Poor Little Bitch Girl

  He should’ve known.

  “I guess we’re done here,” he said, staunchly refusing to let her get to him any more than she already had.

  She stretched like a particularly athletic cat, throwing her muscled arms high above her head and making a purring sound.

  “Zeena is in no hurry,” she assured him. “Whenever you’re ready, perhaps we should try again.”

  And with that she stubbed out her cigarette on his glass-topped bedside table, turned to him, trailed her long fingers down his chest and murmured, “How long do you think that will be, Bobby? Zeena can get very impatient.”

  * * *

  Later, when he awoke, he had no idea when Zeena had left, because it was now early Monday morning, and there was no sign of her.

  Although when he sat up and took a look around, he discovered a few signs. The cigarette stubs on his bedside table; the brandy glass half-filled with Cognac – the imprint of her blood-red lipstick still on the glass; the smell of her musky scent wafting in the air like some kind of olfactory reminder.

  Was he surprised?

  No. He should’ve guessed she would leave silently in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye.

  She was the man.

  He was the woman.

  Fuck! It was an infuriating situation.

  Every time she’d suggested that they make love, he’d complied. Well, it wasn’t happening again. He was about to man-up, stop with the girlish infatuation and redeem his balls.

  The second time they’d fucked she’d made him feel as if he was auditioning for the role of the perfect lover. Any moment he had the feeling that she was about to call out, “Sorry, not good enough. Next!”

  Zeena. What a frigging ball-breaker!

  And yet . . .

  No! He was not signing up for a second round. No way.

  His phone rang and he jumped to answer it. Maybe it was Zeena calling to tell him that she’d had a fantastic and unforgettable time, that he was the best lover she’d ever had, and when could they do it again?

  It was M.J.

  “Wassup?” Bobby mumbled, once again surveying the pile of cigarette butts on his glass-topped table. Miz Superstar could at least have requested an ashtray. But no, that wasn’t her style. Zeena lived to screw with people, she was into testing them – just to see exactly what she could get away with.

  “We got an eleven o’clock with the Russian investors for the Miami and possibly Moscow deals,” M.J. reminded him. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

  Bobby squinted at his watch. “It’s not even eight, M.J. What’s with the panic?”

  “No panic, man. I was thinking that before the meeting we should drop by an’ see Annabelle, pay our respects.”

  “Yeah, you’re totally right,” Bobby agreed. “I’ll call Frankie, give him a heads up we’re coming over.”

  “Do that, an’ while we’re talkin’ – what happened to you last night? I thought you were joining us at Nobu?”

  “Got hung up.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “An old girlfriend stopped by.”

  “Didja—”

  “Don’t even ask,” Bobby said quickly. “Let’s just say it was a very long night.”

  Clicking off the phone, he made his way to the kitchen where he grabbed a bunch of paper towels, returned to the bedroom and cleaned up Zeena’s mess of stubbed-out cigarettes.

  Who did that kind of thing? It was gross. Why hadn’t she asked for an ashtray? She certainly hadn’t been shy about asking him to go down on her. Actually not so much asking, more like an imperious command.

  “Let Zeena see what your tongue can do, Bobby,” she’d murmured, as if his cock was a non-starter.

  Jesus! She’d made him feel so damned inadequate.

  He’d gone down on her for almost half an hour and she hadn’t come. She was holding back purposely, he knew it.

  Then they’d started to fuck again. He was no slouch, but this woman’s energy was endless; she was one unstoppable bundle of yoga moves and impossible positions. By the time they were finished he felt as if he’d gone several rounds with Mike Tyson at his peak.

  She’d requested handcuffs.

  He didn’t have any.

  She’d requested a vibrator.

  He didn’t have that either.

  She’d told him she enjoyed being spanked with leather gloves.

  Too bad. Leather gloves were not his thing. Come to think of it, nor was spanking or vibrators or handcuffs. Weren’t they dirty old man fetishes?

  “Next time Zeena will come prepared,” she’d sniffed.

  What made her think there would be a next time?

