Fish Out of Water

by MaryJanice Davidson

  You would think.

  Oh, and I met with that reporter from Time.

  Ah, thank you. I have no liking for your press and nor does my good father the king. It is best left to those who understand them.

  Fred snorted.

  I know that sound! You think my father has chosen wrong. You always think, when complimented, that the other is wrong.

  Fred had to admit the redheaded SOB understood her pretty well. It was as irritating as it was flattering.

  I just wish it was over with, you know? The wedding. All the press junk. I wish we could go back to our lives.

  So do all who are called to greatness, Little Rika.

  Called to greatness! she shrieked in his head, giggling like a madwoman. Oh! That’s too good, Artur! That’s too damned funny!

  He seized her by the hands, surprising her into choking off her laughter. He was gazing down at her with his intense, ruby gaze. His chest was so broad it filled her world; his face, so handsome and intent, filled her heart. Or someplace lower.

  Little Rika, it has been my honor to have you at my side these many months. You have done—as I knew you would—great things for my people. You have given up much to be our liaison. And I have watched you with great pride. But I must press for a more formal arrangement. I ask—I need—you to be my mate, and One Day Queen.

  One Day Queen? Her thoughts were such a whirl, she sought refuge in sarcasm. Does that mean I’d be the queen one day, or queen for only one d—

  He stopped her thoughts—no easy trick—with a kiss. A long one. A kiss that left her bruised and wanting more and confused and horny and sad and lonesome, all at once.

  Artur! Haven’t you been listening to a thing I’ve said? I hate wedding planning! My litany of bitching prompted you to ask me to marry you? How the hell does your mind work, anyway?

  I have long wanted to ask you, my Rika. I do not think this comes as a surprise to you.

  Well. Not really. He certainly hadn’t made any secret of the fact that he wanted to marry her, that he loved her

  (like Thomas, he said the same thing and then he left)

  and wanted to be with her, always. She had just made the natural assumption that the more he got to know her, the less he would want her. It was perfectly logical.

  Artur, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m really flattered. And pretty much any woman on the planet—tail or legs—would be lucky to get you. I just—I’m not sure I’m the right girl for you. Although, now that she was in her early thirties, “girl” wasn’t quite accurate. Except maybe it was, because Artur, who didn’t look a day over twenty-five, was actually well into his sixties. Undersea Folk lived long and aged slow.

  I beg you to think of it, at least. I do not require your answer this moment, though it would please me as nothing else has. I will wait for you, my Rika, as long as you require.

  If you’re willing to wait, then I’m willing to give it serious thought, she told him, abruptly squeezing him around the waist. She rested her head against his shoulder and he stroked her short green hair. Serious thought.

  Then I remain content, he said and kissed her again.

  A new start, she thought, kissing him back, and why not? Thomas had Tennian, Jonas had Dr. Barb—where was her chance for happiness? Right in front of her?

  Maybe so.

  Eleven

  Fred popped out onto the deck and walked through her backyard to the pool area, where Jonas was lounging on a patio chair with Modern Bride and carefully ignoring her.

  She sighed. Jonas in a sulk was about as fun as curdled milk.

  She coughed. “Hi.”

  “Not speaking to you,” he said, angrily flipping pages. “As best men go, you suck.”

  “I know.”

  “Suck, suck, suck.” Each “suck” was punctuated by another turn of the page. “In every possible way, you—Oooh! Now there’s a floral arrangement I can live with.”

  “Jonas—”

  “Not speaking to you.”

  “Listen, I really need to talk to you.”

  “Listen, I really am not speaking to you. And put some clothes on, wouldya? You’ve got neighbors.”

  “Artur asked me to marry him.”

  Modern Bride went flying in one direction, Jonas’s sandal in another as he lunged out of the chair. “What? He did? When?” He clutched his temples and writhed as if on the receiving end of a shock treatment. “Oh, my God! Two weddings! I get to plan a royal frigging wedding! The guest list! The location! The clothes! And your mom! Moon Bimm is going to freak out!”

