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.”