"Take off those torn stockings. You look like you belong in the chorus of Les Mis."

While she reached under her skirt to do as he said, he returned her makeup to her purse. Then he straightened her fig leaf belt and walked her to the door.

"I don't want to meet with anybody, Viktor."

"You're not going to back down now."

Panic filled her amber eyes. "I can't pull this off much longer."

"Then why don't you stop trying?" He brushed his thumb over her cheek. "People may not be gloating as much as you think."

"I can't tolerate the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me."

"You'd rather have everyone dislike you?"

She forced a cocky smile as she reached for the knob. "I'm comfortable with contempt. It's pity I can't stand."

Viktor took in the clothes that were so inappropriate to the occasion and shook his head. "Poor Phoebe. When are you going to finish inventing yourself?"

"When I get it right," she said softly.

Chapter 2

Brian Hibbard shuffled the papers in his lap. "I apologize for barging in on you so soon after the funeral, Miss Somerville, but the housekeeper informed me that you were planning to fly back to Manhattan tomorrow evening. I hadn't realized you'd be returning so soon."

The lawyer was short and plump, in his late forties, with ruddy skin and graying hair. A well-cut charcoal suit didn't quite hide the slight paunch that had formed around his middle. Phoebe sat across from him in one of the wing chairs positioned near the massive stone fireplace that dominated the living room. She'd always hated this dark, paneled room presided over by stuffed birds, mounted animal heads, and an ashtray cruelly made from a giraffe's hoof.