Poor Little Bitch Girl (14 page)

I myself am not the marrying kind. I have no desire to be tied down to one man for ever. I possess no maternal instinct, although I do love kids – other people’s that is. And the last thing I am is nurturing. No, I have to admit that my career is all-important to me, and right now it definitely comes first. Which is why I’m in New York and not languishing in bed with Mario, experiencing even more exceptional sex.

Carolyn and I haven’t seen each other in ages, and I miss her. I am so looking forward to her upcoming trip to L.A. She’s promised to stay for ten days, and I have all kinds of plans. I’m thinking we could sneak in Vegas for a couple of days, and maybe visit a spa retreat. We both work so hard that her visit will be a great excuse to do nothing else except chill out. I’ve already warned Felix I will be adding to the Christmas vacation time with a few leftover days I’ve been saving up. He didn’t take it well.

As I stood outside the airport shivering while I searched for a cab, I wondered if sex with Mario was as exceptional as I’d thought. Maybe it just
seemed
great because I hadn’t had it in a while. Or maybe Josh was
really
bad in bed.

Poor Josh . . . not my problem any more.

I finally spotted a cab and grabbed it before someone else did.

“Where to?” asked the driver, a surly white man with incongruous dreadlocks and a missing front tooth.

Good question. I hadn’t booked a hotel because all I planned on doing was meeting Annabelle, persuading her to fly to L.A. with me, and catching the next flight back.

I checked my BlackBerry for the address in SoHo Ralph had given me, and instructed the driver to take me there. Then I tried the phone number Ralph had also given me, and connected with voicemail, which seemed reasonable as I’m sure Annabelle wouldn’t be answering her phone at a time like this.

I left a message: “Hi, this is Denver Jones. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m now an associate at the law firm employed by your father, and I’m here to assist you back to L.A. for the funeral.” Lamely I added, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

I wondered if she
would
remember me. After all, Denver Jones is not exactly an everyday name. We’d shared some fun times until she’d dropped me. But that was a long time ago, we were kids then, and I’m sure she’s nicer now.

On impulse I called Mario. Didn’t mean to, but somehow my phone decided to go there.

“Hey –” he said.

“Hey –” I responded. “Guess where I am?”

“I know where you
should
be,” he said, sounding quite pleased to hear from me.

“And where would that be?” I answered coyly, horrified at myself, for I am not a coy girl. There’s just something about Mario that brings out the girl in me. Maybe it’s those world-class abs. More likely his world-class cock.

“In my bed, next to me,” he said.

Giggle. Giggle.
Oh crap
, I’m falling to pieces before my very eyes!

“I’m in New York,” I managed, slightly breathless.

That piece of news aroused his interest. “You are? What you doing there?”

Should I tell him?

No. He’s a TV reporter, can’t let him know too much.

“A couple of personal things I have to take care of,” I answered, making it sound as vague as possible.

“I thought you were on the Ralph Maestro case,” he said suspiciously.

Was he fishing?

Probably. He’s a journalist, after all. He has to be curious.

“I am,” I answered carefully. “I mean, my firm is. But right now there’s nothing to do.”

“Unless Ralph Maestro is arrested,” he stated.

“And why would they arrest Ralph Maestro?” I asked, my tone becoming a tad frosty since I had planned on having an intimate conversation about our amazing night of sex, not a discussion about the Maestro case.

“Word is they got nobody else in mind,” Mario said. “You should take a look at the blogs, they’re all over it.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I exclaimed, jumping to my client’s defense.

“Yeah?” Mario said, taking a long steady beat. “You sure?”

“I have to go,” I said, suddenly anxious to get off the phone.

“When you coming back?”

“Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Quick trip.”

“It is.”

“So . . . Denver,” he said, his voice turning sexy and seductive. “Dinner the instant you return? Yes?”

I loved the way he said my name. I managed a casual, “Sure,” and quickly clicked off.

Mario Riviera could be trouble. I’d only spent one night with him, and already I was thinking about him far too much.

* * *

An hour of horrendous traffic jams and death-defying driving later, my cab driver deposited me outside a building in SoHo.

I checked my watch. It was almost four-thirty New York time, and bitterly cold. Pulling my not-nearly-warm-enough jacket around me, I studied the row of push buttons by the door, and spotted
A. Maestro
. After pressing the buzzer I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . .

No answer.

I’m sure my instincts are right and Annabelle is already on a flight to L.A.

Damn Ralph Maestro and his stupid instructions. I could be in my sunny office in Century City right now instead of freezing my ass off in front of a locked building in SoHo.

As I was contemplating my next move, a tall youngish man emerged from the building all bundled up in a long khaki army coat, striped scarf, and one of those knit caps that Jake Gyllenhaal’s always photographed in.

I felt like ripping the cap off his head, I was that cold. Nobody had prepared me for a New York winter, and I was not dressed for the part.

“Excuse me,” I said, jumping right in. “Do you happen to know an Annabelle Maestro?”

“Who?” he said, stopping for a moment.

“A. Maestro,” I said, indicating the row of bell-pushes. “She lives here.”

“Oh,” he said, wrinkling his forehead. “You must mean the redhead on the top floor. Seen her a couple of times in the last year. She doesn’t come here much.”

“I thought she lived here.”

“Nah. From what I hear she has a boyfriend uptown. I guess she bunks with him.”

“Would you happen to know where?” I asked, rubbing my hands together with the hope of generating some well-needed heat.

“Sorry, can’t help you,” he said, smiling at me, and began striding briskly off down the street.

