6

Logan tilted his head to the side, studying her. “You want to prove something to them.”

It wasn’t a question, but it was so right on the cur-rency that Angel grabbed it with both hands. “Right. They think I can’t do this, and if not for that damn shark, I could have proved them wrong in a tailfli—in a heartbeat.”

All of which was true—if slightly skewed.

Logan studied her another moment or two, his eyes narrowing, and Angel refused to remember how they’d darkened when he’d almost kissed her… or, rather, when she’d imagined he’d almost kissed her.

Oh, Zeus. Let it go already. If she wanted to be taken seriously in the Mer scientific community, the last thing she needed was to swim down that stream about a Human. With The Council’s, and most of the Mer popu-lation’s, prejudice against all things Human, her obser-vations would be tossed aside as lovesick musings. She pulled her arm from his grasp—and ignored the sudden chill that raced over her skin.

“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.