Poor Little Bitch Girl by Jackie Collins Page A

was patiently awaiting his turn – but Brad was beginning to get antsy . . . he started roughly shaking her shoulder, and . . .
    “Oh my God!” Annabelle exclaimed, awaking with a start and seeing Frankie standing over her. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Atlantic City.”
    “I came back as soon as I heard,” he lied, sitting down on the side of the bed. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you go through this alone, did you?”
    Annabelle rubbed her eyes, reluctant to leave her dream, but happy that Frankie was concerned enough about her degrading experience with Sharif Rani’s son to forgo his weekend with the boys and race to her side. “Frankie,” she murmured, reaching up to touch his cheek with her fingers. “It was so awful . . .”
    “I know, baby,” he said soothingly. “It’s a terrible thing, but let’s be honest about this – it wasn’t as if you were close.”
    “Close!” she exclaimed, struggling to sit up. “Close! I was in the same room, goddamn it. How much closer could I get?”
    “Calm down,” Frankie said, realizing that she was in shock and had no idea what she was saying.
    “What time is it?” Annabelle demanded, glaring at him. “’Cause whatever time it is, I want you to get on the phone to that sonofabitch and ream him a new asshole. Did I tell you he hung up on me? He actually clicked off his phone. Can you believe it?”
    So . . . Ralph Maestro had hung up on his own daughter. Maybe Ralph had shot his wife, and was now filled with guilt. After all, they were Hollywood people – who knew what kind of brutal acts they were capable of.
    Frankie’s mind went into overdrive. If Ralph Maestro had murdered his wife, was convicted and eventually sent to jail – who would inherit everything?
    As their only child, Annabelle – of course. This whole murder thing could end up having a silver lining.
    Frankie immediately imagined himself living in L.A., residing in a mansion, throwing wild parties by the pool and mixing with big-time superstars. Movies, sports, the music biz – he’d get to know them all.
    It bugged him that whenever he’d suggested taking a trip to L.A., Annabelle had always shut him down. “I don’t ever want to go there again,” she’d informed him many times. “Living in L.A. were the unhappiest days of my life.”
    Now everything had changed.
    “Well?” Annabelle asked, a determined look in her eyes. “Are you going to phone him or not?”
    “Hey,” Frankie said, shrugging. “The thing is – I don’t even know the dude, so what would I say?”
    “For God’s sake!” Annabelle snapped, green eyes blazing. “Of course you know him. Just tell him that we’re never doing business with him again.”
    “Huh?” Frankie said, quite confused. Annabelle was taking this harder than he’d expected.
    “I . . . hate . . . him,” Annabelle said through clenched teeth. “And for your information, I don’t care how much money we’ll lose. It’s no big deal, we’ll make it up elsewhere. There are plenty of other billionaires in the sea – we’ll put out a fishing net and haul in a few.”
    She was delirious, that much was obvious.
    “Listen, babe,” he began. “I know this is hard—”
    “Hard!” she exploded. “How about taking a look at my bruises? I’m covered in them.”
    “Huh?” he mumbled, getting more confused by the minute. Annabelle had totally lost it.
    “Bruises, Frankie,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Bruises from a big fat moron who was no way fifteen. And bites – he bit me on my thigh! Sharif Rani should be ashamed of himself, setting me up with his so-called son. Illegitimate, I’m sure, ’cause he sure as hell wasn’t the innocent young Arab boy Sharif led us to believe. He was a big fat hairy American rapist!”
    Oh shit! Annabelle wasn’t even talking about her mother’s murder. She was carrying on about her afternoon meeting with Sharif Rani’s son. Jesus Christ! Did she even know