Phoebe buried her hair in the dog's soft topknot. "Underneath that fancy pedigree, you're nothing but a mutt, aren't you, Pooh?"

Abruptly, Phoebe lost the battle she had been fighting all day and gave a choked sob. A mutt. That's what she was. All dressed up like a French poodle.

Viktor found her in the library. With more tact than he usually displayed, he ignored the fact that she'd been crying. "Phoebe, pet," he said kindly, "your father's lawyer is here to meet with you."

"I don't want to see anyone," she sniffed, searching futilely for a tissue.

Viktor extracted a plum-colored handkerchief from the pocket of his gray silk jacket and handed it to her. "You'll have to talk with him sooner or later."

"I already did. He called me about Molly's guardianship the day after Bert died."

"Maybe this has to do with your father's estate."

"I'm not involved with that." She blew noisily into the handkerchief. She had always pretended that being disinherited didn't bother her, but it was painful to have such clear and public proof of her father's scorn.

"He's quite insistent." Viktor picked up the purse she had left in the chair where Pooh had been sleeping and opened it. It was a gently used Judith Lieber clutch he had found in a consignment shop in the East Village, and he gave Phoebe a disapproving glance as he spotted' a Milky Way nestled at the bottom. Pushing it aside, he pulled out her comb and restored her hair to order. With that done, he extracted her compact and lipstick. While she repaired her makeup, he took a moment to admire her.

Viktor found the off-kilter features that had inspired some of Arturo Flores's best work far more appealing than the puffy-lipped faces of the anorexic models he posed with. Others had, too, including the famous photographer Asha Belchoir, who'd recently done a photo session with her.