It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(6)

Phoebe sank to her knees and gathered the dog to her; “Hey, sport, you really did it today, didn’t you?”

Pooh gave her an apologetic lick. Phoebe began to retie the bows that had come undone at the dog’s ears, but her fingers were trembling, so she abandoned the effort. Pooh would just work them loose again anyway.

The dog was a disgrace to the dignity of her breed. She hated bows and rhinestone collars, refused to sleep on her doggy bed, and wasn’t the slightest bit picky about food. She detested being clipped, brushed, or bathed and wouldn’t wear the monogrammed sweater Viktor had given her. She wasn’t even a good guard dog. Last year when Phoebe had been mugged in broad daylight on the Upper West Side, Pooh had spent the whole time rubbing against the mugger’s legs begging to be petted.

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.

“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.





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.

As she crossed her legs, the thin gold chain encircling her ankle glimmered in the light. Hibbard noticed, but pretended he hadn’t.

“There’s no reason for me to stay any longer, Mr. Hibbard. Molly’s returning to camp tomorrow afternoon, and my flight leaves a few hours after hers.”

“That’s going to make this difficult, I’m afraid. Your father’s will is a bit complicated.”

Her father had kept her well acquainted with the details of his will, even before the final six months of his life, when he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She knew he had set up a trust fund for Molly and that Reed was to inherit his beloved Stars.

“Are you aware of the fact that your father had some financial setbacks these past few years?”

“Not the details. We didn’t speak very frequently.”