Poor Little Bitch Girl

by Jackie Collins

  Now everything had changed.

  “Well?” Annabelle asked, a determined look in her eyes. “Are you going to phone him or not?”

  “Hey,” Frankie said, shrugging. “The thing is – I don’t even know the dude, so what would I say?”

  “For God’s sake!” Annabelle snapped, green eyes blazing. “Of course you know him. Just tell him that we’re never doing business with him again.”

  “Huh?” Frankie said, quite confused. Annabelle was taking this harder than he’d expected.

  “I . . . hate . . . him,” Annabelle said through clenched teeth. “And for your information, I don’t care how much money we’ll lose. It’s no big deal, we’ll make it up elsewhere. There are plenty of other billionaires in the sea – we’ll put out a fishing net and haul in a few.”

  She was delirious, that much was obvious.

  “Listen, babe,” he began. “I know this is hard—”

  “Hard!” she exploded. “How about taking a look at my bruises? I’m covered in them.”

  “Huh?” he mumbled, getting more confused by the minute. Annabelle had totally lost it.

  “Bruises, Frankie,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Bruises from a big fat moron who was no way fifteen. And bites – he bit me on my thigh! Sharif Rani should be ashamed of himself, setting me up with his so-called son. Illegitimate, I’m sure, ’cause he sure as hell wasn’t the innocent young Arab boy Sharif led us to believe. He was a big fat hairy American rapist!”

  Oh shit! Annabelle wasn’t even talking about her mother’s murder. She was carrying on about her afternoon meeting with Sharif Rani’s son. Jesus Christ! Did she even know her mother was dead? Hadn’t anyone told her?

  “Have you heard the news?” he ventured.

  “Didn’t you read the text message I left on your phone?” she said shortly. “’Cause you don’t seem to care that I got beat up and raped! What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, regretting that he hadn’t checked his messages. He’d been too busy losing at blackjack, picking up a pretty waitress, and almost enjoying a lap dance.

  “Babe,” he said, finally realizing that he was the one who had to tell her. “There’s something you should know.”

  “What?” she said, furious that he wasn’t reacting in a stronger fashion.

  “It’s your . . . uh . . . mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell you this,” he muttered. “So I guess there’s no other way but to give it to you straight.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Your mother was murdered earlier today. Shot in the face.”

  There was an eerie silence.

  “I . . . uh . . . thought you knew,” he added lamely, watching her closely to see how she reacted.

  Annabelle stared at him in disbelief. What was he saying? What was he talking about? Was she still dreaming? Had her dream turned into some ridiculous nightmare?

  “I’m so sorry, babe,” he said. “It’s a total bummer, I know.”

  “When?” she said at last, catching her breath. “When did this happen?”

  “Sometime this morning in L.A. I dunno much, only what I saw on TV. Soon as I heard the news I got in the car an’ came racing home.”

  “This morning,” she repeated dully, her expression blank. “How come nobody contacted me?”

  “I’m sure somebody must’ve. You checked your messages?”

  She shook her head. Suddenly everything seemed surreal. Her mother had been murdered. Her mother, the world-class beauty. The woman everyone loved. The heroine of countless movies. The Oscar-winning actress with the undeniable talent.

  Her mother. The untouchable Gemma Summer. A woman she’d never been close to. A woman who’d allowed her only child to be raised by a series of disinterested nannies. A woman who’d spent most of her daughter’s childhood away on location shoots – unless there was the need for a People or Vanity Fair cover story – in which case a cute little five year old added to the appeal of the picture. Then, after the age of eight, there were no more photo sessions. Eight was too old to be considered cute any more, although sometimes her father took her to the Lakers games and they were photographed sitting courtside. But even he stopped doing that when she hit puberty.

  Ah yes, puberty. Her South African nanny had taught her the facts of life. Her mother had decided she needed a nose job at fourteen. And a young Mexican gardener who worked on their estate had taught her how to give head.

