Poor Little Bitch Girl (17 page)

He’d always felt guilty about taking off, because who was left behind to console her when he was gone?

No one, that’s who.

Frankie had moved on, and was busy chasing a new life.

“Hey, babe,” he soothed, holding her close. “It’s okay, everything’s gonna be cool.”

“No, it’s not,” she sniffled. “My mother’s dead – and you know something, Frankie? I barely knew her.”

“Not your fault,” he said, handing her a tissue.

“Maybe it is,” she said, sitting up and dabbing her eyes. “Maybe I should’ve stayed and
forced
her to take notice of me.”

“There’s no way you could’ve done that,” he assured her. “According to you, she was always on a movie set or posing for pictures in magazines. She was a busy woman.”

“I should’ve tried harder,” Annabelle lamented, filled with a cold, empty feeling of loss and sorrow.

“No, babe,” Frankie said, playing good boyfriend to the hilt. “You did the best you could.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked tremulously.

“No doubt, babe, none at all.”

Annabelle spent the rest of the afternoon watching all the coverage and stories on TV about her mother’s demise. It was as if she’d finally realized what had actually taken place, and now she couldn’t get enough details.

A couple of times Frankie tried to suggest that she call Ralph, but she waved him away and remained sitting in front of the TV.

At least she seemed to have forgotten about her bad experience with Sharif Rani’s son, which was a relief because Sharif was their star customer, and to lose him as a client would be a disaster.

As soon as he’d calmed Annabelle down, made her a cup of green tea, fed her a couple of Advil, and persuaded her to stay in bed until she felt better, he called their assistant, Janey Bonafacio, to check on everything.

Janey did not come in on weekends, she worked from home on the computer he’d bought her.

“I’m so sorry,” Janey wailed over the phone. “How is Annabelle holding up? Even more important – how are
you
?”

Janey was one of the few people in their lives who actually knew who Annabelle’s parents were. Frankie had sworn her to secrecy, warning her that if she revealed anything to anyone about Annabelle or the business they ran, she would be out of a job. Since Janey would allow nothing to come between her and her beloved cousin, she’d agreed. Her son Chip, however, had not.

Frankie had never considered Chip a threat. As far as he was concerned, Janey’s son was simply around to do everyone’s bidding. At least he could drive a car and was family – that had to count for something. Besides, Chip would never dare defy his mother.

Frankie instructed Janey to doublecheck on everyone’s “appointments,” and make sure that things were on the right track. “Annabelle’s gonna need a few days off,” he informed her. “We might have to fly to L.A. so it’s up to you to make sure you got it all under control. No fuck-ups. There’ll be a hefty bonus in it, Janey, so make Frankie proud.”

“Should I come in today?” Janey asked, anxious to get as close to Frankie as possible. “I could be there in an hour.”

“Not necessary,” he said, equally anxious to get her off the phone. “I’ll get back to you later. Gotta go now – my other line’s buzzing.”

* * *

Chip Bonafacio aspired to far greater things than driving a car for a bunch of whores, picking up Second Cousin Frankie’s dry-cleaning, and generally doing whatever that snooty bitch, Annabelle Maestro, requested.

Oh yes, he knew who she was all right. He’d made it his job to find out as soon as he’d started working for them, even though his mom had attempted to tell him as little as possible about the business Annabelle and Frankie were running.

What did she think? That he was a total moron?

Yeah. Apparently so.

Janey thinking he was dumb worked for him. He still lived at home – too lazy to move out – and his mom did everything for him. She cooked and cleaned and did his laundry, handed him money whenever he needed it, and kept her nagging under control, although sometimes she begged him to show an interest in something – anything.
Yeah. Right.

When he wasn’t running his ass off for Frankie – a man he envied and hated at the same time – he preferred to slack off, watch TV, download porn, bet on football, screw whatever girl he could get his hands on, and drink as much beer as humanly possible.

It never occurred to his mom that he knew everything that was going on, including the identities of some of the better-known women he ferried to their dirty little assignations. Everyone acted like he was invisible, but he was smarter than they thought, and he was keeping his own black book filled with all the info he’d gleaned.

Gemma Summer Maestro’s murder struck him as the break he’d been waiting for. The gruesome story was splashed across the front page of every newspaper and every internet site in the country.

Chip was sure that he was dangerously close to scoring some major bucks.

Chip Bonafacio had big plans for his future. And they did not include his fat, addicted-to-Frankie, dumb-ass, annoying mom.

No fucking way.

“H
,” I said, relieved because I was finally getting an answer from Annabelle’s boyfriend’s phone. “Is this Frankie Romano?”

“Who wants to know?” said a suspicious-sounding male.

“My name’s Denver Jones,” I said quickly, pressing on regardless. “I’m a lawyer working for Ralph Maestro, and I’m here in New York trying to contact his daughter, Annabelle.”

“Why?” he asked guardedly.

“Well . . . I’m sure you heard about the tragedy –”

“Who hasn’t?”

“So you can understand that I do need to speak with Annabelle. It’s quite urgent. Can you give me a number where I can reach her?”

“Where’d you get
my
number?”

“You’re listed,” I answered shortly. “Frankie Romano, deejay – right? Annabelle’s boyfriend.”

