Poor Little Bitch Girl (39 page)

Then the thought occurred – why was she even considering splitting it with him? She was the brains behind the business. Why shouldn’t she keep everything for herself?

It was an excellent thought. Before dumping him she’d remove the cash and put it in a safe-deposit box at the bank registered in her name only. Frankie would go nutzoid, but there would be nothing he could do about it.
Too bad, Frankie.

Annabelle realized that she had plenty to think about before making any rash moves.

* * *

Testing his luck, Frankie stopped by a roulette table on his way up to the suite and placed a two-thousand-dollar bet on black. It came up. He let the four thousand dollars ride, and black came up again. Six thousand dollars’ profit in a matter of minutes – not bad for a two-thousand dollar initial bet. Maybe his luck was changing and this whole tabloid thing would blow over without anyone noticing.

Yeah, sure, and roses would grow out of President Obama’s ass.

Still testing himself, he let the full eight thousand ride once again. And to his shock and amazement, black hit again!

Grabbing his sixteen thousand dollars in thousand-dollar chips, he headed for the cashier station. On the way he spotted Brigette Stanislopoulos sitting at one of the blackjack tables. Next to her was a statuesque blonde.

Never one to miss an opportunity, he made his way toward them. “’Scuse me,” he said, tapping Brigette on the shoulder. “Brigette, right? We met at
Mood
in New York a few times. I’m Frankie Romano, close friend of Bobby’s. We’re all gettin’ together tonight.”

“Of course. Frankie,” Brigette said with a polite smile. “Bobby told me, and I do remember you. You’re the superdeejay.”

Jeez, she was so damn pretty, a little older than he would’ve liked – thirty something – but she was mega-rich like Bobby. He’d heard so many stories about Brigette Stanislopoulos and her fatal attraction to losers. If he wasn’t with Annabelle, a woman like Brigette with her startlingly bright blue eyes, cascades of blonde hair and extreme mega-bucks, might be exactly what he needed. There was nothing wrong with a little older-woman action. Yes, he could definitely go for the voluptuous heiress.

“This is my partner, Kris,” Brigette said, introducing him to the other blonde sitting next to her, another stunner.

Bummer! The heiress had turned dyke. Too bad. Although . . . the potential for a threesome flashed before his eyes, and he was major into what he saw.

Bobby interrupted his fantasy by coming up behind him and saying, “You’re back.”

“Yeah, I’m back,” Frankie said.

“And I see you’ve met Brigette.”

“Listen, guys,” Brigette said with a good-natured smile, “much as I’d love to sit around and chat, I’m trying to teach Kris to play blackjack, so can we catch up later?”

“You got it,” Bobby said, grabbing Frankie’s arm. “Let’s go, bro.”

They walked across the casino.

“I just won a shitload of money,” Frankie said, still slightly dazed by his big win. “Gotta cash in.”

“Have you told Annabelle yet?” Bobby asked as they headed for the cashier.

“About my big win?” Frankie said flippantly.

“No. About the story, asshole.”

“I’m figuring she’s not gonna find out,” Frankie said, plunking down his chips at the cashier’s counter.

“Then you’re a bigger asshole than I thought,” Bobby said, shaking his head in wonderment at Frankie’s thick skin. “Of course she’ll find out. Believe me – it’ll go a lot smoother if she hears it from you.”

“You don’t know Annabelle,” Frankie said glumly.

“Yeah, I think I do. So take my advice and tell her.”

“Later,” Frankie said, stuffing wads of cash in his pockets. “Right now I’m on a roll. An’ nothin’ stops Frankie Romano when he’s hittin’ a hot streak.”

R
alph Maestro actually got a police escort. I couldn’t believe it! Two motor-cycle cops (very studly motor-cycle cops) appeared out of nowhere, and with sirens screaming, the heavy traffic opened up. Within eight minutes we were arriving at the hotel.

And what a hotel! The Keys was a magnificent structure. Unlike most Vegas hotels, it screamed class and style.

I hadn’t been to Vegas since Josh and I spent a weekend at the Hard Rock when he attended a college reunion and insisted I accompany him. Total nightmare. Although for some strange reason the sex was outstanding. I guess Vegas turned Josh on.

Valets, porters, bellboys, and a couple of guys in dark suits surrounded our limo, and when Ralph emerged, everyone went into
let’s-kiss-the-big-movie-star’s-ass
mode. It was a sight to behold, although Ralph was obviously used to it, for he practically ignored everyone as they escorted him through the lobby to a private elevator and then up to a magnificent four-bedroom suite with a pool table, a full bar, and a white piano in the living room. Outside the suite, a gleaming turquoise lap pool shimmered in the middle of an exquisitely landscaped terrace.

We were staying – what – two hours at the most? But only the best was good enough for Ralph Maestro, Mister Movie Star Supreme.

I needed to call George Henderson back, and I didn’t want to do it from the suite, so I made a quick excuse that I had to buy something in the pharmacy, and ducked out.

Mention the word pharmacy to a man and they immediately back off. Felix was no exception, although he did tell me to make it fast.

Downstairs I searched out a quiet corner near a side entrance and pulled out my phone, but before I could use it, who did I see walking toward me but Bobby and Frankie.

I had nowhere to run. It was too late anyway, as Frankie had seen me and the two of them were heading full force in my direction.

“What the hell are
you
doin’ here?” Frankie demanded, left eye in full twitch. “Didn’t you just call me from L.A.?”