  After the sex marathon he’d fallen asleep and woken to her absence.

  Now it was morning and she was gone.

  Get over it, he told himself. Forget about Miz Kinky Superstar. She’s a bad drug, and you know it.

  He was over her.

  Oh yes, he was definitely over her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Annabelle

  “We’re flying to L.A. tomorrow,” Frankie informed Annabelle. “We’re headin’ over to the SoHo apartment first thing an’ meetin’ your dad’s lawyer. How about that?”

  Annabelle threw him a baleful look. “I thought I told you—”

  “No!” he interrupted sharply. “You gotta be there for your mom’s funeral, you’d never forgive yourself if you weren’t. So that’s it, babe. I made the decision, an’ we’re goin. The lawyer’s put together all the arrangements for us to travel in style.”

  Annabelle was about to argue further, but then she decided against it. Frankie was right, she should go to her mother’s funeral. Besides, after watching the devastating story unfold on TV she was anxious to find out the real truth.

  Could it be possible that her father was a suspect?

  No. Impossible. Movie-star Daddy would never harm Gemma, he’d loved and adored his beautiful wife to the exclusion of everyone else – including his own daughter.

  Annabelle had often reflected on the few times she’d been alone with her movie star dad. He’d never complimented her or asked about her life – it was always about how exquisite and talented Gemma was, how loyal and sweet-natured. “You should try to be more like her,” he’d once said in a gruff voice. “Your mother is the perfect woman.”

  Annabelle had immediately taken that to mean that she was the imperfect daughter.

  No wonder she couldn’t wait to get away. Far, far away.

  Now she was going back, because Frankie was right – she’d always have something to regret if she didn’t.

  California, here I come, she thought sourly.

  “Why are we going to the SoHo apartment?” she asked, trying to make up her mind what outfits she should pack.

  “’Cause that’s where your family think you live,” Frankie explained. “And if they find out about Park Avenue, that could open up a shitload of questions ’bout how you can afford it.”

  “Perhaps I should tell Daddy Dearest about our highly successful business,” she said, a spiteful gleam in her eyes. “That way he might finally notice me.”

  “C’mon, babe,” Frankie groaned. “Ralph can’t be that bad.”

  “Wait until you meet him. Mister Movie Star is not easy, you’ll see for yourself.”

  “Yeah, but you’re forgettin’ that I get along with everyone,” Frankie boasted. “Mister Movie Star Daddy’s gonna like me plenty.”

  “We’ll put it to the test,” Annabelle said, opening up her jewelry drawer and selecting a few choice pieces to take with her. “And I’m telling you now,” she added, “I am absolutely not staying at the house.”

  “All taken care of,” Frankie said triumphantly. “Suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Twenty-four-hour limo on tap. Am I a comer or what?”

  “Ralph agreed to everything?” she questioned, surprised that her controlling father hadn’t insisted they stay at the house.

  “He wants you in L.A.,
doesn’t he?”

  “I guess so,” she said, dreading the fact that she would have to spend time with her father. “By the way, what about our business? We can’t just take off.”

  “I got it all under control, babe. Janey’s steppin’ in to make sure everything runs smooth as syrup.”

  “Oh, that’s just great,” Annabelle sneered.

  “She’s practically doin’ that anyway,” Frankie said.

  “Not really,” Annabelle argued. “It’s you who recruits the girls, and it’s me who usually deals with the clients.”

  “I’m gonna have Janey move in here while we’re away.”

  “Guess I’d better lock my closet,” Annabelle said caustically. “I’m sure she’d love nothing better than to play dress up.”

  “Why’re you always so down on her?” Frankie said, his left eye starting to twitch. “She’s doin’ an okay job.”

  Annabelle had her doubts. She didn’t care for Janey and it showed. She and Frankie had a thriving business going on, they were raking in big bucks galore, and she didn’t want anyone screwing things up. Leaving Frankie’s cousin in charge could be a major mistake.

  “Maybe you should stay here with Janey,” she suggested. “Y’know, just in case any problems come up.”

