Bloom grinned and kissed her cheek. "Becky, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Call the employment agency," she said simply.

"Not possible. You're irreplaceable."

"And you're late to start the show."

He looked at the clock on his BlackBerry. "Shit! I've got to hit the Porta Potti before we start." And he rushed off without another word.

JAMES RED BIRD sipped bottled water and watched Garrett Bloom's blond assistant. She showed enviable legs beneath the hem of her skirt, and a fine, firm bosom. She wouldn't likely turn to fat after childbirth the way his own wife had, he mused. Of course, she also probably wouldn't be as gullible as Helen Red Bird; few women, of any race, were. Or perhaps, since he was always traveling, Helen was just too tired from rearing three kids essentially as a single parent to put up much of a fight. He considered himself a reasonably faithful husband, but when the right morsel crossed his path, he wasn't above sampling the fare. And Bloom's assistant looked delectable.

Bloom emerged from one of the blue portable toilets and walked over to Red Bird. Red Bird nodded toward the blonde and asked, even though he knew, "Who's that again?"

"My assistant, Becky," Bloom said. "You've met her before."

"Oh, yeah. She's very pretty."

"She is that. And I can trust her, which is worth a lot more."

"But *very pretty' isn't bad...."

Bloom caught his tone. "Do not turn your Great Plains charm on that one, Jim, I mean it. I need her close to me, not distracted by the noble savage. Don't make me open a can of Great Spirit Whoop-Ass on you."

Red Bird grinned. "I cannot begin to tell you how many actionable offensive statements you just uttered, but I bet my tribal lawyer can."

"I'll see you in court, then. Now make yourself available for photo ops, will you? People need to remember you if our plan is going to work. In the meantime, I have to get this show on the road."

Red Bird bumped fists with Bloom, and the activist went off to coax the mayor to the lectern. Red Bird continued to mingle, but kept a surreptitious eye on Becky as she spoke into her Bluetooth and worked her iPhone's touch screen. He wondered if her skin was as smooth everywhere as it seemed to be on her calves.

BECKY FINISHED SENDING an email on her iPhone, then turned and let out a little yelp of shock. Her older sister, Rachel, stood right behind her. They both froze; neither had expected to see the other here.

Finally Rachel said, "This is a surprise."

"An unpleasant one for you, I'm sure," Becky snapped.

Rachel patiently ignored her tone and turned to the girl beside her. "Becky, this is my friend Patty Patilia. Patty, this is my sister, Rebecca."

"Nice to meet you," Patty said with a nod. "I've heard a lot about you."

"No doubt," Becky said disdainfully.

"All good, I promise," Patty said with a forced laugh.

Becky suddenly recognized Patty's name. "Wait, you were another victim of that crazy tattoo artist, weren't you?"

Patty nodded. "Your sister saved my life."

"Oh, she's always trying to save people," Becky said bitterly.

Rachel forced a smile. "Well, good to see you, Becky. We'll let you get back to work."

"What makes you think I'm working?"

"You're backstage, you're dressed up, and you have a Bluetooth," Rachel said patiently.

"Yes, well ... enjoy the ceremony." With that, Becky turned and walked away.

PATTY LEANED CLOSE to Rachel. "She seems very tense."

"She was born that way," Rachel said drily. But she shivered despite the heat as a premonition of danger rippled through her. Becky's slender feminine form, weaving among these powerful men, suddenly looked very vulnerable. And as she'd repeatedly demonstrated throughout her life, she had no capacity for recognizing imminent disaster. When they were children, Rachel had protected her as best she could; now no one looked out for her.

"It must be hard on you," Patty said.

Rachel shrugged. "It is what it is."

Patty noticed the flow of people out of the backstage area. "I think we're getting ready to start. I'll see you after my number, okay?"

"Okay," Rachel said. "Break a leg."

Patty scampered off, and Rachel joined the nonparticipants as they filed out to watch the show.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I'd like to thank you for coming to our little ceremony today," Garrett Bloom said into the microphone. He stood at the lectern and looked out at the motley crowd, waiting for their polite applause to die down. Hippie commerce continued at the booths, as the merchants showed no inclination to listen to speeches.

Mayor Ciarimataro had introduced Bloom following his own comments about the importance of community efforts, the verbiage all recycled from his reelection speeches. He called the center a "boon to its neighborhoods" and claimed the effort was actually part of his own long-range plan to revitalize neglected parts of the city. Bloom sat quietly through this, smiling and nodding along. The mayor could certainly claim credit, as long as he remembered it the next time Bloom came to him with a project.

"This new community center," Bloom now continued, "replaces an institution symbolic of society's past neglect of its most vulnerable members. It will be a beacon to the citizens of the isthmus, reminding us that neighborhoods still exist, and that moving forward into the future doesn't have to mean destroying the fabric of the past." There was more polite applause at this, one of his best-traveled tropes.

He glanced back at the dignitaries. The mayor and aldermen had on their public faces, but Ethan Walker looked uncomfortable. Inwardly, Bloom sighed; he'd picked Walker for his media-friendly status as a veteran and a local, but it was clear he'd have to work extra hard to get the man polished if he had no more public grace than this.