Before the main door closed, I slipped inside. At least it was warmer in the vestibule, and I could figure out what my next move should be.

I was standing by a row of mailboxes, and I did a quick check to see what
A. Maestro
held. The guy in the army coat was right, Annabelle obviously didn’t spend much time here. Her mailbox was overflowing, and since it wasn’t locked I shuffled through her mail to see if I could spot anything with the boyfriend’s name on it.

Nothing except junk-mail, bills and several magazine subscriptions –
Vogue
,
InStyle
,
Harpers
. Yes, this was definitely Annabelle’s mailbox. And then, right at the bottom of the pile I discovered a copy of
Rolling Stone.
It was addressed to Frankie Romano at Annabelle’s address. Bingo! Must be the boyfriend.

What to do next?

I decided to call Ralph Maestro. Mr Friendly.

Naturally I was informed by a snippy-sounding assistant that Mr Maestro was taking no calls, and when I assured her it was important and concerned his daughter, she came back with a sharp, “No exceptions,” and hung up on me.

Very pleasant.

Next I called Felix and told him what I knew.

“Stick around,” Felix said. “I’ll find out where she is and get back to you.”

Ha! Stick around!
Apparently he didn’t realize the weather in New York was below freezing.

Reluctantly I left the building, trudged down the block and discovered a grungy little coffee shop. When I say grungy I mean it wasn’t all clean and sparkly like a Starbucks or a Coffee Bean. This place had character – it also had the guy in the army coat sitting at a table drinking a mug of coffee while tapping away on his laptop.

“Hi,” I said, on my way to the counter.

He barely glanced up.

So much for my powers of attraction. Well, I suppose I wasn’t looking my best with unwashed hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, bloodshot sleep-deprived eyes, and a red nose.

I’d almost gone from Mario’s bed to the airport, and sleeping on the plane is not my fave thing. I prefer to stay alert, just in case.

I walked up to the counter and ordered a cappuccino and a piece of appetizing apple-pie from a heavy-set, middle-aged man who appeared to have strayed out of a scene from
The Sopranos
. He was unshaven, with badly dyed black hair pouffed into a Donald Trump-style bouffant, a pallid complexion, and heavy-lidded eyes.

On impulse I asked him if he happened to know a Frankie Romano.

The man thought for a moment, then said, “Yeah, Frankie. He don’t come around no more.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“The kid’s a deejay – he got some cushy job playin’ records for a livin’. Used to be in here every mornin’.”

“Is there any way I can locate him?” I asked, probably sounding too much like a lawyer.

“Why? You pregnant?” The man burst out laughing at his incredibly sexist remark.

Army Coat glanced up from his laptop. He’d removed his knit cap, revealing a mop of blondish curly hair.

“Actually,” I said, holding onto my dignity, “Frankie has inherited money. That’s why I need to find him, so I can make sure he knows.”

Mister Shark Teeth – neé Felix – had taught me to always mention money when tracking someone down. The word has a magical way of opening up doors.

“The kid’s gonna be happy ’bout that,” the man behind the counter said, scratching his chin. “I think we got a card or sompin’. Yo – Mara,” he bellowed. “Get your fat ass out here.”

Mara appeared from the back, an illicit cigarette dangling from her lips. She was obviously the man’s wife, and she too looked the part. Scads of heavy make-up, ample hips and a sour expression. HBO would cast her in an instant. “What?” she snapped.

“This girl’s lookin’ for Frankie Romano – remember the deejay kid, used to be in here all the time. ’Dint he give you his card ’cause you was thinkin’ of using him for your cousin’s weddin’?”

“Too expensive,” Mara sniffed. “What did the little pissant think, that we was made of money?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man agreed. “But ya still got his card, doncha?”

“Chucked it,” Mara said, shooting me a flinty glare – like how dare I even ask.

“Sorry, girlie,” my Mafia Don said. “The pie’s on me. Enjoy.”

I took my pie and cappuccino and retreated to a table in the corner. Two minutes later the guy in the army coat leaned over – as I said before, the place was tiny – and handed me a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” I asked, noticing that he had very appealing brown eyes fringed with long thick lashes.

“Frankie Romano’s number,” he said.

“How did you—”

“Overheard your conversation so I Googled him. Frankie Romano, deejay. Parties. Events.”

“Oh . . . wow, thanks,” I said appreciatively. “I really need to get in touch with him.”

“You’re not a New Yorker, are you?”

“How can you tell?”

“I dunno, kind of the way you’re dressed.”

“What’s the giveaway?” I asked curiously.

“Thin jacket. No boots. No scarf. No gloves. You must be freezing.”

“I am,” I confessed, noting that the brown eyes went nicely with the curly blondish hair. “In fact, the moment I saw you I wanted to rip that warm-looking cap right off your head,” I added jokingly.

Army Coat grinned. He had crooked teeth, not perfect like every guy in L.A., but just crooked enough to work.

“It’s yours,” he said, gallantly handing me his cap.

“No, I can’t accept it,” I protested.

“Sure you can. It’s not as if I’m giving you a diamond. Besides, your hair looks like it’s in dire need of rescue. Bad night?”

“Actually it was a great night,” I said, thinking of Mario. “But then I had to get on a seven a.m. flight and come straight here.”

“From?”

“L.A. Can’t you tell?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“No fake tan amongst other things.” He grinned again, and offered his hand. “Sam – and you are?”

“Denver.”

“Interesting name. Different.”

“My parents thought so.”

“What are you really here for, Denver?” he asked, adding more sugar to his coffee and vigorously stirring.

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”