He decided to phone her and see if she was coming to the opening – with or without her boyfriend. Preferably without.
Over the last few months he’d taken out a few girls, and they were always lacking that certain something Denver possessed. He’d thought about her a lot.
She picked up on the third ring.
“Hey –” he said. “It’s Bobby.”
Without taking a beat, she said, “The same Bobby who ran off and left me with an ex-boyfriend on my doorstep? Not even an ex – a one-nighter from my past. Thanks a lot.”
“I was being respectful,” he said, feeling an immediate connection.
“And not even a phone call,” Denver chided.
“Hey, whattya mean – a one-nighter?” he said lightly. “I didn’t tag you as a one-nighter kind of girl.”
“You didn’t tag me at all,” she said boldly, delighted to hear from him.
When she’d received the invitation to the opening of Mood, she’d kind of hoped he would call. But then she’d thought, Why would he? Over the last few months she’d been busy getting her new career off the ground, and she hadn’t thought about Bobby that much.
Well, sometimes . . . when she was out on a boring date and started remembering their camaraderie and the closeness they’d felt.
Christmas had come and gone, and so had Carolyn – her pregnant friend who flatly refused to reveal who the father was. Carolyn had given up her job in Washington and moved back to L.A. to spend time with her mother – Clare Henderson was in the throes of divorcing Carolyn’s dad.
Denver had a new job working for the city. She was an Assistant D.A. and she loved it. Prosecuting the bad guys was far more satisfying than defending fat cat movie stars with friends in high places.
“So,” Bobby said, “if that guy was a one night only, does that mean you’re free?”
“Well, I’m certainly not charging for it,” Denver quipped.
“Nice,” Bobby said, laughing.
“Where are you?” she added.
“In a plane on my way to Vegas.”
“Your plane?”
“It’s not my plane,” he said patiently. “It’s the Stanislopoulos company plane.”
“But aren’t you Bobby Stanislopoulos?” she teased.
“I guess so, Miz District Attorney.”
“How’d you know about my new job?” she asked curiously.
“You think I haven’t been keeping tabs on you?”
“Hmm . . .” she said, experiencing a warm shiver of delight. “Really?”
“What’s it gonna be?” Bobby said. “Am I stopping in L.A. or are you jumping a flight to Vegas?”
“Well . . .”
“Hey, Denver – I’ve heard of foreplay, but this is ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “It sure is.”
“So . . . I guess I’m coming to L.A. – right?”
“Looks like I can’t stop you.”
“Looks like you don’t want to.”
Denver clicked off her phone, unable to wipe the smile off her face.
Beyond the Epilogue
Denver
Four hours after Bobby’s phone call we were in bed together and it turned out to be everything I’d ever dreamed of.
Okay, so here’s my checklist.
Abs: Perfect.
Technique: Perfect.
Lovemaking: Beyond.
Overall performance: I don’t think – I am crazy in love. And yes, Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos is exactly as I’d imagined him to be.
After his phone call – which somehow or other I’d been expecting – he turned up at the door to my apartment, and it was pretty incredible to see him again.
He stood outside – tall, dark, and major sexy.
I reached forward, took his hand and pulled him inside.
He moved toward me, slammed the door shut with his foot and immediately began kissing me. Long, slow, tongue kisses which took kissing to a whole new level.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he said, his voice deep and husky.
“Me too,” I managed, touching his face.
“What?” he teased. “You haven’t stopped thinking about you either?”
“Hey . . .” I giggled.
Oh God! I am so not a giggler.
Then his hands were pulling my T-shirt over my head, and I began unbuttoning his shirt, because we both craved flesh and I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anyone.
Bobby was King of Foreplay – unfastening the front clip on my bra, brushing my nipples with his fingertips, nudging my breasts together and working on them both at once.
I was breathless with the anticipation of what was to come – half-wishing he would move faster and yet at the same time wishing he would never stop caressing my breasts.
I felt him hard against my thigh, and I slid my hand down to feel him. Then I knew I had to taste him, make that intimate contact I didn’t do with just anyone – in fact, no one since Josh, because call me old-fashioned, but giving oral sex should be saved for someone special. And Bobby was special.
Oh yes . . .
Finally we made it to the bedroom, threw off the rest of our clothes, and started to make love in a leisurely fashion, because we both knew that without a doubt there was more to come, so there was absolutely no reason to rush.
I have no idea what will happen next.
Bobby lives in New York.
I live in L.A.
But one thing I know for sure – some things are meant to be – and this is only the beginning.
About the Author
There have been many imitators, but only Jackie Collins can tell you what really goes on in the fastest lane of all. From Beverly Hills bedrooms to a raunchy prowl along the streets of Hollywood; from glittering rock parties and concerts to stretch limos and the mansions of the power brokers – Jackie Collins chronicles the real truth from the inside looking out.
Jackie Collins has been called a “raunchy moralist” by the late director Louis Malle and “Hollywood’s own Marcel Proust” by Vanity Fair magazine. With over 400 million copies of her books sold in more than 40 countries, and with some twenty-six New York Times bestsellers to her credit, Jackie Collins is one of the world’s top-selling novelists. She is known for giving her readers an unrivalled insiders knowledge of Hollywood and the glamorous lives and loves of the rich, famous, and infamous! “I write about real people in disguise,” she says. “If anything, my characters are toned down – the truth is much more bizarre.”
Visit Jackie’s website www.jackiecollins.com, and follow her
on Twitter at JackieJCollins and Facebook at
www.facebook.com/jackiecollins
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Jackie Collins, Poor Little Bitch Girl
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