  At school she’d perfected the art of the blow-job, becoming the most popular girl in her class. Sex was her way of getting plenty of attention. She excelled at it.

  There was also shopping, for her parents didn’t stint when it came to giving her money. They handed her a bunch of credit cards and gifted her with a Porsche on her sixteenth birthday. Anything to keep her out of their way.

  So there she was, a popular girl, a rich girl, a spoiled girl, with nobody around to stop her from doing anything she wanted.

  And what she wanted was to get away from her self-absorbed movie-star parents. Fly the coop, and lose the tag – “This is Annabelle. Her mother is Gemma Summer and her father’s Ralph Maestro.”

  Moving to New York was the best thing she’d ever done. Very few people knew who her parents were, and who she really was. That’s the way she liked it.

  Gemma Summer. Mother. Dead. And she’d never even got to know her.

  “Check the messages on the phone at the SoHo apartment,” she said, her throat constricted. “That’s the only number Ralph’s got.”

  Frankie did so, and sure enough there were a slew of messages, including a terse one from Ralph himself, saying that he was sending one of his lawyers to New York to bring her home.

  Frankie informed Annabelle, who stubbornly shook her head. “I refuse to go back to L.A.,” she said flatly. “Why should I?”

  “’Cause it’s about your mom,” Frankie said, reasoning with her. “You gotta do it, babe. There’ll be a funeral, an’ you have to be there. I’ll come with you. Don’t you worry about it, I’ll be beside you all the way.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Denver

  My flight to New York was uneventful, apart from the fact that I spotted Denis Leary pacing up and down, waiting to board the plane. Since I’m such a huge Rescue Me fan, I contemplated going up to him and telling him what a clever and entertaining show it was – but then I realized he already knew that, and I would probably come across like some half-baked starry-eyed fan – or even worse – a stalker. So I controlled myself, and instead studied the L.A. edition of the New York Post and USA Today, both of which featured screaming headlines about Gemma Summer Maestro’s brutal demise.

  It made me realize that by the time I reached Annabelle, she would already know the shocking news – in fact, she might even be on a plane heading for L.A. We could be crossing in the air, which meant that my trip to New York was pointless.

  I wondered how Annabelle would take the news of her mother’s murder. It was such a shattering and terrible event. To be shot in the face in your own bed . . .

  For a second I tried to put myself in Annabelle’s place. What if it was my mom? Thank God that was impossible. Or was it? Who knew what lurked just around the corner. We all understand that fate has a way of playing unexpected tricks.

  My thoughts moved on to Mario. Should I have called or texted to tell him I was heading out of town? Or would he perceive that as coming on too strong too soon?

  Crap. I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. It’s not as if it’s a relationship. Mario is not my boyfriend, nor do I want him to be. I am happy on my own. Quite content, thankyouverymuch.

  Although . . . sometimes I do miss that spooning thing in bed, the kind of deal you only get when you’re with a proper boyfriend.

  Once off the plane I checked my BlackBerry. There were several messages and texts. My dad, saying he’d read my name in the papers and what was happening
with the case? I’d not had a moment to call him. Felix, reiterating that I should bring Annabelle back A.S.A.P. per Ralph’s instructions. And yippee – a call from Carolyn informing me that she had something major to tell me.

  Carolyn has been my best friend for ever. I hope that her news is good – like she’s gotten back together with Matt and they’re planning on getting married. Carolyn should be married, she’s that kind of girl. Smart and sensible and nurturing, any man would be lucky to have her.

  I myself am not the marrying kind. I have no desire to be tied down to one man for ever. I possess no maternal instinct, although I do love kids – other people’s that is. And the last thing I am is nurturing. No, I have to admit that my career is all-important to me, and right now it definitely comes first. Which is why I’m in New York and not languishing in bed with Mario, experiencing even more exceptional sex.

