Poor Little Bitch Girl (19 page)

Then he was falling . . . falling . . . and everything turned to black.

“I
’m getting a strong vibe that this is all a game for you,” Bobby said, coming to the realization that he’d fallen right into Zeena’s cleverly planned trap.

She’d arrived at his apartment with every intention of luring him into bed, and naturally he’d gone for it. Why wouldn’t he? She was major hot and he had a thing for her. It was a no-brainer. Except why – after the act – did he feel like a girl who’d given it up on the first date? Gotten fucked way too fast.

Man, he was so mad at himself.

“A game?” Zeena questioned, casually propping herself up on one elbow, long dark hair draped around her broad shoulders. Totally naked and beyond fit, she was all sleek burnished skin, sinewy muscles and lean loose limbs.

“Yeah, a game,” he repeated. And then, determined to make a point, he added, “But you know what, Zeena, I’m not one of your toy boys – the kind of guy you can have your fun with then shove aside.”

“Did I say you were, Bobby?” she drawled, arching a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. “And
I
should point out,” she added succinctly, “there is nothing
little
about you. But I’m sure many women have told you that.”

“I’m serious,” he said, trying to shake the feeling that she’d used him for her own pleasure and amusement.

“So young,” she sighed, slowly licking her lips. “Sad that Zeena always gravitates toward the young ones.”

“How come you’re pulling the age card?” he said, irritated because her cavalier attitude was beyond annoying. “What are you – fifteen years older than me? Today that’s nothing.”

“Actually,” she opined, leaning across him to reach her crocodile purse she’d placed on the floor beside the bed, her exceptionally large hard nipples brushing against his chest, “you’re more mature than my usual conquests.”

Conquests! Was she referring to him as a conquest? Goddamn it! Who exactly did she think she was dealing with? He was a Santangelo. He’d better start acting like one.

Removing a pack of Gauloises from her purse she let forth a low throaty chuckle. “Poor Bobby,” she said mockingly. “So handsome, so rich, but you need to work on your self-esteem, and maybe your lovemaking technique could use some improvement.”

Shaking his head in wonderment, he realized she was Serenity all over again – a dismissive bitch on wheels trying to screw with his self-confidence. Nobody had ever complained about his lovemaking technique before. As far as he knew he was an accomplished lover, considerate, not too fast, and he was pretty certain he made all the right moves.

What kind of head trip was she trying to pull?

“I thought you came,” he said shortly.

“Zeena always comes, Bobby,” she said, lighting up her cigarette. “She makes sure of it.”

Now he was really pissed. “What’re you saying? That you don’t need me? That you can do it all by yourself?”

“Any woman who depends on a man to give her an orgasm is either a fool or in love,” she responded, blowing lazy smoke-rings in his direction. “Zeena discovered that a long time ago.”

Great, just great. He’d performed to the best of his ability and she was putting him down. Was this her idea of after-play? Most women opted for a smooch and a few kind words. Zeena preferred to go for the jugular.

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.

“W
e’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?”