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Bastien, extending his hand to a plain yet well-groomed man with silver-streaked black hair. I recognized him from his photos. Dana's husband. "This is my sister, Tabitha. Hope you don't mind me bringing her."

"No, no! The more the merrier, I say." He allowed a small, artificial laugh and smiled at me, making his eyes crinkle. "Especially ones so pretty. Makes me wish I was a younger man," he teased with a wink.

Unable to resist, I looked up at him through my lashes and said demurely, "I've always thought age was kind of irrelevant, Bill." I held onto his proffered hand. "I know I'm always happy to learn from those with more...experience."

His eyes widened slightly, lighting with both intrigue and alarm.

"Well," he said after an uncomfortable moment, "I should probably spread myself around." He remembered to let go of my hand. "Feel free to find something to eat, and don't forget to try the pool."

He glanced at me and my come-hither smile consideringly, hesitated, and then reluctantly departed.

"Don't ever do that again," hissed Bastien, steering me toward the kitchen by the arm.

"Do what?"

"Flirt with this group! You're supposed to be bolstering my wholesome image, not leading on my target's husband."

"I wasn't leading him on. Besides, what's it matter? Scandalize them both."

"No. Dana only. My show."

I cut him a look but said nothing. He wanted me as an observer but not a participant. It figured. All the glory for himself, praise from those above. He'd always had this competitive need to make himself shine. It was one of the things that I liked about him - an eager desire to prove himself the best. I guess I'd had it once too, but not anymore. As far as I was concerned, he was welcome to all the fame and fortune of this gig.

"Just play my sweet, angelic sister," he continued in a whisper. "Possibly my sweet, angelic, and frigid sister."

Moving through the house gave me a chance to take in more of the party's theme. Faux palm trees. Glittering, decorative suns everywhere. Small appetizer tables set up here and there, laden with deviled eggs, cocktail wieners, and cubed cheese. It was silly in some ways, but someone had obviously paid a lot of attention to detail. I appreciated that. All of the guests looked like Bill - and Bastien and me, I realized. Clean-cut, with every hair in place. High quality, conservative clothes (in a tropical sort of way). Upper-class. White.

They freaked me out.

The kitchen proved to be the true hub of food, and I decided to simply gorge myself rather than risk more conversation that might upset Bastien. I loaded up a paper plate with a hamburger, potato salad, and some kind of weird Jell-O-fruit-whipped-cream hybrid dessert.

My efforts to simply eat unnoticed proved futile, as I soon found myself surrounded by a group of women. I didn't know where they'd come from. One minute I was just eating, the next minute six perfect faces were smiling at me. They were like a pack of wild dogs, yipping nonstop, honing in on lone prey. They'd even managed to separate me from Bastien, all the better to tear me apart. The incubus now stood across the room with a similarly ravenous group of men, no doubt discussing cigars and lawn mowers. I shot him a panicked look, but he merely shrugged.

"Mitch's sister," oozed one of the women. "I should have known! You guys look exactly alike."

"Well, not exactly alike," tittered another. She wore an appliqué sweater vest. Yikes.

"We were just talking about stamping. Do you stamp, Tabitha?"

"Urn, like use stamps?" I asked with a frown. "I mean, I mail things..."

The Stepford Wives giggled again at this. "Oh! That's so funny."

"We mean rubber stamps. Arts and crafts stamps," explained one of them. She'd introduced herself as Jody - the only name I could remember among the group. Probably because she seemed to have a slightly higher IQ than the rest. And was the only one of us without blond hair. "You use them to decorate things. "

She dug into her purse and produced a small invitation on beautiful ivory cardstock. Scrolling vines and flowers decorated the front.

"This is the invitation Dana made for this party."

I stared. "Seriously?"

Somehow I'd imagined the "Great Job!" kind of stamps that teachers used on well-written papers. This was beautifully inked and in different colors. It looked professional, like something from Hallmark.

"Mitzi's having a stamp party next week," exclaimed one of the other women. "We could show you how to do