  Carolyn and I haven’t seen each other in ages, and I miss her. I am so looking forward to her upcoming trip to L.A. She’s promised to stay for ten days, and I have all kinds of plans. I’m thinking we could sneak in Vegas for a couple of days, and maybe visit a spa retreat. We both work so hard that her visit will be a great excuse to do nothing else except chill out. I’ve already warned Felix I will be adding to the Christmas vacation time with a few leftover days I’ve been saving up. He didn’t take it well.

  As I stood outside the airport shivering while I searched for a cab, I wondered if sex with Mario was as exceptional as I’d thought. Maybe it just seemed great because I hadn’t had it in a while. Or maybe Josh was really bad in bed.

  Poor Josh . . . not my problem any more.

  I finally spotted a cab and grabbed it before someone else did.

  “Where to?” asked the driver, a surly white man with incongruous dreadlocks and a missing front tooth.

  Good question. I hadn’t booked a hotel because all I planned on doing was meeting Annabelle, persuading her to fly to L.A. with me, and catching the next flight back.

  I checked my BlackBerry for the address in SoHo Ralph had given me, and instructed the driver to take me there. Then I tried the phone number Ralph had also given me, and connected with voicemail, which seemed reasonable as I’m sure Annabelle wouldn’t be answering her phone at a time like this.

  I left a message: “Hi, this is Denver Jones. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m now an associate at the law firm employed by your father, and I’m here to assist you back to L.A. for the funeral.” Lamely I added, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  I wondered if she would remember me. After all, Denver Jones is not exactly an everyday name. We’d shared some fun times until she’d dropped me. But that was a long time ago, we were kids then, and I’m sure she’s nicer now.

  On impulse I called Mario. Didn’t mean to, but somehow my phone decided to go there.

  “Hey –” he said.

  “Hey –” I responded. “Guess where I am?”

  “I know where you should be,” he said, sounding quite pleased to hear from me.

  “And where would that be?” I answered coyly, horrified at myself, for I am not a coy girl. There’s just something about Mario that brings out the girl in me. Maybe it’s those world-class abs. More likely his world-class cock.

  “In my bed, next to me,” he said.

  Giggle. Giggle. Oh crap, I’m falling to pieces before my very eyes!

  “I’m in New York,” I managed, slightly breathless.

  That piece of news aroused his interest. “You are? What you doing there?”

  Should I tell him?

  No. He’s a TV reporter, can’t let him know too much.

  “A couple of personal things I have to take care of,” I answered, making it sound as vague as possible.

  “I thought you were on the Ralph Maestro case,” he said suspiciously.

  Was he fishing?

  Probably. He’s a journalist, after all. He has to be curious.

  “I am,” I answered carefully. “I mean, my firm is. But right now there’s nothing to do.”

  “Unless Ralph Maestro is arrested,” he stated.

  “And why would they arrest Ralph Maestro?” I asked, my tone becoming a tad frosty since I had planned on having an intimate conversation about our amazing night of sex, not a discussion about the Maestro case.

  “Word is they got nobody else in mind,” Mario said. “You should take a look at the blogs, they’re all over it.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I exclaimed, jumping to my client’s defense.

  “Yeah?” Mario said, taking a long steady beat. “You sure?”

  “I have to go,” I said, suddenly anxious to get off the phone.

  “When you coming back?”

  “Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Quick trip.”

  “It is.”

  “So . . . Denver,” he said, his voice turning sexy and seductive. “Dinner the instant you return? Yes?”

  I loved the way he said my name. I managed a casual, “Sure,” and quickly clicked off.

  Mario Riviera could be trouble. I’d only spent one night with him, and already I was thinking about him far too much.

  * * *

  An hour of horrendous traffic jams and death-defying driving later, my cab driver deposited me outside a building in SoHo.

  I checked my watch. It was almost four-thirty New York time, and bitterly cold. Pulling my not-nearly-warm-enough jacket around me, I studied the row of push buttons by the door, and spotted A. Maestro. After pressing the buzzer I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .

  No answer.

  I’m sure my instincts are right and Annabelle is already on a flight to L.A.

  Damn Ralph Maestro and his stupid instructions. I could be in my sunny office in Century City right now instead of freezing my ass off in front of a locked building in SoHo.