  “Jonas—”

  “Let’s see, it’ll have to be somewhere regular people and Undersea Folk can go to, and the food will have to—”

  “Jonas. I haven’t said yes yet,” she said, rummaging around in the large plastic chest beneath the porch and extracting a robe. She shrugged into it and plopped down in a poolside chair. “I’m not sure it’s the right thing to—”

  “Grab him, you idiot!”

  “You don’t have to scream.”

  Jonas groaned and nearly plummeted into the deep end. “Fred, today’s the day. It’s finally happened. I’m officially going to kill you. And it’s not going to be quick and painless, either, the way I always imagined it. It’s going to be long and hideously drawn out, like a bingo tournament.”

  Fred stifled a yawn. Not even lunchtime, and she was already exhausted. Also, Jonas informed her “today was the day” about every other week.

  He was now pacing back and forth in front of her, limping a bit as he was wearing only one sandal. “Let’s see, you don’t want to marry Artur because . . . um . . . let’s see, you don’t want to be a princess? And eventually a queen?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “Moron!” he hissed. “Think of all the people you could help! You could change the world, dumb shit! And the jewelry, think of the jewelry.”

  “Because I care so much about the perfect charm bracelet.”

  “Let’s see, what else? You . . . don’t want the love of a gorgeous hunk who thinks you’re beyond swell? Who’ll literally treat you like a queen? You don’t want all the Undersea Folk to have to be nice to you, even the ones who have been real assholes? You don’t want to settle down in time to have kids? You don’t—”

  “You’re going supersonic and shrieky. Soon only dogs will hear your litany of abuse.”

  His teeth came together with a click and she knew, in his mind, he’d just chomped on her nose. “You know what your problem is?”

  “I have tons,” she admitted.

  “Goddamned right! The big one right now is that you’re a commitment-phobe.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Don’t try to deny it! You—Oh. Okay. Well, admitting you’ve got a problem is the first step.”

  “I’m not sure I see myself marrying a merman and living in the Black Sea and being a queen and giving birth to princes and princesses and—I just don’t know if that’s the life I’m supposed to have.”

  “Oh, no. You’re supposed to die smelly and alone, mourned only by your forty cats.”

  “I hate cats.”

  “When you’re an old lady (and alone) you’ll love ’em. Think that’s the big plan for your forever after?”

  “I don’t know the plan,” she said patiently. “That’s the problem.”

  “That’s not the only problem,” Jonas muttered. He stopped in mid-pace and spun to face her. “Waaaaait a minute. This doesn’t have anything to do with Priscilla D’Jacqueline, does it?”

  “Don’t be a dumbass.”

  “It does! It totally does!”

  “And don’t call him that.”

  “Hey, it’s not my fault he writes romance novels under a silly-ass pen name.”

  It was true. Thomas Pearson, M.D., Ph.D., marine biologist and bestselling romance novelist Priscilla D’Jacqueline. He carried Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style. And a switchblade.

  Complicated fellow.

  �
��Artur’s proposal and Thomas are separate issues.”

  “Ha-ha-haaaaaaa.”

  “It’s true,” she insisted. “Thomas made his choice. He left . . . more than once, if my math is correct—and you’ll recall it’s always correct.”

  “Don’t be showing off, Dr. Bimm.”

  “You know I pretty much wrote him off after Tennian got shot and he went all Florence Nightingale on her. They deserve their Happily Ever After.”

  “I know you said you wrote him off. You also say you’re a lousy liar, but I’m not so sure about that one. Especially when it comes to your love life. Anybody can lie to themselves.”

  “Not only am I not in love with Thomas Pearson”—she sighed—“I’m not even sure we’re friends. And even if I was in love with him—which I’m not—he’s not free to make a commitment. And I’m not sure I’d trust him to stick around if he was. He’s really bad at it.”

  Then, like a genie conjured from a bottle, Thomas Pearson strolled around the side of the house, whistling. He brightened when he saw her and said, “Who’s really bad at what?”