“I never said I was in L.A.,” I answered defensively.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” Frankie wanted to know, moving closer, invading my personal space.

Oh crap
. What was I supposed to say? That I’d flown in with Ralph who was ready to kill him. And that if he was smart he’d run for the hills without passing Go.

“Leave the girl alone,” Bobby said, throwing me a dazzling smile. “You’re questioning her as if you’re the D.A.”

“I’m not into people playin’ mindgames with me,” Frankie grumbled. “Why was she pretendin’ to be in L.A.? Somethin’s wrong, I can smell it.”

Bobby gave me a sympathetic look. My eyes couldn’t resist focusing on his mouth. Was it possible for a man to have such kissable lips? I guess so, ’cause he sure as hell has them.

“Look,” I said, deciding to come clean, “if you must know, I flew in with Ralph Maestro. He’s major pissed about the story in
Truth & Fact
, and he’s come here to find Annabelle and take her home with him.”

Frankie looked like he’d been socked in the face with a wet fish.

“Ralph Maestro is here?” he managed to splutter. “Here, in Vegas?”

“’Fraid so,” I answered calmly, sneaking another look at Bobby’s lips.

“Fuck!” Frankie exclaimed, completely deflated. “He didn’t believe that shit, did he?”

“I rather think he did. Y’know, there are photos, details . . .” I trailed off.

Frankie seemed ready for a total meltdown.

“What’s the deal?” Bobby asked. “Should Frankie go see him, try to explain that it’s all a big mistake?”

I admired Bobby for trying to help his friend out. On the other hand, what kind of mistake could it possibly be?

“I think if Frankie can manage to stay out of his way, that might be the smartest thing for him to do,” I said. “You’ve got to understand that Ralph is furious. He’s out for blood, and it might be Frankie’s.”

“Annabelle hasn’t seen the story,” Frankie said, left eye now twitching out of control. “I need to get to her before Ralph.”

Bobby leaned in and took my arm. “Maybe you can do us a favor and not tell Ralph you’ve seen Frankie,” he said. “Give Frankie time to figure things out.”

“I guess I can do that,” I replied, not minding Bobby invading my personal space at all.

“Gotta go,” Frankie suddenly said. And before either of us could say a word, he took off like a rocket ship, leaving me alone with Bobby.

“Jeez!” Bobby sighed. “What a crappy situation. I think I need a drink, how about you?”

“Now
that
sounds like a plan,” I responded, forgetting about Felix and Ralph and the obsequious Pip. They would just have to manage without me.

“We’ll go over to the Cavendish,” Bobby said, taking charge. “It’s quieter.”

Who was I to argue? I was on my way to having a drink with my teenage crush, Bobby Santangelo Stanislopoulos, and nothing was going to stop me.

* * *

An hour later, I realized I still hadn’t called George Henderson, let alone reported back to Felix, who was no doubt livid. But sometimes in life you gotta go with the flow, and this was one of those times.

We were sitting out on the terrace bar at the Cavendish sipping mojitos – well, that’s not strictly true –
I
was sipping a mojito, while Bobby was drinking beer from the bottle. “Tastes better that way,” he’d informed me.

We were talking non-stop, and I found him to be so interesting, not shallow at all. In school I’d convinced myself that he might be the best-looking thing on two legs, but he was a rich kid so he was probably boring and full of himself.

Not so. Not so at all.

He was telling me about his club in New York, and how he planned on taking over the club concession at The Keys. He was full of terrific ideas and loads of enthusiasm. Then he started asking me about myself, and what aspirations
I
had for the future.

Wow! This was a two-way conversation, unusual to say the least. Most men got off on talking about themselves on a first date and that was it. Of course this wasn’t a date, merely a friendly drink to discuss Frankie’s plight. Not that I personally cared about Frankie, but Bobby – being a loyal friend – seemed concerned.

Ah yes, a date would be a whole different ballgame. And maybe . . .

No! What was I thinking? Bobby probably dated models and actresses, true beauties with stick-thin bodies and a penchant for throwing up.

“Why are you smiling?” he suddenly asked.

“Um . . . I didn’t realize I was.”

“Yeah, you had a real Cheshire Cat grin on your face.”

“I did?” I said, innocence personified.

“You sure did.”

“Actually,” I confessed, “I was wondering if you dated girls who threw up.”

“Huh?” He gave me a full-on quizzical look. “Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“You’re funny.”

“I try to amuse,” I said, as I felt my phone vibrating for maybe the sixth time. “Do you mind if I check my messages and make a quick call?”

“Go ahead. Any need for privacy?”

“That’s okay. I have a friend in Washington who seems to be on the missing list. I have to call her father back, see if he’s found out where she is.”

Bobby nodded. He had the greatest eyes, dark and intense. I imagine he’s a killer in bed.

George Henderson had left another message for me to call him, but when I did he failed to pick up. So I left
him
a message to say that I didn’t know where Carolyn was, and would he please try
me
back again.

Meanwhile, Bobby’s cell rang. He stood up and walked away from our table. Apparently he
did
require privacy.

When he returned to the table he had a thoughtful expression on his handsome face.

“Everything okay?” I asked, sipping my mojito.

“I’m guessing I can tell you ’cause I do believe you’re on our side,” he said, picking up his bottle of beer and taking another healthy swig.

“Tell me what?” I said, delighted that he seemed to trust me.

“Annabelle and Frankie are heading back to L.A. They’re being smart, and getting out while they can.”