  “No way,” Frankie said, frowning. He had no intention of missing out on a trip to L.A. “Janey can handle everything. Besides,” he added, sidling close and stroking her arm. “My best girl ain’t goin’ nowhere without me, an’ that’s a Frankie Romano promise.”

  * * *

  “I wanna speak to the person in charge,” Chip Bonafacio insisted, his shifty eyes darting this way and that.

  It was early Monday morning and he was standing at the reception desk of a huge glass and chrome building – home to one of the biggest tabloids around – Truth & Fact.

  The girl sitting behind the desk – a trashy bleached blonde with strawlike hair extensions and badly applied fake eyelashes, was giving him a hard time, even though he’d told her he had a major story to sell.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked for the third time.

  “I keep on tellin’ you – I don’t need an appointment,” he said impatiently, well aware that the acne he so dreaded was sprouting up all over his chin. Aggravation always accelerated his condition, and this skank was giving him a hard time.

  “Yes, you do,” she said, glaring at him. “Everyone does.”

  “Even George Clooney?” he said, challenging the douche.

  “You’re not George Clooney,” she answered scornfully, wondering if she was going to have to call security to get rid of this loser.

  “What’s your name?” he snapped.

  “My name? Why do you want my name?”

  “’Cause when they buy my story for a million bucks, I’m gonna make sure your skinny ass gets fired.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, in full sneer. “Like you got a story worth selling.”

  Chip took a step back. “Gonna risk it?” he asked, giving her what he considered his most effective stink-eye. “I drove up in a Mercedes, I’m not some bum off the street, y’know. I got connections, I know important people.”

  The girl tapped her talon-like nails on the glass-topped reception counter. Like her eyelashes, they were fake, and last night at a party with her wanna-be rapper boyfriend, one of them had fallen off. Her head was pounding from too many Appletinis the night before, and she was not enjoying this exchange. She was certainly not enjoying this jerk’s threats about getting her fired. What if he was legit and did have a hot story? Would she get the blame for not letting him through?

  Deciding not to risk it, she made a snap decision. “Mr Waitrose isn’t in today, but his right hand is,” she said, avoiding eye-contact. “You can go on up, sixth floor. Someone’ll meet you at the elevator.”

  Chip was elated. That shit about taking down an employee’s name actually worked! He’d watched Frankie do it a dozen times, and it had always worked for him. Now he, Chip Bonafacio, was also the man.

  Good freakin’ goin’.

  * * *

  Before leaving their apartment in the morning for the SoHo loft, Annabelle got on the phone with several of the girls who worked for them on occasion. She wanted to make sure they all knew that dealing with Janey was only a temporary measure while she was away on a quick business trip to L.A.

  Next she called Janey and gave her explicit instructions on how to behave toward the girls when they came by the apartment. “No gossiping,” she warned. “No driving them crazy with inane chatter. And no asking for autographs. Understood?”

  “As if,” Janey whined, conveniently forgetting the time she’d asked a fairly well-known lingerie model to sign her centerspread in Playboy. Janey hated dealing with Annabelle, Frankie was her main guy.

  “As long as we’ve got that straight,” Annabelle said, thinking about Frankie’s suggestion the previous night that he give Janey the combination to their safe. She’d told him absolutely no way.

  “C’mon, babe,” he’d said, trying to persuade her to give in. “What’s she supposed to do with all the cash the girls deliver?”

  “She can hide it under her fat ass,” Annabelle had said, with no intention of budging on this one. “I’m sure she’s got plenty of room.”

  Frankie’s cash-only policy was well in place. Sometimes the clients paid ahead of time – like Sharif Rani – but usually it was the girls who collected the cash, and then later they dropped off the commission. It wasn’t the best way of doing business, but Frankie adhered to his no paper trail policy. That way, he figured, they could never get caught.

  His naïveté was impressive.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Denver

  I am not a tramp and I am certainly not a slut – words men like to use to put women down. I simply happen to enjoy sex, and quite frankly – why the hell shouldn’t I? If one takes the proper precautions there is nothing wrong with a fast one-nighter.