  “Awesome!” Jonas chortled. “Now it’s gonna get good.”

  Twelve

  Fred stared at the apparition dressed in a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up; khaki shorts; loafers without socks (hi, folks, remember the 80s?); diving watch; and no other jewelry (Tennian hasn’t dragged him to the altar, or the Undersea Folk equivalent?). Ridiculously tan—but then, Thomas was never one to skulk in a lab. He was an outdoor boy, which she couldn’t help respect despite the—

  Oh, stop it!

  And tall, very tall—he had a good three inches on her, and she was a healthy six feet—with what most people would call brown hair. She called it russet with gold and red highlights. Never to his face, of course. Hardly ever even to herself, but she had to admit that in his own way, his hair was as interesting as hers . . . and he, at least, didn’t have hair of a freakish hue.

  The more time he spent in the sun, the lighter it got, and from the way the sun was glinting off his hair, he’d been spending a great deal of time outside indeed.

  Sure. Following Tennian’s luscious butt hither and yon.

  It was longer than usual—he normally kept it short and neat, but now it curled almost to his shoulders, and his golden-brown bangs hung in his face. He flipped them back with a jerk of his head and grinned at her.

  Brown eyes—again, not just brown. Brown with (sigh) gold flecks. Flecks that twinkled at her whenever he was grinning, just as he was now. Flecks that—oh, Christ, now she sounded like one of his silly-ass romance novels! (Fred was a fan of science journals and true crime stories; Small Sacrifices was, in her opinion, one of the finest glimpses into the mind of a sociopath she had ever seen.)

  To compensate for the mad feeling that things were still spinning beyond her control, she took refuge behind her temper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He burst out laughing. “I had a bet with myself—you’d either say, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ or, ‘How the hell did you find out where I live?’ Or possibly, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be the hell in the Black Sea?’ ”

  “Hey, Thomas.” Jonas stuck out a hand, and Thomas crossed the patio in three long strides and shook it. “Long time no, et cetera. Should’ve guessed since Tennian’s around you wouldn’t be far behind.”

  “Oh, she is?” he said vaguely. Then, more briskly, “So what were you two talking about? Looked like life and death from your expressions.”

  Fred waved a hand, her pulse finally getting back under control after the shock of seeing him. She’d hardly heard what he said . . . only the last comment had really penetrated. “More interviews and crap. Jonas is the wall I wail to.”

  Jonas leered and looked pleased at the same time, like a man with a bellyache who’d gobbled five antacids.

  “Yeah, I saw your picture in People last week. You cut your hair!” He was staring, and smiling, at her chin-length strands.

  “All of ’em,” she replied. “Also, Jonas is planning his wedding down here.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes and plopped into a patio chair opposite her. “Oh-oh! That makes you—what? Best—let’s see, not best man . . . best woman? Best grump? Best bitch?”

  Ignoring Jonas’s haw-haw, she snapped, “How’d you like to get knocked into the Gulf?”

  He propped his tanned legs up on a patio table and stretched his arms behind his head. “Ah, any excuse to have your hands on me.”

  “I forgot what a big bag of flirt you are.”

  “But I didn’t forget what a cutie you are.”

  “Oh, gawd!” Jonas groaned. “Can’t you two just do it and get it over with?”

  Thomas laughed long at that one, as if it were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Fred found it less amusing. Okay, not amusing at all. Okay, the polar opposite of amusing.

  “Anyway,” Thomas continued, as if she had the teensiest care about what brought him to her rental, “since I can’t turn on a television or pick up a newspaper without reading about Undersea Folk or seeing your picture, I thought I’d head down here once I finished my last book. And here you are! Also, this is a small island and everybody knows you’re staying here.”

  “Great,” she grumped. “Just what I need.”

  “Aw, you know you’re a Miss Congeniality at heart.” He yawned. “So, can I crash here? What does this place have, nine bedrooms?”

