Dark Horse by Tami Hoag

together. My plastic surgeon had given me the card of a woman who specialized in postsurgical makeup. The Post-Traumatic Avon Lady. I had thrown the card away.
    I dressed, discarding a dozen different choices and finally settling on a sleeveless silk blouse the color of fresh-poured concrete and a pair of brown trousers that were so big around the waist, I had to pin them shut to keep them from sliding down my hips.
    I used to care about fashion.
    I killed some time on the Internet, chewed my nails, and made some notes.
    I found nothing of interest on Tomas Van Zandt. His name did not appear even on his own Web site: worldhorsesales.com. The site listed on his business card showed photos of horses that had been brokered through Van Zandt’s business. Phone numbers were listed for a business office in Brussels, a number for European sales, and for two U.S. subagents, one of whom was Don Jade.
    I found several articles about Paris Montgomery in the
Chronicle of the Horse
and
Horses Daily
describing recent wins in the showring, talking about her humble beginnings riding ponies bareback in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. According to the propaganda, she had worked her way up the ranks from groom to working student to assistant trainer; succeeding on hard work and raw talent. And charm. And the fact that she could have been a model.
    She had been Don Jade’s assistant trainer for three years and was so grateful for the opportunity, blah, blah, blah. So few people realized what a great guy he really was. He’d been unfortunate to do business with some people of questionable ethics, but shouldn’t be condemned by association, et cetera, et cetera. Jade was quoted as saying Paris Montgomery had a bright future and the ambition and talent to attain whatever she set her sights on.
    Photographs with the articles showed Montgomery going over a fence on a horse called Park Lane, and close-ups of her flashing the big smile.
    The smile irritated me. It was too bright and came too easily. The charm seemed insincere. Then again, I’d only just met her for ten minutes. Maybe I didn’t like her because I couldn’t smile and wasn’t charming.
    I flipped the screen shut on my laptop and went outside. Dawn was a pale notion on the edge of the eastern sky as I let myself into Sean’s house through the French doors into the dining room. He was alone in bed, snoring. I sat down beside him and patted his cheek. His eyelids pulled slowly upward, revealing a lot of red veins. He rubbed a hand over his face.
    “I was hoping for Tom Cruise,” he said in a voice full of gravel.
    “Sorry to disappoint. If a horse dealer named Van Zandt comes around, my name is Elle Stevens and you’re looking for a groom.”
    “What?” He pushed himself upright and shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “Van Zandt? Tomas Van Zandt?”
    “You know him?”
    “I know of him. He’s the second-biggest crook in Europe. Why would he come here?”
    “Because he thinks you might buy horses from him.”
    “Why would he think that?”
    “Because I pretty much led him to believe it.”
    “Uh!!”
    “Don’t look offended,” I said. “That expression emphasizes the lines around your mouth.”
    “Bitch.”
    He pouted for a moment, then caught himself and rubbed his hands over his face—outward and upward from his mouth. The ten-second face-lift. “You know I already have a European connection. You know I only work with Toine.”
    “Yes, I know. The last honest horse dealer.”
    “The only one in the history of the world, as far as I know.”
    “So let Van Zandt think he’s wooing you away from Toine. He’ll have an orgasm. If he comes around, pretend you’re interested. You owe me.”
    “I don’t owe you that much.”
    “Really?” I said. “Thanks to you, I now have a client and a career I didn’t want.”
    “You’ll thank me later.”
    “I’ll exact my revenge later.” I leaned over and patted his stubbled cheek again. “Happy horse