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Description : Accidentally...Evil?
Bacalar, Mexico. November 1, 1934

Why is that man… naked?

Dazed and flat on her back, twenty-one year old Margaret O’Hare observed the man’s bare backside as he stood on a nearby weather-beaten dock, toweling off. Her vision, at first a groggy mess, focused to a machete-sharp point, the pain in her forehead equally knifelike.

Yes. Naked. Really. Really. Naked. She’d never seen such a large, well-built man or such a perfect backside—hard, deeply tanned, and worthy of a marble sculpture. Maybe two. Or five. Too bad she was a painter.

Hold on. Where the ham sandwich am I? Margaret’s eyes, the only body part she could move without experiencing pain, whipsawed from side to side. Jungle. Dirt. Lake. Okay. I’m lying near the lake. Yes, this was good. She recognized the place. Sort of.

Am I near the village dock?

Her peripheral vision said no; this dock had a tiny palapa for shade at the very end.

Then where?

She made a feeble attempt to lift her throbbing head, but her body rewarded her with a spear to the temple.

Ow. Ow. Ow. She took a slow breath to allow the skull-shattering jab to dissipate. All right. Relax and think. What happened? What happened? What happened? And who is Mr. Perfectbottom over there?

A sticky blanket of gray coated her thoughts, but she did recall swimming that morning. Maybe she’d slipped on the village dock and fell into the lake. Maybe Mr. Perfectbottom had been bathing down at the shore and rescued her.

Or not.

Her clothes were bone-dry except for the sweaty parts. Come to think of it, she felt like...