Part 17 (1/2)

”My own mother wouldn't do as much.” ”You'd better believe that, honey. Your mother wouldn't let that slimebag in the service entrance. You've got twenty minutes to curtain.”

I took a shower and dressed in one of the outfits I had purchased at the show grounds: a jewel-redwraparound skirt made from an Indian sari, and a yellow linen blouse. An armload of bracelets, a pair ofthick-soled sandals, and tortoisesh.e.l.l shades, and I was Elle Stevens, Dilettante.

Van Zandt had just arrived as I cut through the stables to the parking area. He was dressed to impress in the uniform of the Palm Beach patriarch: pink s.h.i.+rt, tan slacks, blue blazer, his signature ascot at his throat.

As he spotted me, he came toward me with his arms outstretched. My long-lost old friend.

”Elle!”

”Z.”.

I suffered through his cheek-kissing routine, bracing my hands against his chest so he couldn't embrace

me.

”Three times,” he reminded me, stepping back. ”Like the Dutch.”

”Sounds to me like an excuse to grope,” I said with half a smile. ”Clever lech. What other cultures do

you steal from in order to cop a feel in the guise of good manners?” He smiled the smarmy/suave smile. ”That all depends on the lady.” ”And I thought you'd come to see my horses,” Sean said. ”Am I just a beard?” Van Zandt looked at him, puzzled. ”Are you a beard? You don't even have a beard.” ”It's a figure of speech, Z.,” I explained. ”You have to get used to Sean. His mother sent him to drama camp as a child. He can't help himself.” ”Ah. An actor!” ”Aren't we all?” Sean said innocently. ”I've asked my girl to saddle Tino-the gelding I was telling you about. I'd like to get eighty thousand for him. He's talented, but I've got too many that are. If you have

any clients looking . . .” ”I may have,” Van Zandt said. ”I've brought my camera. I'll make a video to send to a client I havecoming down from Virginia. And when you're ready to look for something new, I'll be happy to showyou the best horses in Europe. Bring Elle along with you. We'll have a wonderful time.”

He looked at me, taking in the skirt. ”You are not riding today, Elle?”

”Too much fun last night,” I said. ”I'm recuperating. Sean and I went to the Pinkeye Ball.”

”Elle can't resist a worthy cause,” Sean said. ”Or a gla.s.s of champagne.”

”You missed all the excitement at the show grounds,” Van Zandt said, pleased to have the gossip.

”Horses being turned loose. Someone was attacked. Unbelievable.” ”And you were there?” I asked. ”In the dead of night? Might the police want to speak with you?” ”Of course I wasn't there,” he said irritably. ”How could you think I would do a thing like that?” I shrugged. ”Z., I have no idea what you might or might not do. I do know you can't take a joke. Really, these moods of yours are getting tedious, and I've only known you two days,” I said, letting my irritation

show. ”You expect me to want to ride around Europe in a car with you and your multiple personalities? I

think I'd rather stay home and hit my thumb with a hammer over and over.”

He splayed a hand across his chest as if I'd wounded him. ”I am a sensitive person. I want only good

things for everyone. I don't go around accusing people for a joke.” ”Don't take it personally, Tomas,” Sean told him as we neared the barn. ”Elle sharpens her tongue on awhetstone every night before bed.”

”All the better to fillet you with, my dear.”

Van Zandt looked at me, pouting. ”It's not a sharp tongue that attracts a husband.”

”Husband? Why would I want one of those?” I asked. ”Had one once. Threw him back.”

Sean grinned. ”Why be a wife when you can have a life?”

”Ex is best,” I agreed. ”Half of the money, none of the headache.”

Van Zandt wagged a finger at me, trying to rally a sense of humor. ”You need taming, Miss Tigress. You

would then sing a different song.”

”Bring a whip and a chair for that job,” Sean suggested.

Van Zandt looked like he'd already imagined that and then some. He smiled again. ”I know how best to

treat a lady.”

From the corner of my eye I saw Irina coming. A flash of long bare legs and clunky hiking boots. I saw she had something in her hand. She looked angry, and I a.s.sumed-wrongly-angry with Sean for being

late or upsetting her schedule, or one of the fifty other transgressions that regularly put Irina in a snit. She stopped five feet from us, shouted something nasty in Russian, and flung the thing in her hand.

Van Zandt cried out in surprise, just managing to bring an arm up and deflect the flight path of the steel

horseshoe before it struck him in the head.