Poor Little Bitch Girl (51 page)

T
he Public Attorney assigned to Hank Montero was short, fat and bald. His name was Dewey Find, and he was in the middle of a personal crisis – an acrimonious divorce that was costing him everything he had.

Dewey had loser clients up the kazoo, and quite frankly he didn’t give a fast fuck about any of them. His plan was to opt out of the rat race as soon as he’d saved enough money, and flee to Hawaii, where he planned on finding himself an innocent native girl, and living in a hut on the beach for next to nothing.

Dewey existed in a dream world of his own making.

He hated Hank Montero on sight. Hank was all the things he wasn’t. Tall, well-built, with a full head of hair.

“Make me a deal,” Hank implored.

Yeah
, Dewey thought.
You did a bad, bad thing, so I’ll make you a deal that’ll guarantee you at least ten years behind bars getting butt-fucked by all the guys who used to jerk off to Gemma Summer’s movies.

“Write a confession,” Dewey advised his latest client. “Full disclosure. It’ll go a long way to helping you receive a much lighter sentence.”

So Hank, not the smartest pebble on the beach, did just that.

T
here is nothing the media likes better than a good old-fashioned funeral with all the trimmings. Gemma Summer’s funeral promised to provide everything and more. A church service, followed by an outdoor burial service, with stars and top executives galore. Plus – bonus-time – the exquisite Gemma’s celebrated movie-star husband. And her extremely notorious – as of twenty-four hours ago – daughter, Annabelle – recently exposed as a top New York madam who wasn’t adverse to turning a trick or two herself.

This all was nirvana to the hordes of press assembled at Forest Lawn Memorial Park
–
a burial place for mega-stars. Especially as they’d gotten word through an anonymous source (Fanny Bernstein) that Annabelle Maestro would indeed be attending.

The excitement level was high.

Amongst the throng was Mario Riviera, who hoped he might get a glimpse of Denver. He’d certainly blown it on their last date, and he’d been trying to make amends ever since without much success.

Denver could be privy to some inside scoop she might share with him. It was always a coup, getting one over on the rival entertainment shows with information they didn’t have, and since he’d recently been promoted to co-anchor on the new show
Hollywood Word
, he was out to prove himself. Why not make use of any connections he could muster?

Mario Riviera was not just a pretty face.

* * *

Leaning toward her new client, Fanny grasped Annabelle’s hand. “Stay strong, dollface,” she said, full of good cheer. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I’m not on my way to the dentist!” Annabelle said tartly, thinking that sometimes Fanny could be quite irritating.

Along with Frankie they were sitting in a low-key black town car on their way to Forest Lawn Memorial Park in the Hollywood Hills.

Annabelle was apprehensive about facing Ralph. Her father was such a frightening figure, so much larger than life. When she was a child she’d sometimes experienced nightmares starring his massive face. It had been very disturbing.

Even thinking about it now brought back creepy memories. That larger-than-life face, looming over her . . . it was not a pleasant recollection.

Unfortunately, Ralph now knew all about the business she was running with Frankie. She was well aware how furious he must be.

But then she had to believe that Fanny was right, that there was nothing he could do or say to her in front of everyone, especially as there would be a huge media turn-out observing his every move.

Fanny, clad in the black ruffled dress which made her look twice her size, reached for the bottle of champagne she’d thoughtfully brought with her. She handed it to Frankie along with some plastic glasses. “Open,” she ordered. “Then pour, dollface. We are in dire need of a tipple to take the edge off.” She turned to Annabelle. “Am I speaking for both of us, Princess?”

Annabelle nodded her agreement. A glass of champagne was exactly what she needed to get through the upcoming ordeal. Maybe two or three glasses. Slightly buzzed seemed like a grand alternative to stone-cold sober.

* * *

Accompanied by his lawyer and his trusty PR flack, Pip, Ralph Maestro left his house quite prepared for the circus that was to follow.

There had been much speculation over the past week about Gemma’s murder, but now thankfully all the gossip and innuendo had been put to rest. An arrest had been made, and that was that.