“What makes you think I’m her boyfriend?”

For God’s sake! He was more cagey than the CIA! I was cold and tired and I’d been trying to reach her for hours. Thank goodness for Sam, because he’d taken pity on me and let me come back to his apartment and hang out while I tried to reach Annabelle’s boyfriend, who was now behaving in a most irritating fashion. Why had I ever left Mario’s bed, ’cause that’s exactly where I wanted to be right now, cuddly and warm and having great sex. Instead of which I’m in a strange man’s apartment – well, not so strange actually, kind of very attractive in an Owen Wilson kind of way – freezing my ass off and wondering how late the planes continue to take off for L.A.

“Can you help me find her or not?” I said, fast losing patience.

“Is Ralph sending a private jet?”

“Excuse me?” I said, realizing that not only was this guy an asshole, he was a pushy asshole.

“The man’s gotta have his own plane,” Frankie insisted.

“He doesn’t,” I said firmly, although I had no idea whether Ralph did or not. And if he did have a plane, he certainly hadn’t volunteered it.

“Is it possible to speak to Annabelle?” I asked, getting impatient. “I’ve left several messages, none of which she’s responded to.”

“Annabelle’s unavailable.”

I played what I hoped was my trump card. “I
do
know her,” I explained. “We went to school together in L.A. Tell her it’s Denver Jones, I’m sure she’ll remember me.”

“Y’know what,” Frankie said, unimpressed. “I’m gonna havta call you back.”

Damn! I need to get home. This trip is not working for me. And how come Felix hasn’t called me?

I gave Frankie the number of my cell and said, “Please make it soon.” Then I clicked off.

“Problems?” Sam asked, strolling into the room carrying a mug of something hot.

“Annabelle’s boyfriend sounds like a total jerk,” I muttered.

By this time I’d revealed exactly why I was in New York to Sam. After my first attempt to reach Frankie when we were still in the coffee shop, I’d slumped back at my corner table, wondering exactly what I was supposed to do next. Completely at a loss, I’d finally told Sam the truth about why I was there and how I couldn’t return to L.A. without Annabelle in tow.

Sam had turned out to be an extremely sympathetic listener. After an hour he’d suggested that I might like to sit it out at his place while I continued to try to reach either Annabelle or Frankie – whoever answered their phone first.

Gratefully I’d accepted his offer, and now here I was, seething with frustration, sitting on the couch in his very nice roomy apartment – waiting for Annabelle’s asshole boyfriend to call me back.

“Drink this,” Sam said, handing me the mug he was carrying.

“What is it?” I asked, wondering if he was planning on slipping me a roofie and ravishing my poor cold body. Not that anyone would want to ravish me, the way I look. I bet my nose is redder than Rudolph’s!

“It’s hot chocolate with a side of the rape drug,” he said straight-faced.

Wow! It’s as if he can read my mind.

“I
am
a lawyer,” I reminded him, quite sternly.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m giving you all the info upfront.” He paused, and smiled slightly. “You
know
that’s what you were thinking.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I replied, stifling an embarrassed grin.

“Yes,” he said, giving me a full-on knowing look. “That’s exactly what you were thinking.”

I smiled back at him. Suddenly I felt very comfortable in the apartment of a man I’d only met two hours earlier.

I sat on his couch sipping hot chocolate, praying that Frankie Romano would call me back soon and put Annabelle on the line so that I could get the hell out of here and back to L.A.

Although . . . things weren’t so bad. Sam was quite attractive in a lean and lanky way, and I had to admit that we were definitely on the road to a major flirtation.

Was I being unfaithful to Mario?

Hell, no! It’s not as if Mario is my boyfriend, and it’s not as if I’m about to jump into bed with Sam.

Although . . . the thought had crossed my mind.

From a total dry patch to a couple of hot contenders, and all in the course of two fun-filled insane days. This was kind of crazy.

“You hungry?” Sam asked, moving over to an open-plan kitchen. “I could fix us some eggs, or if you’re really starving there’s a spaghetti joint around the corner.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked, jumping off the couch and following him across the room.

“Oh,” he said vaguely. “Could be ’cause you’re smart and appealing and I took an instant like. You’re also gorgeous.”

Gorgeous?!! Was he talking to me with my bed-head, red nose and shivering body?

“Hmm . . .” I said. “Have you recently returned from a desert island where you were deprived of female company?”

“Can’t take a compliment, huh?” he said, teasing me.

“Never been adept at that.”

“Well, you
are
gorgeous,” he said. “You’ve got that Julia Roberts thing going for you.”

“
Pretty Woman
or
Erin Brockovich
?” I asked caustically.

“The hooker or the smart babe,” he mused. “Now that’s what I’d call a great combination.”

“Will you
stop
,” I said, although I couldn’t help smiling.

He laughed, and leaned his elbows on the counter-top. “I recently got dis-engaged from a total bitch.”

“You did?” I asked, perching on the edge of a high stool, relieved that the conversation was taking a new direction.

“Right on I did. Caught her screwing my best friend. How cliché is that?” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it had happened to him. “If I wrote it,” he added wryly, “I’d get laughed off the page.”

“I wouldn’t laugh.”

“How’s that?”

“’Cause it’s always the best friend,” I said airily. “Never fails.”