  “Hardly.” Oh, this was too damned much. Stress upon stress upon stress and Thomas fucking Pearson as her new roommate. Not to mention Tennian. Fred could already picture finding long blue strands in her hair-brush. “It’s smaller than it looks. On the outside.”

  “The soul of hospitality, no matter how heavy her duties.”

  Jonas cleared his throat, which did nothing to alleviate the tension Fred was drowning in. “Hey, check this. I might not be the only one getting married—Artur proposed!”

  “To Fred?”

  “No, to Dick Cheney. Yeah, to Fred.”

  Thomas stiffened in, Fred assumed, genuine surprise. “Artur asked Fred to marry him?” He looked right at her, no twinkle at all in those big brown eyes. “What’d you say?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “So. I’ll just go inside and pick a bedroom, then. My stuff’s around the front of the house.”

  “But I haven’t said you could—”

  He got up out of the chair and stalked around the corner of the house.

  “Well.” Jonas coughed again. “And here I thought things might start to settle down a bit.” Then, “Dammit! I completely forgot I’m not speaking to you.”

  “You always do.” She sighed and wondered which was the more practical decision: kick Thomas out of her house, hide on the bottom of the pool, or jump into the Gulf and head for Cuba.

  Well, shit.

  She followed him in.

  Thirteen

  She had thrown open her (rented) front door and caught Thomas halfway up the steps.

  “Look, Pearson, I never said you could—”

  “Are you really going to be a princess? And eventually a queen?”

  “Actually, the queen’s been dead for several years, so—”

  “Fred. Cut the shit.”

  She stared at him and tried to find an answer. Good damn luck. “I’m thinking it over.” Not that it’s any of your business. “Jonas reminded me that Artur would treat me, quite literally, like a queen.” Not that it’s any of your business. “Guys like that are hard to come by.”

  He smiled sourly.

  “Well.” She bristled. “They are.”

  He squinted at her from the sixth stair. “And that’s what you want? Royalty? A title? A kingdom?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want,” she admitted. “But Artur and I—we get on, you know. He’s shown me things I could never have seen—Shit, I don’t have to tell you, I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of
things with Tennian.” Besides her tits. “And I won’t deny that it’s tempting.”

  Sure. You bet it was tempting. If for no other reason than she wouldn’t have to watch Tennian and Thomas slobber all over each other and make li’l hybrids.

  “Can’t blame you for that one. He’s a good man,” Thomas said slowly. He had stopped his upward descent and now sat on the stairs, chin cupped in one hand. “It’s a good offer. And like you said, he can show you things, and give you things, no one else on the planet can.”

  “Yes.”

  “No one would blame you for saying yes, least of all me.”

  “You’ve always liked him,” she admitted, shutting the door. Jonas, no doubt, would sulk by the pool, giving them the privacy they needed. Or he’d pretend to sulk, which resulted in the same thing.

  “Yes. Liked him, admired him, resented him, wanted to beat him, respected him, tormented him, fed him.” They both grinned, remembering the trip to Faneuil Hall two years ago when Artur had ordered one of everything—or so it had seemed.

  Thomas’s smile faded and he sighed, a dreadful sound like dead leaves careening down into a sewer. “You should give it some thought.”

  Why did he sound so strange? “I am.”

  “Well.” He wouldn’t look at her. Why wasn’t he looking at her? “That seems pretty sensible.”

  “Sensible was never my problem.”

  He smiled. “No.”

  “Saying ‘no’ these days seems to be my problem.”

  He laughed at her.

  “I’m serious. I’ve talked to so many reporters, when I had better things to do, that I’ve lost count.”

  “Well. The king will be pleased.”

  “Yes. How long,” she said, “were you planning on staying?

  “I dunno,” he said vaguely. “Until there’s nothing left to see or hear, I s’pose.”

  “Thanks for being so specific. And Tennian? Will she be shacking up in your room?”

  “Tennian is a darling.” Fred tried not to flinch. “And will do what she likes; it’s her nature. She’s an amazing mer—uh, woman.”