The police had not revealed any details, but the general assumption was that the stalker from New Orleans who’d been tracking Gemma was the person arrested. Even Felix didn’t know for sure.

Ralph was still steaming about the recent revelations concerning his daughter. Annabelle was not a smart girl, she’d always been jealous of the relationship between himself and Gemma. She’d barely been able to hide the resentment she’d felt toward both of them.

It was sad, but now he was done with her. Annabelle would never receive another penny from him.

* * *

The funeral procession was small and dignified. Gemma had no immediate family, she was an only child and her parents were deceased. Ralph had invited only a few of their friends to be part of the line of black limousines following the hearse containing Gemma’s flower-bedecked coffin. Actually not so much friends as heads of studios and important executives. Ralph, like Fanny, was never one to let a career-enhancing opportunity pass by.

Several helicopters containing news crews hovered over the procession.

Even in death, Gemma Summer could still make headlines.

A
s confessions go, Hank Montero’s was a winner. With the help of his attorney, he’d worked on it all night. Put in every detail he could recall. One thing about Hank, he had a pretty good memory for details.

Nobody was locking Hank Montero up for a murder he was hired to commit. No freaking way.

Yeah. That’s right. He was a paid assassin.

An outside contractor.

Not responsible.

And Hank Montero had no compunction about pointing the finger at the person who’d hired him.

No compunction at all.

U
nder different circumstances I would be falling madly, crazily in love with Bobby – and believe me, I am not a romantic, but there is something about him that is so damn irresistible. Not only is he totally drop-dead gorgeous in a very manly way, he’s actually thoughtful and kind – and most of all,
nice
!

What I should be doing is backing away big-time, because he’s actually too good to be true. But then I remembered Zeena and the blow-job incident, so maybe he’s not
that
perfect. Hmm . . .

I shouldn’t be thinking about him; all my concentration should be on Carolyn, my vanished friend, most possibly the victim of foul play. She could’ve been raped and killed and left for dead, and here I am falling in love with a man I’ll probably never see again after we part ways.

He lives in New York.

I live in L.A.

No chance of anything happening here.

Besides, I’m sure he has an army of beautiful women falling at his feet, because apart from all his other attributes he’s mega-rich.

Not that I care about money, I don’t. It’s the person who counts.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Bobby lectured, guiding me through the lobby into the hotel dining room.

“You sound like my mother,” I murmured.

He threw me a quizzical look. “I’ll let you off the hook with that remark because you’re under stress.”

A hostess led us to a booth, giving Bobby an extra-special smile along the way.

Seconds later, a waitress came over to the table and handed out menus. Once again, Bobby received a special smile.

That’s what it would be like, being with a man like Bobby – women coming onto him all the time.

Why do I always pick the handsome ones? Mario, a classic example with his three-in-a-bed plan.

Sam, the screenwriter I’d left in New York, was a better fit for me. And Josh – when he was interesting. Not now, with the ten extra pounds and the
I think we made a mistake breaking up
attitude.

Men! Life would be much simpler without them. But not as much fun!

“I’m ordering for you,” Bobby said, taking control.

“And why’s that?” I asked.

“’Cause you’re staring at the menu like it’s written in a foreign language.”

“Sorry. I can’t concentrate.”

“I know,” he said, giving me a long, sympathetic look. “It must be tough.”

“Carolyn and I have been best friends since high school,” I said, my eyes welling up with unexpected tears. “She’s like the sister I never had.”

“You can’t give up hope,” Bobby said, moving nearer and sliding his arm around my shoulders. “The police have found her phone, that’s a positive.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, Denver, it is.”

I managed to down a glass of apple juice, a few sips of coffee and half a piece of toast.

Bobby went through a plateful of eggs, bacon and sausages like a starving man. Then we both took out our phones and started checking messages.

I had quite a few, several of them from Mario, saying things like
I miss you. Where are you? Why aren’t you returning my calls?

Hey, Mario, it’s ’cause you’re an asshole.

There was a crisp text from Annabelle.
I know things are different now, but I wish you would come to the funeral with me. I really need you.

Annabelle Maestro needed me! Wow! Never thought I’d hear
that
coming from the Princess of Beverly Hills.