Poor Little Bitch Girl

by Jackie Collins

  Also by Jackie Collins

  Married Lovers

  Lovers & Players

  Deadly Embrace

  Hollywood Wives – The New Generation

  Lethal Seduction

  Thrill!

  L.A. Connections – Power, Obsession, Murder, Revenge

  Hollywood Kids

  American Star

  Rock Star

  Hollywood Husbands

  Lovers & Gamblers

  Hollywood Wives

  The World Is Full Of Divorced Women

  The Love Killers

  Sinners

  The Bitch

  The Stud

  The World Is Full Of Married Men

  Hollywood Divorces

  THE SANTANGELO NOVELS

  Drop Dead Beautiful

  Dangerous Kiss

  Vendetta: Lucky’s Revenge

  Lady Boss

  Lucky

  Chances

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2009

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Jackie Collins, 2009

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

  No reproduction without permission

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Jackie Collins to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London

  WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN 9781847372604

  Trade Paperback ISBN 9781847372611

  eBook ISBN 9781847378132

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

  For family and friends.

  You are the best!

  &

  For my three incredible

  Amazing daughters.

  Talented, smart and caring.

  I love you all so much.

  Chapter One

  Annabelle

  Belle Svetlana surveyed her nude image in a full-length mirror, readying herself for a thirty-thousand-dollar-an-hour sexual encounter with the fifteen-year-old son of an Arab oil tycoon.

  Belle knew she was a beauty. What the hell, enough money had been spent along the way to make sure she was beautiful. A nose job ordered by her mother when she was a mere fourteen, a boob job shortly after – that was her decision. And then later, liposuction when needed, lip enhancement, regular facials and skin lasering treatments to make certain her skin remained the milky white she’d worked so hard to achieve (getting rid of her freckles had been a bitch, but she’d done it).

  Ever since her teenage years Belle had strived for perfection, and now she’d gotten pretty damn close. Her hair was a pale golden-red, shoulder-length and wavy. Her eyes were a spectacular emerald green. Her body – a playground of delights.

  Yes, she thought, staring intently at her unabashed nakedness, I am worth every cent of the thirty thousand dollars cash already neatly stashed in my safe.

  Usually she did not go out on “dates” herself, but Sharif Rani – the oil tycoon – had insisted that it was she who should teach his youngest son the joys of the flesh. So, for a princely sum, she’d finally agreed.

  Reaching for a peach slip of a dress, she stepped into it, powdered, perfumed and ready for action.

  Thirty thousand an hour, not bad for a job which would probably take her no more than fifteen minutes to complete.

  Of course, she could have turned the job down and suggested one of her twenty-thousand-an-hour girls, but sometimes it was fun to play – especially as she could pick and choose amongst her roster of rich, powerful and famous clients, which included everyone from Hollywood’s biggest stars to several princes, more than one captain of industry, a few superstar rappers, dozens of sports heroes, and too many politicians to count.

  Yes, Belle Svetlana – née Annabelle Maestro – ran the most exclusive, expensive call-girl business in town – the town being New York as opposed to Los Angeles, the city she’d grown up in, surrounded by luxury and all the opulence two movie-star parents could buy.

  Thank God she’d escaped those two egomaniacs – Mom, the ethereal queen of quality independents – and Dad, the macho king of big-budget schlock. What a horror show, having them as parents.

  When she’d dropped out of college in Boston and settled in New York, neither of her loving parents had given a rat’s ass. Admitting to a grown daughter did nothing to enhance their public images, so they’d arranged to send her a monthly allowance, blithely told her to follow her dreams, and left her to her own devices.

  Annabelle was no slouch when it came to following her dreams. She’d soon found herself caught up in the club and party scene – a lifestyle that had satisfied her for a while, until one night she’d been introduced to Frankie Romano – a popular deejay who worked private parties and the occasional hot club. One look at him and it was lust at first sight.

  Originally from Chicago, Frankie was quirky and attractive in a Michael Imperioli kind of way. Fast-talking and edgy, he had longish dark hair, ice-chip blue eyes, and sharp features.

  The trouble with Frankie was that he was usually broke, this on account of the fact that he was a dedicated coke-head, and whatever money came his way went straight up his nose.

  Annabelle fell hard, for in spite of Frankie’s drug use it turned out that he was a star in bed – whenever he wasn’t too coked out to perform. She didn’t know anything about his background, and she didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, they were soulmates.

  After a few weeks of crazy togetherness, Frankie had moved into her SoHo loft. Annabelle hadn’t objected. The only downer was that she’d found herself spending her entire allowance keeping him in drugs, so it wasn’t long before – at Frankie’s urging – she’d called her dad in L.A. and requested that her allowance be increased.

  Ralph Maestro, the self-made son of a Brooklyn butcher – a man who’d gotten shot by a robber when Ralph was twelve – told her no way. “I made it on my own without two cents to rub together,” he had sternly informed her. “We’ve already given you a head start. If you want more money, I suggest you go out and find yourself a job.”

