What's on the back of the book:Fredericka Bimm - Fred - is a mermaid. But she is not the stuff of legends. A marine biologist, she knows what's in the water so chooses not to expose herself to those toxins. She's allergic to shellfish. The sea creatures she can communicate with won't do her bidding. And she doesn't have long blonde hair or a perfect body. And she's definitely not perky!
Fred's life is mostly spent trying to conceal her origins - and lately she's been trying to figure out just why there are weird levels of pollutants in the local seawater. Then two strangers come into her life. Her new colleague is a sexy - if over-curious - hunk with a mermaid fixation. The other claims he is Artur, the high prince of the black seas - and Fred's rightful ruler!
A piece from the book:
The unbelievable horror began when Fred walked in on her parents making love on the living room coffee table. Like all children (even when grown), her first muddled impression was that her father was hurting her mother. Or perhaps fixing her back. Her second impression was that the coffee-table books (Alaska: The Last Frontier; Cape Cod: An Explorer's Guide; The Black Sea: A History) must sting like hell on her mother's knees. Her third impression sounded something like this:
"Aaaaeeeiiiiieeee!"
Her mother slipped and National Geographic's Seals of the Antartic flew like a tiddly wink from the coffee table and hit the floor with a thud. Her father flinched but, unfortunately, did not fall off (or out off) her mother.
Fred darted across the room and, before she realized what she was doing, hauled her father off and tossed him over the back of the couch. She then yanked the puke-orange throw from said couch and threw it over her mother.
"Ow," her father groaned from out of sight.
Her mother wriggled under the throw, sat up, and faced her daughter, her normally pale face flushed with wrath. Or something else Fred did not want to think about. "Fredericka Bimm, what do you think you're doing?"
"Freaking out. Losing my mind. Thinking about snapping your husband's spine. Squashing the urge to vomit. Wishing I'd died at childbirth."
"Oh, you say that when you don't get a prize in your Lucky Charms," her mother snapped. "What's your problem, miss? You don't knock anymore?" Her mother, a good-looking blonde with silver streaks and shoulder-length hair (and a disturbingly sweaty face), climbed off the coffee table with remarkable dignity, fastened the blanket to cover her chubby thighs, and went around the couch to help her husband. "You just barge in?"
"I have a key, I didn't barge," Fred pointed out, still revolted but regretting the violence. "And you told me to come over."
"Yesterday. I told you to come over yesterday."
"I was working," Fred tried not to whine, or stare. "I couldn't just ditch all the fish. Although they deserve it, the little bastards. Anyway, I couldn't come."
"Well," her mother retorted, "neither could I."
Fred again tried not to vomit, and succeeded for the moment. She peered over the couch, where her father was groaning and clutching the small of his back. His bald spot was flushed almost purple. His ponytail had come undone. "Sorry, Dad."
"Sorry, hell," he gasped. "I swear, I'll never touch her again."
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