I shrugged. "Hey, what do I know? People talk."

"People don't know shit."

"Is there a problem here?"

The man stepped into the picture. Mid-fifties, tall and elegant with silver temples highlighting a full head of dark hair. He wore a stern, aristocratic expression, pressed tan slacks, a pink Lacoste knit shirt, and a black silk ascot at his throat.

"Not at all," I said. "I was just looking for someone."

"Erin," Paris Montgomery said to him.

"Erin?"

"Erin. My groom. The one that left."

He made a sour face. "That girl? She's good for nothing. What would you want with her?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "She's gone."

"What's your friend's name?" Paris asked. "In case I hear of someone."

"Sean Avadon. Avadonis Farm."

The man's cold blue eyes brightened. "He has some very nice horses."

"Yes, he does."

"You work for him?" he asked.

I supposed I did look like hired help with my hacked-off hair, old jeans, and work boots. "He's an old friend. I'm leasing a horse from him until I can find what I'm looking for."

He smiled then like a cat with a cornered mouse. His teeth were brilliantly white. "I can help you with that."

A horse dealer. The third-oldest profession. Forerunners of used-car salesmen the world over.

Paris Montgomery rolled her eyes. A truck pulled up at the end of the tent. "That's Dr. Ritter. I've got to go."

She turned the big smile back on and shook my hand again. "Nice meeting you, Elle," she said, as if we'd never had that moment of unpleasantness at the mention of Stellar's death. "Good luck with your search."

"Thanks."

She set the Russell down and followed the barking beast around the corner as the vet called for her.

The man held his hand out to me. "Tomas Van Zandt."

"Elle Stevens."

"My pleasure."

He held my hand a little too long.

"I'd better be going," I said, drifting back a step. "It's getting late for a wild-goose chase."

"I'll take you to your car," he offered. "Beautiful women shouldn't go around unescorted here in the dark. You don't know what kind of people might be around."

"I have a pretty good idea, but thanks for your concern. Women shouldn't get into cars with men they've only just met either," I said.

He laughed and placed a hand over his heart. "I am a gentleman, Elle. Harmless. Without designs. Wanting nothing of you but a smile."

"You'd sell me a horse. That would cost me plenty."

"But only the best horses," he promised. "I will find you exactly what you need and for a good price. Your friend Avadon likes good horses. Maybe you could introduce us."

Horse dealers. I rolled my eyes and gave him half a smile. "Maybe I just want a ride to my car."

Looking pleased, he led the way out of the tent to a black Mercedes sedan and opened the door for me.

"You must have a lot of satisfied customers if you can rent a car like this for the season," I said.

Van Zandt smiled like the cat that got the cream and the canary. "I have such happy clients, one gave me the loan of this car for the winter."

"My goodness. If only my ex had made me so happy, he might still be considered in the present tense."

Van Zandt laughed. "Where are you parked, Miss Elle?"

"The back gate."

As we started down the road toward The Meadows I said, "You know this girl, Erin? She's not a good worker?"

He pursed his lips like he'd gotten a whiff of something rotten. "Bad attitude. Smart mouth. Flirting with the clients. American girls don't make good grooms. They're spoiled and lazy."

"I'm an American girl."

He ignored that. "Get a good Polish girl. They're strong and cheap."

"Can I get one at Wal-Mart? I've got a Russian now. She thinks she's a czarina."

"Russians are arrogant."

"And what are Dutchmen?"

He pulled the Mercedes in where I pointed, alongside my Beemer.

"I am from Belgium," he corrected. "Men from Belgium are charming and know how to treat ladies."

"Slick rascals, more like," I said. "Ladies should be on their guard, I think."

Van Zandt chuckled. "You are no pushover, Elle Stevens."

"It takes more than a smile and an accent to sweep me off my feet. I'll make you work for it."

"A challenge!" he said, delighted at the prospect.

I got out of the car without waiting for him to come around and open the door, and dug my keys out of my hip pocket. The back of my hand brushed over the butt of the gun tucked in my waistband.

"Thanks for the ride," I said.

"Thank you, Elle Stevens. You brightened an otherwise boring evening."

"Don't let Ms. Montgomery hear you say that."

"She's all gloom, talking about the dead gelding."

"Losing a horse worth that kind of money would bring me down too."

"It wasn't her money."

"Maybe she liked the horse."

He shrugged. "There's always another."

"Which I'm sure you'll be happy to supply to the grieving owner for a price."

"Of course. Why not? That's business-for me and for her."

"You sentimental fool, you."

In the harsh glow of the security light from above I saw the muscles of Van Zandt's jaw flex. "I am in this business thirty years, Elle Stevens," he said, a thread of impatience in his voice. "I am not a heartless man, but for professionals horses come and horses go. It's a shame the gelding died, but with professionals a sentimental fool is just that: a fool. People have to move on with their lives. Owners too. The insurance will pay for the dead horse, and his owner will buy another."

"Which you will be happy to find."

"Of course. I know already a horse in Belgium: clean X rays and twice as good as that one over the fences."

"And for a mere one-point-eight million he can belong to some lucky American and Don Jade can ride him."

"The good ones cost, the good ones win."

"And the rest can bite through electrical cords in the dead of night and fry themselves?" I asked. "Careful who you say that to, Van Zandt. Some insurance investigator might hear you and think the wrong thing."

He didn't shrug that off. I sensed him tense.

"I never said anyone killed the horse," he said, his voice tight and low. He was angry with me. I wasn't supposed to have a brain. I was supposed to be the next American with too much money and too little sense, waiting for him to charm me and sweep me off to Europe on a buying trip.

"No, but Jade has that reputation, doesn't he?"

Van Zandt stepped closer. My back pressed against the frame of my car's roof. I had to look up at him. There wasn't a soul around. There was nothing but a lot of open country beyond the back gates. I slipped one hand into the back of my waistband and touched my gun.

"Are you that insurance person, Elle Stevens?" he asked.

"Me?" I laughed. "God, no. I don't work." I said the word with the kind of disdain my mother would have used. "It's just a good story, that's all. Don Jade: Dangerous Man of Mystery. You know us Palm Beachers. Can't resist a juicy scandal. My biggest concern in life at the moment is where my next good horse is coming from. What goes on with this show-jumping crowd is nothing but good gossip to me."

He relaxed then, having decided I was sufficiently self-absorbed. He handed me his card and dredged up the charm again. Nothing like greed to rally a man. "Give me a call, Elle Stevens. I'll find you your horse."

I tried to smile, knowing only one side of my mouth moved upward at all. "I may take you up on that, Mr. Van Zandt."

"Call me V.," he suggested, his tone strangely intimate. "V. for Very Good Horses. V. for Victory in the showring."

V. for vomit.

"We are friends now," he announced. He leaned down and kissed my right cheek, then the left, then the right again. His lips were cold and dry.

"Three times," he said, Mr. Suave again. "Like the Dutch."