  Annabelle was furious. Her parents raked in millions, and Daddy Movie Star was telling her to get a job! Screw them! It was increasingly obvious that they didn’t give a damn about her.

  A couple of weeks later, she and Frankie had come up with a masterplan. They’d been lying in bed reading the lurid headlines about a married politician who’d recently gotten caught having sex with a series of high-priced call girls.

  “How stupid is he?” Frankie had ruminated, scratching his skinny butt. “The dumb asshole should’ve paid cash. That way nobody gets busted, an’ everyone goes home happy.”

  “Cash is good,” Annabelle had agreed. “For special girls only.”

  “Yeah,” Frankie had said half-jokingly. “Not some mouthy skank who’s gonna sell her story, but very special girls. Y’know the kinda babes I mean. Models, actresses – they’re always on the lookout for an extra score. An’ here’s the sweet part of the deal – we
know ’em all.”

  “We sure do.”

  “So . . .” Frankie had said after a thoughtful few minutes. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

  She was indeed. And so their adventure had begun.

  At first they’d both considered it a lark, but after a few months it had turned into one of the most successful call-girl businesses in town.

  Flushed with success, Annabelle had soon created two identities for herself. As Annabelle Maestro, she was a girl struggling to make it in the fashion industry as a sometime designer. As Belle Svetlana (she got off on the exotic sound of the Russian surname), she was a woman of mystery who was able to supply the right girl to satisfy any man’s fantasy.

  For a price.

  A hefty price, depending on what was required.

  Annabelle’s girls were not hookers. They were stylish, good-looking career women who enjoyed the extra income. Models, actresses, singers, designers, all classy, smart and discreet, and some of them quite well-known.

  It was Annabelle’s idea that the girls they recruited should wear masks when they went on jobs, to hide their identities. She was sure that the men would get off on the mystery, and the girls were happy too, imagining that wearing masks would conceal their true identities.

  Finding the right girls was no problem. Frankie, a major cocks-man before hooking up with Annabelle, knew them all, and he used his considerable way with words to talk them into anything. A shitload of untaxable cash income was the big temptation, and as Frankie pointed out, since most of the girls were fucking for nothing, what was the big deal if they did it and got handsomely paid? Especially if they were able to remain anonymous.

  Frankie vetted all their would-be clients, while Annabelle liaised with the girls and arranged the appointments. Between them they pocketed 60 per cent of every assignation, and it didn’t take long before they were rolling in cash. It was always cash, no paper-trails involved.

  Now they’d been doing it for almost a year, and what a sweet money-making business it had turned out to be. Neither Annabelle nor Frankie had any complaints – that is, until they both realized they needed help.

  After thinking about it for a while, Frankie had recruited Janey Bonafacio, one of his many cousins who lived in Brooklyn and worked as a bookkeeper. He’d asked her if she’d be interested in working for him, and since she’d always harbored a huge crush on Cousin Frankie, she’d immediately quit her job and was hired to take care of the phones and schedule the girls’ appointments.

  Janey, a 275-pound unmarried mother with a nineteen-year-old son, Chip, was delighted to get the job. Worshipping her cousin from afar was one thing, but actually working for him was a dream come true, even if the business he ran with his snooty girlfriend was fairly dubious.

  Annabelle trusted Janey, but she wasn’t so sure when it came to Chip – a surly slacker with way too much attitude and a complaining disposition. Annabelle regarded him as a not-so-charming Frankie in training. They used him to run errands and drive the car.

  “At least they’re family,” Frankie had assured her. “They’ll never screw us.”

  “Don’t be so naïve,” she’d retorted. “When it comes to money, everyone has an agenda.”

  “Hey!” Frankie had said. “We’re payin’ Janey plenty to make sure they stay discreet. An’ remember this – Janey’s got a thing for me. She’d never do anythin’ to hurt me.”

  Annabelle was not so sure.

  * * *

  After making certain that she looked her most seductive, Annabelle buzzed downstairs to check that her car was waiting. Her main residence was a Park Avenue penthouse where she and Frankie spent most of their time, but she still kept the SoHo loft; it was the place where her parents and old friends could contact her. Not that her parents ever did – she heard from them maybe once every few weeks. As for her old friends, she was not interested in them; she had a new life now, and in her new life very few people knew who her parents were and where she came from. That’s the way she liked it.

  Earlier in the day, Frankie had driven to Atlantic City to spend the weekend with a couple of his guy friends, Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, and Bobby’s business partner, M.J. Annabelle knew both Bobby and M.J. from way back when they’d all attended the same high school in Beverly Hills. Yeah, fun times. Bobby and M.J. were a grade ahead of her, but she’d never forgotten the infamous prom night when the three of them had hung out, gotten totally high, and on a dare she’d ended up making out with the two of them.

  Hmm . . . just one of those crazy, out-of-control teenage escapades, although it was quite a memorable experience. Neither Bobby, M.J. nor she had ever mentioned it again. It was a no-go zone.