RACHEL STOOD NEAR the front of the stage and tried not to look at Ethan. She also tried to ignore the presence of Julie Schutes off to one side, listening intently as she scrawled notes. And she fought the urge to search for Becky behind the yellow fence. Which left her with nothing to focus on except Garrett Bloom's speech.

"And now, before we have the actual breaking of ground, I'm proud to present local musician Patty Patilia," Bloom said. He gestured dramatically as she emerged from backstage, carrying her guitar.

Patty stepped up to the same microphone and adjusted it to her height. Then she strummed a chord and began to sing.

Her song, "Give Thanks to the Waters," was about the need to respect the lakes and not treat them as trash receptacles. She rhymed "sturgeon" with "bludgeon," making it work vocally. She was preaching to the choir for most of the audience, and if the presence of the political bigwigs behind her made her nervous, it didn't show.

When she finished, the applause was polite, with pockets of genuine enthusiasm. Patty bowed slightly and said, "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And now I'll turn things back over to-"

She was interrupted by a woman's startled scream.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE CRY RANG out across the park and silenced all conversation. It even startled a flock of birds from one of the big cottonwood trees. Everyone turned to find its source.

Then Patty, from her elevated position, muttered, "Oh my goodness." The microphone picked it up, and everyone followed her gaze.

A man stood at the very edge of the water, his back to the lake. Two huge trees framed him as if he were a statue in a shrine, and the sunlight glistened from his wet skin. His body was sculpted like some Greek god's, and his face was sharp-featured and aristocratic. He was bronzed and dark, with the unmistakable hues of Native American ancestry. At first he appeared to be naked and carnally impressive, but a second glance showed it was really one end of his wet loincloth hanging almost to his knees.

The only thing that spoiled the Native American effect was his hair. It was long, straight, and snowy white. The wind blew it back from his face, dramatically highlighting a sharp widow's peak.

He remained perfectly still, hands on his hips and chin high. If the scrutiny affected him, it didn't show. Rachel had the same thought as every other woman present: I bet he's used to being stared at. Certainly she felt a little catch in her throat as she took in his physical perfection.

He strode across the park toward the stage. He passed within touching distance, and Rachel had the almost unbearable urge to run her fingers down the broad muscles of his back. She had never felt such instant, powerful physical desire for a total stranger-not even for Ethan. And as he went by, his eyes flicked up and met hers for just an instant-a contact that she had not seen him make with anyone else. Her breath caught in her throat.

She turned away, certain that her lustful thoughts were visible, but realized at once that she was neither alone nor conspicuous. A teenage girl moaned audibly and squeezed her upper arms together, making her breasts thrust forward. Her nipples were visibly erect. Beside her, an older woman breathed rapidly and fanned her face with a program.

Patty remained frozen in place at the microphone, one hand against her chest as if she was short of breath. Garrett Bloom eased her aside and said into the microphone, "Ah ... Hello, sir. I'm sorry, but I don't believe we've met. Can someone help you?"

The man stopped on the grass before the stage, again put his hands on his hips, and announced, "I am here to say ..." he began, then faltered. "To say ..."

Then his expression changed. He looked around as if waking from a dream. He took in the crowd, the lectern, and the old mental hospital. He turned and froze when, across the lake, he saw the distant dome of the state capitol rising above the city.

His brows knitted in fury. In a voice deeper and more mature than before, he said, "What has happened here?" Then he looked up at the lectern. "You. Are you the chief of this tribe?"

Bloom looked as confused as the man in the loincloth. "Am I what? Er ... Yes, I suppose." He glanced back at James Red Bird, who shrugged.

"Then you are at war with the Lo-Stahzi," the man snarled. "This is our land, our home. And you have desecrated it. You have carved into the land and sent its spirits into exile. You have piled stones higher than the greatest trees, and for what purpose?"

This broke the spell for Rachel. An activist, she thought wryly, who definitely knows how to work the crowd-or at least the female part of it. But she knew the Lo-Stahzi had vanished long before the current tribes appeared, and even longer before the Europeans had settled the area. This had to be some publicity stunt, because there was simply no way this beautiful man could represent that long-dead civilization.

"Is that right?" Bloom said. "Well, sir, I don't mean to be rude, but there are no more Lo-Stahzi. The tribe is extinct. Now, who exactly are you?"

The man started to speak, then he got the same confused expression. When he spoke, his voice had returned to its original youthful sound. "I am ... Artemak. No, wait, I'm ... Kyle Stillwater. And I ..." He shook his head and said in the deeper voice, "I am glad you can understand me. Our languages are not so different, then."

"What?" Bloom demanded. He seemed more annoyed than angry. "What the hell are you talking about? Yes, I can understand you, but I think you're crashing the wrong party. This is the ground-breaking ceremony for the new community center; we're not desecrating anything."

"No, I'm supposed to be here," the man Stillwater mumbled in the younger voice. "Aren't I?" Then the outraged elder returned. " *Ground-breaking'?" he said, his eyes wide with horror. "You break the ground at your whim? You drive your implements into the soil with no regard for what exists there?"

