Ms. Longshot. Sylvie Kurtz
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at my residual limb usually sent my dates scrambling for excuses to run out the door. Funny how they never called back. Which is why I usually got the leg business out of the way first thing—before I could get attached.
The Mona Lisa half-twist to Renee’s mouth had me wondering what she found so amusing. “I don’t expect you to prostitute yourself. You can be charming when you put your mind to it, Alexa.”
Renee had this groom scenario all figured out. I could accept the assignment and prove myself to her. Or I could pass and very well get skipped over every time. “I’ll pack some charm. But wouldn’t I be able to get more out of Ross and Leah if I played someone within their circle? I could play the role of an owner. Bring one of my horses along.”
“As a groom, you’ll have a better chance of extracting information from the help. I’m told they will know all the dirty little secrets the owners try to hide and the goings on behind the scene. The help wouldn’t talk to you if you played the role of an owner. From what I understand the horse world is small and almost incestuous.”
She got that right. When I’d showed, I’d bumped into the same group of people every weekend. And if someone were to write a book about the lowdown, dirty things that really went on behind the glitz and glamour of the show ring, no one would believe it. Reality was much stranger than fiction.
Renee fingered the edge of the file sitting on the linen tablecloth, and like a good performer, waited until I was practically salivating before opening the red cover. “Ally Cross is to report to Bart Hind at the Ashcroft Equestrian Center just outside of Ashcroft, Connecticut. He’s the center’s manager and knows nothing about the operation. He’s expecting Ally at seven tomorrow morning. Your résumé and job were provided by the center’s owner.”
“Who is that?”
“Patrick Dunhill.”
“The former Olympian?” His black horse Messenger had soared through many of my dreams as I was growing up. He spared no expense on his horses, and his facilities were said to be the Rolls Royce of stables. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Renee nodded. “He’s made sure you’ll be assigned to both Ross Hardel and Leah Siegel’s horses. That will allow you to get close to both of them. Alan will provide you with all the necessary paperwork to backstop your Ally Cross identity. No one is to know your true background. Since you used to show, will that be a problem?”
I hadn’t stepped foot into a show ring in ten years. Memories were short. “Dressage people and jumping people run in different circles.”
“This will require hard physical work, Alexa. Are you up to the job?”
I’d never let my “defective” leg stop me from achieving my goals before. I certainly wouldn’t now. If Renee wanted a groom, I could become a groom. “How hard can it be to muck out a stall?”
Chapter 2
My next stop was the elevator hidden behind the rack of shoes and the rows of designer clothes in the closet in Renee’s office. I entered my code on the temperature control panel, followed the prompt for a palm print and an iris scan and waited patiently while the computer decided I was indeed who I claimed to be. The panel slid open and I stepped into the car. The glass elevator reminded me of a bullet and was just a little bit disconcerting in the way it blurred the concrete walls as it rushed to the basement level.
Kristi Burke, the undercover stylist, was waiting for me when I got off the elevator. She twisted her hands like a mad scientist facing a brand-new experiment. The lab coat didn’t help the effect.
“I had such fun shopping for this assignment,” Kristi said, leading me toward the dressing room. Two rolling racks of clothes waited beside a three-way mirror. She sat me in the hairdresser’s chair and stood behind me.
“Fun? For this assignment?”
Kristi’s nose wrinkled cutely as she smiled. “It’s not every day I get to dress down someone as gorgeous as you are. I thrive on a challenge.” She ran her fingers through strands of my long hair. “First, we need to tone down that beautiful mahogany into something more mousy.”
“Mousy?” I didn’t like the sound of that.
“I’m going to dye it a flat brown, then overdry it and butcher the ends so they split. Stable girls don’t have the money for designer haircuts.”
“Sounds absolutely splendid.” Oh, yeah, this was definitely a glamorous assignment. “I suppose you want me to bring back my acne and crooked front teeth.”
“Could you?” Kristi joked, then knuckled my chin. “Chin up, girl. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ll be able to bring you back to your old self in a couple of hours when your assignment is through.”
Chewing on orange-flavored nicotine gum, Kristi chatted about her horrible Internet dating experiences as she dyed and shampooed and snipped and dried my hair into a dull brown frizz that nearly brought tears to my eyes. She took a raggedy scrunchie from one of the drawers by the mirrored table and twisted my hair into a messy bun. “This is the going stableyard style, I’m told. Or try a single braid down your back.”
I took in a long drag of air, hating my drab reflection in the mirror. “I think I can manage.”
“Good. Now makeup.” She showed me how to apply a concoction that dulled my skin and, voila, I was my mother’s worst fear come to life. Common. I wanted to treat that poor pasty girl in the mirror to a day at Bliss Spa. She deserved it.
Kristi swiveled the chair around until it was facing the racks of clothes. “Wardrobe’s up next. I had a hard time finding jeans that were long enough for you in the leg, but managed to unearth three pairs of Levi’s at the Goodwill store.”
Goodwill? That was a long way from Barney’s on Madison. Oh, this was getting worse by the second. Wearing other people’s clothes. I shuddered and scratched at imagined cooties jumping over my skin. Kristi went through the piles of underwear—cotton instead of my usual LaPerla silk—and T-shirts with advertising splashed across the front. She was especially proud of the faded red Barn Goddess one. By the time she closed the zipper on the scuffed L.L. Bean duffel bag, I was near tears. I wasn’t vain. Not really. But this was, well, so beneath my station. “If you need anything more, let me know and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
I hoped to identify the Horse Ripper within a week. I could survive a week in itchy clothes, forking manure. I could. Really. “I think I’m set. Thanks.”
Kristi beamed. “My pleasure.”
Alan Burke, Kristi’s brother, poked his head, dark-brown hair perfectly coiffed, through the dressing room door. “All done?”
“If she was, she’d be with you already, now wouldn’t she?” Kristi snapped. Since Kristi had started her smoke-cessation program, she tended to take out her frustrations on her brother. Poor thing.
Ignoring Alan, Kristi reached for a box on top of the dressing table. “I had some darker contacts made with your prescription. Your eyes are such a distinct warm sienna that I figured they might attract attention.”
I stashed Kristi’s Goodwill-filled duffel bag by the elevator door and made my way to Alan’s tech room. The room was filled to the brim with computers, closed-circuit television screens and a wall full of electronic gadgets that would listen, see and record any kind of information you could imagine. I looked at them with envy, knowing a groom wasn’t likely to need any of those beauties.
“How’s Kyle?” I asked Alan as I took a seat beside him in one of his high-tech chairs. Kyle was a Versace model who lived in Venice. Alan had met him at a recent ball and fallen head over heels in love.
His chocolate-brown eyes drooped at the corners like a disappointed puppy’s. “He hasn’t called in a while.”
“He will. How could he resist a sweetie like you?”
Alan