  Then one night, years later, after she’d moved to New York, she’d walked into Mood and there they were – Bobby and M.J. At first it was quite a shock seeing them, but they’d soon got to talking and catching up on old times. In fact, it was M.J. who’d introduced her to Frankie.

  She’d never told Frankie about her one night of lust with his two best friends, since some things were best left in the past. Besides, she didn’t imagine he’d be too thrilled if he ever found out – and when pushed, Frankie had a vicious temper.

  Since gambling seemed to be Frankie’s new passion, she hadn’t objected to him taking off. Her live-in boyfriend was a handful and then some, so she didn’t mind the occasional night on her own. Chilling out without Frankie would allow her a pleasant break.

  The desk porter informed her that her driver was indeed parked outside.

  Picking up her Chanel purse, she headed for the door.

  As she stepped outside, the phone began to ring. She chose to ignore it; she had a thing about phones, hated answering them. Whoever it was could leave a message.

  She left the apartment and descended in the elevator, quite psyched about the prospect of inducting an innocent young man into the joys of sex. His father, Sharif Rani, was one of their biggest customers. Sharif required a different girl several times a week, and he always came back for more. Annabelle considered Sharif Rani to be a primo client, along with the Hollywood movie star who was an insatiable pussy-hound, and the Hall of Fame rock ’n’ roller with the nine-inch cock and a penchant for girls who would agree to indulge in bathroom activities all over his craggy face.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Svetlana,” the desk porter said, moving out from behind the long marble counter, rubbing his palms together in anticipation of a large tip.

  Annabelle discreetly slipped him a twenty. She’d learned early on that it was smart to keep everyone happy.

  The desk porter tried not to stare at her. She was a beauty, with her pale red hair and slinky body. She was also quite mysterious. Nobody in the building knew what she or her boyfriend did, just that they were young and rich and that they had plenty of good-looking friends.

  Annabelle walked outside, slid onto the back seat of the Mercedes they’d recently purchased, and settled back against the plush leather. She was glad this was an afternoon assignation, because after educating the boy she’d decided to pop into Saks and buy herself the new patent-leather Prada purse she’d seen in the catalogue. And since Frankie was not big on buying her gifts, maybe she’d even treat herself to a David Yurman piece of jewelry.

  Yes, that’s what I’ll do, she thought dreamily. I’ll reward myself for five minutes of not so hard work. I deserve it.

  “Hey there,” Chip said, glancing in the rear-view mirror, his narrow eyes busily checking her out. “How’s it goin’?”

  “I’m not in the mood for conversation, Chip,” she said crisply, tuning him out because he bothered her, he always had. There was just something about him . . .

  “’Scuse me for existing,” he muttered.

  Damn! She decided then and there that Chip had to go. And the sooner the better.

  Chapter Two

  Denver

  My name is Denver Jones and I am a twenty-five-year-old so-called hot-shot attorney, an attorney summ
oned to be part of the defense team being put together to save Ralph Maestro – a mega-famous action movie star – from a murder rap, should he be arrested.

  His beautiful wife – also a movie star, Gemma Summer Maestro – is dead. Shot in the face, her ethereal beauty no more.

  It is early December, and in spite of the blazing California sun, the fake snow is already neatly stacked along the Maestro driveway as I make my way up it. It doesn’t surprise me as I have been here before, many years ago when I was a scrawny twelve year old attempting to curry favor with the most popular girl in school, Annabelle Maestro.

  “Fake snow!” I remember exclaiming the first time I’d visited the Maestro mansion. “You mean your parents have fake snow brought in and pile it all along your driveway?” I’d stared at my new best friend in disbelief.

  Twelve-year-old Annabelle Maestro had stared back at me defiantly. “Denver Jones,” she’d said, wrinkling her freckled nose, the braces on her teeth catching the afternoon sunlight, “you are sooo dumb! This is Beverly Hills, stupid. We don’t have real snow in Beverly Hills.”

  “You don’t?” I’d mumbled, fresh out of Chicago with my not-so-normal parents. Dad, a maverick lawyer, Mom, a political activist and sometime homemaker.

  “No way!” Annabella had huffed, as if I was the town idiot. “You’re so dense!”

  “Sorry,” I’d muttered, although I’d had no clue what I was supposed to be apologizing for.

  Annabelle had picked up a fistful of fake snow and pitched it forcefully into my face. It felt like cotton candy.

  “Come on,” she’d said, her long legs racing up the snow-covered driveway. “I’m starving!”

  I’d trailed behind her, brushing the fake snow off my face and out of my hair.

  That was then, and this is now, and I am no longer that naïve twelve-year-old girl, but I’ll never forget Annabelle and her freckles and the way she used to wrinkle her nose. I haven’t seen her in years. We lost touch right after high school, then later I heard she’d left L.A. to attend college in Boston, and after dropping out she’d apparently moved to New York where she was doing something involving fashion.