"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 shirt, 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.

Sean jumped back in horror. "Irina!"

The groom launched herself at Van Zandt like a missile, screaming: "Pig! You filthy pig!"

I stood, flat-footed, watching in amazement as Irina pummeled him with her fists. She was slender as a

reed, but strong as a teamster, the muscles in her arms clearly delineated. Van Zandt staggered backward and sideways, trying to shake her off, but she clung to him like a limpet.

"Crazy b.i.t.c.h!" he shouted. "Get her off! Get her off!"

Sean jumped to, grabbing hold of the girl's blond ponytail with one hand and catching a wildly swinging arm with the other. "Irina! Stop it!"

"Son of b.i.t.c.h! Stinking son of b.i.t.c.h!" she shouted as Sean peeled her off Van Zandt and pulled herbackward down the aisle. She rattled off another slur in Russian and violently spat at the Belgian. "She's crazy!" Van Zandt shouted, wiping blood from his lip. "She should be locked up!" "I take it you two have met," I said dryly. "I've never seen her before in my life! Crazy Russian c.u.n.t!" Irina lunged against Sean's hold on her, the look on her face venomous with hate. "Next time I tear out your throat and s.h.i.t in your lungs, cur! For Sasha!"

Van Zandt backed away looking stricken, his perfect hair standing up in all directions.

"Irina!" Sean shouted, appalled.

"Why don't we ladies retire for a moment?" I suggested, taking Irina by the arm and steering her toward

the lounge.

Irina snarled and made a rude gesture in the direction of Van Zandt, but came with me.

We went into the lounge, a room paneled in mahogany and fitted with a bar and leather-upholstered

chairs. Irina paced, muttering expletives. I went behind the bar, took a bottle of Stoli from the freezer,

and poured three fingers in a heavy crystal tumbler.

"Here's to you, girlfriend." I raised the gla.s.s in a toast, then handed it to her. She drank it like water. "I'm sure he had it coming, but would you care to fill me in?"

She fumed and called Van Zandt more names, then heaved a sigh and calmed herself. Just like that:

instant composure. "That is not a nice man," she said.

"The guy who delivers feed is not a nice man, but you've never gone to such an effort for him. Who is Sasha?"

She took a cigarette from a box on the bar, lit it, and took a long, deep drag. She exhaled slowly, her

face tilted at an elegant angle. She might have been Greta Garbo in a past life.

"Sasha Kulak. A friend from Russia. She went to work for that pig in Belgium because he made all kinds of big promises. He would pay her and let her ride good horses and they would be like partners and he would make her a star in the horse shows. Stinking liar. All he wanted was to have her. He got her to Belgium and thought he owned her. He thought she should f.u.c.k him and be grateful. She said no. She was a beautiful girl. Why would she f.u.c.k an old man like him?"

"Why would anyone?"

"He was a monster to her. He kept her in a gypsy camper with no heat. She had to use the toilet in his stables and he spied on her through holes in the walls."

"Why didn't she leave?"

"She was eighteen and she was afraid. She was in a foreign country where she knew no one and could

not speak their stupid language. She didn't know what to do." "She couldn't go to the police?" Irina looked at me like I was stupid. "Finally, she went to bed with him," she said, shrugging in that way Americans can never mimic. "Still he was terrible to her. He gave her herpes. After a while she stole some money and ran away when they

were looking for horses in Poland.

"He called her family and made threats because of the money. He told them lies about Sasha. When she came home, her father threw her out into the street."

"He believed Van Zandt over his daughter?"

She made a face. "They are two alike, those men."

"And what became of Sasha?"

"She killed herself."

"Oh, G.o.d, Irina. I'm sorry."