Poor Little Bitch Girl

By: Jackie Collins

Chapter One


Belle 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.”

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