  As I was contemplating my next move, a tall youngish man emerged from the building all bundled up in a long khaki army coat, striped scarf, and one of those knit caps that Jake Gyllenhaal’s always photographed in.

  I felt like ripping the cap off his head, I was that cold. Nobody had prepared me for a New York winter, and I was not dressed for the part.

  “Excuse me,” I said, jumping right in. “Do you happen to know an Annabelle Maestro?”

  “Who?” he said, stopping for a moment.

  “A. Maestro,” I said, indicating the row of bell-pushes. “She lives here.”

  “Oh,” he said, wrinkling his forehead. “You must mean the redhead on the top floor. Seen her a couple of times in the last year. She doesn’t come here much.”

  “I thought she lived here.”

  “Nah. From what I hear she has a boyfriend uptown. I guess she bunks with him.”

  “Would you happen to know where?” I asked, rubbing my hands together with the hope of generating some well-needed heat.

  “Sorry, can’t help you,” he said, smiling at me, and began striding briskly off down the street.

  Before the main door closed, I slipped inside. At least it was warmer in the vestibule, and I could figure out what my next move should be.

  I was standing by a row of mailboxes, and I did a quick check to see what A. Maestro held. The guy in the army coat was right, Annabelle obviously didn’t spend much time here. Her mailbox was overflowing, and since it wasn’t locked I shuffled through her mail to see if I could spot anything with the boyfriend’s name on it.

  Nothing except junk-mail, bills and several magazine subscriptions – Vogue, InStyle, Harpers. Yes, this was definitely Annabelle’s mailbox. And then, right at the bottom of the pile I discovered a copy of Rolling Stone. It was addressed to Frankie Romano at Annabelle’s address. Bingo! Must be the boyfriend.

  What to do next?

  I decided to call Ralph Maestro. Mr Friendly.

  Naturally I was informed by a snippy-sounding assistant that Mr Maestro was taking no calls, and when I assured her it was important and concerned his daughter, sh
e came back with a sharp, “No exceptions,” and hung up on me.

  Very pleasant.

  Next I called Felix and told him what I knew.

  “Stick around,” Felix said. “I’ll find out where she is and get back to you.”

  Ha! Stick around! Apparently he didn’t realize the weather in New York was below freezing.

  Reluctantly I left the building, trudged down the block and discovered a grungy little coffee shop. When I say grungy I mean it wasn’t all clean and sparkly like a Starbucks or a Coffee Bean. This place had character – it also had the guy in the army coat sitting at a table drinking a mug of coffee while tapping away on his laptop.

  “Hi,” I said, on my way to the counter.

  He barely glanced up.

  So much for my powers of attraction. Well, I suppose I wasn’t looking my best with unwashed hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, bloodshot sleep-deprived eyes, and a red nose.

  I’d almost gone from Mario’s bed to the airport, and sleeping on the plane is not my fave thing. I prefer to stay alert, just in case.

  I walked up to the counter and ordered a cappuccino and a piece of appetizing apple-pie from a heavy-set, middle-aged man who appeared to have strayed out of a scene from The Sopranos. He was unshaven, with badly dyed black hair pouffed into a Donald Trump-style bouffant, a pallid complexion, and heavy-lidded eyes.

  On impulse I asked him if he happened to know a Frankie Romano.

  The man thought for a moment, then said, “Yeah, Frankie. He don’t come around no more.”

  “Do you know where I might find him?”

  “The kid’s a deejay – he got some cushy job playin’ records for a livin’. Used to be in here every mornin’.”

  “Is there any way I can locate him?” I asked, probably sounding too much like a lawyer.

  “Why? You pregnant?” The man burst out laughing at his incredibly sexist remark.

  Army Coat glanced up from his laptop. He’d removed his knit cap, revealing a mop of blondish curly hair.

  “Actually,” I said, holding onto my dignity, “Frankie has inherited money. That’s why I need to find him, so I can make sure he knows.”