gaffe on her part. Enough of them and Logan would rethink the babysitting position. Angel decided to keep her thoughts to herself.

   Which, luckily, with Michael around, wouldn't be an issue. He picked right back up with his chattering—this time going on about sand castles he'd made—on the beach, with real sand—and Angel just sat back and let him talk.

   Ten minutes later, Logan pulled up to a long block of stores, similar to downtown Atlantis.

   What wasn't similar was the clothing inside the first store Logan led her to. Silk, cotton, rayon, spandex… all the fabrics she collected in their soaking-wet form were now hanging in front of her, a rainbow of color from wall to wall.

   "You should be able to outfit yourself properly here, right, Angel?" Logan asked, reaching into his back pocket.

   She wasn't quite sure what constituted properly, although those dresses on the far wall looked good to her. But then she saw his wallet in his hand.

   "Logan, I can't take your currency."

   He arched an eyebrow. "Currency? Do you have another way to pay for the clothes? You can't go around wearing only my shirt. I'll take it out of your pay or something."

   Angel stifled the guilt. She had plenty of diamonds in her vault back home. She'd get him one somehow.

   "Thank you. I appreciate it." In more ways than he could know. She did not want to pass up an oppor tunity like this. Especially when she found a row of sequined cropped pants. She stroked a finger over the shiny faux-scales.

   Clothing was a relatively new concept among Mers. Many still used their long hair for covering up or the shell-and-kelp method, but that was mostly the older generations. She had a wonderful collection of Human clothing at home from sale day at the Salvager Market, but it paled in comparison to this selection. Dresses, skirts, bathing suits, shorts, tops, pants… racks and racks of everything… She'd died and gone to Shopping Olympus.

   Then she found a rack of tiny, silky shorts in vibrant colors and patterns with matching bikini tops next to them. She let the silky fabric flow through her fingers and over the back of her hand. It felt so different dry than when it was waterlogged. She loved her home, wouldn't give up the beauty of Atlantis for anything, with all the different hues of coral and patterns of brightly colored fish and the jewel-toned tails of her people, but fabric had a much better consistency out of the sea.

   "
Blech
." Michael knocked his hat sideways. "Girl stuff."

   "Girls like girl stuff, Michael," his father said, straight ening the hat. "Someday you'll be glad about that."

   "Nuh-uh. Girl stuff is yucky."

   "Not if you're a girl." Angel reached in front of him for the perfect pair of purple shorts, a few shades darker than her amethyst tail, with delicate filigree like lace coral around the edges, then held them against the tops of her legs. "What to do you think of these?"

   Michael shrugged his shoulders, but Logan turned the most interesting shade of red and walked away without a word. An odd garbled sound, but no word. Was that some Human language she wasn't familiar with?

   Michael just giggled. "Logan still doesn't know you're a mermaid, does he?"

   She shook her head. "No. And you have to remember not to say anything."

   "I won't. I promise. I always wanted my very own mermaid. I hope you get your tail back soon. I liked it."

   She was going to have to remind him about that word,
mermaid
. Mer. Period. As for the
my
part? She wasn't a pet, for Apollo's sake. "I like it too, Michael, but right now it's probably not a good—"

   "Oh, that's a lovely style," said the Human approach ing them, "but you're right, it's not exactly the best color for you. And I don't think a sixteen is the size you want." The woman took the garment and pointed to a selection beside her. "Here. This rack has your size. I would go with a softer color. Lavender, perhaps."