Poor Little Bitch Girl

Also by Jackie Collins

Married Lovers

Lovers & Players

Deadly Embrace

Hollywood Wives – The New Generation

Lethal Seduction

Thrill!

L.A. Connections – Power, Obsession, Murder, Revenge

Hollywood Kids

American Star

Rock Star

Hollywood Husbands

Lovers & Gamblers

Hollywood Wives

The World Is Full Of Divorced Women

The Love Killers

Sinners

The Bitch

The Stud

The World Is Full Of Married Men

Hollywood Divorces

THE SANTANGELO NOVELS

Drop Dead Beautiful

Dangerous Kiss

Vendetta: Lucky’s Revenge

Lady Boss

Lucky

Chances

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2009
A CBS COMPANY

Copyright © Jackie Collins, 2009

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention
No reproduction without permission
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Jackie Collins to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 9781847372604
Trade Paperback ISBN 9781847372611

eBook ISBN 9781847378132

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by M Rules
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

For family and friends.
You are the best!
&
For my three incredible
Amazing daughters.
Talented, smart and caring.
I love you all so much.

B
elle Svetlana surveyed her nude image in a full-length mirror, readying herself for a thirty-thousand-dollar-an-hour sexual encounter with the fifteen-year-old son of an Arab oil tycoon.

Belle knew she was a beauty. What the hell, enough money had been spent along the way to make sure she was beautiful. A nose job ordered by her mother when she was a mere fourteen, a boob job shortly after – that was
her
decision. And then later, liposuction when needed, lip enhancement, regular facials and skin lasering treatments to make certain her skin remained the milky white she’d worked so hard to achieve (getting rid of her freckles had been a bitch, but she’d done it).

Ever since her teenage years Belle had strived for perfection, and now she’d gotten pretty damn close. Her hair was a pale golden-red, shoulder-length and wavy. Her eyes were a spectacular emerald green. Her body – a playground of delights.

Yes
, she thought, staring intently at her unabashed nakedness,
I am worth every cent of the thirty thousand dollars cash already neatly stashed in my safe.

Usually she did not go out on “dates” herself, but Sharif Rani – the oil tycoon – had insisted that it was she who should teach his youngest son the joys of the flesh. So, for a princely sum, she’d finally agreed.

Reaching for a peach slip of a dress, she stepped into it, powdered, perfumed and ready for action.

Thirty thousand an hour, not bad for a job which would probably take her no more than fifteen minutes to complete.

Of course, she could have turned the job down and suggested one of her twenty-thousand-an-hour girls, but sometimes it was fun to play – especially as she could pick and choose amongst her roster of rich, powerful and famous clients, which included everyone from Hollywood’s biggest stars to several princes, more than one captain of industry, a few superstar rappers, dozens of sports heroes, and too many politicians to count.

Yes, Belle Svetlana – née Annabelle Maestro – ran
the
most exclusive, expensive call-girl business in town – the town being New York as opposed to Los Angeles, the city she’d grown up in, surrounded by luxury and all the opulence two movie-star parents could buy.

Thank God she’d escaped those two egomaniacs – Mom, the ethereal queen of quality independents – and Dad, the macho king of big-budget schlock. What a horror show, having
them
as parents.

When she’d dropped out of college in Boston and settled in New York, neither of her loving parents had given a rat’s ass. Admitting to a grown daughter did nothing to enhance their public images, so they’d arranged to send her a monthly allowance, blithely told her to follow her dreams, and left her to her own devices.

Annabelle was no slouch when it came to following her dreams. She’d soon found herself caught up in the club and party scene – a lifestyle that had satisfied her for a while, until one night she’d been introduced to Frankie Romano – a popular deejay who worked private parties and the occasional hot club. One look at him and it was lust at first sight.

Originally from Chicago, Frankie was quirky and attractive in a Michael Imperioli kind of way. Fast-talking and edgy, he had longish dark hair, ice-chip blue eyes, and sharp features.

The trouble with Frankie was that he was usually broke, this on account of the fact that he was a dedicated coke-head, and whatever money came his way went straight up his nose.

Annabelle fell hard, for in spite of Frankie’s drug use it turned out that he was a star in bed – whenever he wasn’t too coked out to perform. She didn’t know anything about his background, and she didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, they were soulmates.

After a few weeks of crazy togetherness, Frankie had moved into her SoHo loft. Annabelle hadn’t objected. The only downer was that she’d found herself spending her entire allowance keeping him in drugs, so it wasn’t long before – at Frankie’s urging – she’d called her dad in L.A. and requested that her allowance be increased.

Ralph Maestro, the self-made son of a Brooklyn butcher – a man who’d gotten shot by a robber when Ralph was twelve – told her no way. “I made it on my own without two cents to rub together,” he had sternly informed her. “We’ve already given you a head start. If you want more money, I suggest you go out and find yourself a job.”

Annabelle was furious. Her parents raked in millions, and Daddy Movie Star was telling her to get a job! Screw them! It was increasingly obvious that they didn’t give a damn about her.

A couple of weeks later, she and Frankie had come up with a masterplan. They’d been lying in bed reading the lurid headlines about a married politician who’d recently gotten caught having sex with a series of high-priced call girls.

“How stupid is he?” Frankie had ruminated, scratching his skinny butt. “The dumb asshole should’ve paid cash. That way nobody gets busted, an’ everyone goes home happy.”

“Cash is good,” Annabelle had agreed. “For special girls only.”

“Yeah,” Frankie had said half-jokingly. “Not some mouthy skank who’s gonna sell her story, but
very
special girls. Y’know the kinda babes I mean. Models, actresses – they’re always on the lookout for an extra score. An’ here’s the sweet part of the deal – we know ’em all.”

“We sure do.”

“So . . .” Frankie had said after a thoughtful few minutes. “You thinkin’ what
I’m
thinkin’?”

She was indeed. And so their adventure had begun.

At first they’d both considered it a lark, but after a few months it had turned into one of the most successful call-girl businesses in town.

Flushed with success, Annabelle had soon created two identities for herself. As Annabelle Maestro, she was a girl struggling to make it in the fashion industry as a sometime designer. As Belle Svetlana (she got off on the exotic sound of the Russian surname), she was a woman of mystery who was able to supply the right girl to satisfy any man’s fantasy.