"You're a member of Save the Moles?" Bloom said with a derisive chuckle. The dignitaries behind him laughed uncertainly. "Look, sir, don't make me throw you out. This is supposed to be a day of celebration. Just go on your way and we'll forget this happened, okay?"

Stillwater pointed a finger at Bloom. "This land you now desecrate with your very presence was once a sacred place where we, the Lo-Stahzi, communed with the spirits of the lakes."

Rachel gasped in a way that had nothing to do with Stillwater's sexual appeal. Was that mere rhetoric, or did he truly know about the lake spirits?

"Sir, I don't know who the hell you are, but I've invested all my time and energy into this project, into this place and these people, and I won't see it derailed by some hippie lunatic in his underwear."

"There is no spirit in your heart," Stillwater continued, smiling as if this realization pleased him. "It is an empty vessel. And it may have its uses."

"Okay, we really don't have time for this," Bloom snapped. "Security! Please escort Mr. Stillwater off the premises and into police custody."

Two big men-one of them the guard Rachel and Patty had encountered earlier-strode from backstage and started pushing through the crowd. The tightly packed women near Stillwater inadvertently impeded them. The men muttered apologies as they tried to work their way through without roughing anyone up.

Stillwater saw them coming and strode back toward the water, just evading the two security men. He walked into the lake without a backward glance and vanished beneath the surface. The security officers reached the shore just as he went under, but he did not reappear.

Rachel joined the crowd of fixated women at the water's edge, although she was more in control than most. If he knew about the spirits, was it possible that he was a Lo-Stahzi? And if so, did he possess more information about the watery beings who had possessed her body for all these years?

One of the security men pushed her aside. Rachel saw the flash of a small gun in the man's paw of a hand, but he quickly tucked it out of sight. "There's no sign of him," he said into the Bluetooth attached to his meaty ear.

As the security men retreated, two TV cameramen rushed to the edge of the lake and filmed the water's surface, waiting for Stillwater to reappear. But there was no sign of him, and the only boat visible was too far away for him to reach while swimming underwater. And if he'd hidden scuba gear, there would be telltale bubbles.

"Holy crap, who was that guy?" one cameraman said to the other.

"Some lost Chippendale dude who fell into the lake," the other said wryly. "Man, would you look at the way these chicks are panting after him?"

"Didn't look like an Indian to me, that's for sure," the first one said. "And where the hell did he go?"

Local news reporter Betsy Basker rushed up to the second cameraman. "Quick, I need to film some book-ends with the lake behind me." She peered at her reflection in the camera lens and adjusted her hair.

"Your face is red," the cameraman said, amused.

She fanned it quickly. "It's just the heat."

"And your high beams are on."

"Then just zoom in tighter!" she snapped.

He smiled. "Uh-huh. Are you ready? In five, four, three ..." He silently mouthed Two, one, and nodded for her to begin.

"This is Betsy Basker with Channel Twelve News," she said, her on-air voice deeper than her normal one. "The mysterious interloper who called himself Kyle Stillwater vanished into the lake behind me, but his disruption of what should have been a celebration has left many involved red-faced." She stopped, silently counted to three, then said, "Betsy Basker, Channel Twelve News," as a tag for the story when it was edited together.

Rachel stepped aside to let the newsmen past. They would no doubt descend on Garrett Bloom next. She wondered if they would try to interview Ethan as well. Then she scowled, remembering that he had his own personal news reporter these days. Julie would cover him in every sense.

Through the din of murmurs, Rachel heard a nearby woman's voice distinctly say, "Artemak is here." She said it with such wonder and feeling that Rachel scanned the crowd for its source. She spotted a tall woman with dark hair standing at the front of the watchers, her face hidden from Rachel's position. Something told her this was the source, but before she could pursue it, the woman vanished back into the throng.

The crowd dispersed back to its carnival, leaving only a few people, all women, staring out at the water. Rachel headed back to the stage area to locate Patty.

JULIE SCHUTES STOOD in the shadow of a tree, scrolling back through the pictures on her camera. Kyle Stillwater was almost unbearably handsome, and just looking at his digital image made her insides quiver a little. It had been weeks since she'd been intimate with anyone, and that occasion had been nothing to write home about. But even her undeniable physical attraction to this trespasser didn't overcome her reporter's instincts. Who the hell was he, and why would he show up in nothing but a glorified jockstrap at this public occasion? If he really wanted to stop Bloom's little project, his choice of method left a lot to be desired. So what was he really up to?

She put the camera in her bag and took several deep breaths. The desire did not diminish, though. There was only one thing to do, and that was to find someone to help her satiate it. She knew, of course, exactly who she wanted to try first.

GARRETT BLOOM GLARED at James Red Bird and hissed, "What the fuck was that all about?"

"I don't know," Red Bird said with equal urgency. "It wasn't the script I gave him!"

"He's a damn activist, isn't he? Swimming here in his underwear! I tell you to get a goddamned actor, and you get Crazy Horse!"

"That's a racial-"

"Don't change the subject! The plan has now gone down the crapper. So what are we going to do about it?"