  Okay, so it was two fast one-nighters – and not so fast at that.

  Hey, if I was a guy, nobody would blink.

  As I’ve mentioned countless times, I’m coming off a major dry spell, and I happen to have met two interesting and sexy guys. Mario of the fab abs, and Sam – who’s a little bit quirky and seems like a really nice guy. The abs might not be quite as fab as Mario’s, but everything else is in primo working order, and yes – the sex was once again memorable.

  I can’t recall exactly how it happened. Well yes, actually I can. After I’d gotten on the phone and made all the arrangements for Annabelle and Frankie’s forthcoming trip, Sam decided I needed to chill out, so he’d cracked open a bottle of red wine, and we’d giggled that wine and scrambled eggs didn’t exactly go together, but it was an unusual mix.

  No, I did not get drunk, just slightly . . . happy. And when he kissed me it was mutual and warm and nice. Kissing is an art, and Sam kind of had it down.

  We kissed for a long time before he ventured further, and that was okay because he was a good kisser. Hey – we’re both adults, and the kissing progressed to a place where neither of us cared to stop. And there was absolutely no reason why we should.

  Sam had moves that reminded me of that ode to awesome lovemaking by the Pointer Sisters – “Slow Hand.” Adele or Duffy should definitely rush into the studio and re-make that one – they’d score a mega-hit.

  Anyway, I digress. Let me put it this way – Sam was also a winner in bed. Totally different style from Mario, but a winner all the same. Sam’s touch was measured, more tactile, in a way more loving. Now I know that sounds ridiculous, since I’ve only known him a few hours, but I feel the connection big-time.

  Am I out of control?

  No way. I’m a normal, healthy American female, acting like a normal, healthy American male. Good for me!

  It’s Monday morning and I’m psyched. Today I get to accompany Annabelle and her pushy boyfriend to L.A.

  Sam is in the shower. I considered j
oining him, but since we’re not exactly a couple I squashed the thought.

  Josh and I used to shower together. It saved on energy, and we probably had our best sex with cascades of water raining down on us. I wonder if Josh now showers with Miss Stylist-to-the-stars? Probably not. I was the one who always instigated it.

  Now why was I thinking about Josh?

  I do occasionally. No reason.

  Jumping out of Sam’s comfortable and cozy bed, I reached for my BlackBerry. There were numerous messages, none that required urgent attention. I smiled at a cryptic text from Carolyn, and immediately texted her back. In New York. Back to L.A. today. Can’t wait to hear your news.

  Sam came strolling in fresh from the shower, a towel knotted casually around his waist. “It’s all yours,” he said.

  Did he mean the shower or what I knew was lurking under the towel?

  I mentally slapped myself. I was having too much fun when I should be concentrating on work. Besides, I was anxious to get back to L.A. and find out exactly what was going on. Was Ralph a suspect in his wife’s murder? Or was the media simply conjuring up a series of meaningless headlines to sell papers, magazines and TV shows?

  “Thanks,” I said, not feeling at all awkward about the previous evening’s activities, even though I was wrapped in a bedsheet with nothing but my yesterday’s clothes to put back on.

  I headed for the bathroom and closed the door. Sam had laid out a toothbrush still in its package, and a small travel tube of Crest. I added thoughtful to his list of attributes.

  Wow! I couldn’t wait to tell Carolyn about my two guys. Superstud Mario – all hot passionate Latino sex. And Sam – laid back, smart, and considerate.

  Standing under a torrent of soothing warm water felt delightful. I was anticipating my meeting with Annabelle. What would she be like now? Still the same spoiled, entitled human being? Or maybe she’d evolved. And how about Frankie Romano? On the phone he’d sounded way cocky with his list of demands. Would I hate him on sight? I had a thing about men who considered themselves superior beings. Frankie sounded like that kind of guy.

  I peered at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not good. Julia Roberts indeed. Ha! More like Julia Child! Anyway I did the best I could to make myself look presentable for my upcoming escort duties.