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. . Max was an extraordinary girl, very special. And he had to admit that he did miss her. On occasion . . .

 
Chapter Five

Annabelle

Assignation:
Teenage boy
Time:
4:00 p.m.
Place:
The Four Seasons
Room:
Penthouse suite
Boy’s name:
Omar
    O n the way up in the elevator, Annabelle smoothed down the bottom half of her silk dress. The material felt sensuous and rich against her skin. She wore no undergarments – just the slip of a dress, her honey-colored fox-fur coat, and spike-heeled Christian Louboutin short boots.
    Before arriving at the door to the boy’s suite she slipped on a satin eye-mask, the trademark move of all her girls. Not that she was a recognizable face like most of the girls who worked for her, but she’d soon realized that mystery was everything.
    The moment she placed the mask over her eyes it transported her to another zone – an exciting place where she became Belle Svetlana – a woman with no history, a woman who was light years away from Annabelle Maestro, the unknown and unnoticed daughter of two famous movie stars.
    The door to the suite was flung open by a twenty-something fat creature wearing baggy rapper clothes with multiple gold and diamond chains hanging from his neck, sinister oblique wraparound shades, diamond stud earrings and an elaborate tattoo of a dragon covering his forearm.
    Annabelle was thrown. There was not supposed to be anyone else present, she’d made that perfectly clear to Sharif Rani.
    “Omar is expecting me,” she said, imagining that this creature must be the boy’s bodyguard.
    “I know,” the man cackled. “I am Omar.”
    “That’s impossible,” she said, somewhat nonplussed. “There’s no way you’re fifteen.”
    Letting forth another manic cackle, he reached forward, grabbed her wrist and hauled her into the suite, almost knocking her off-balance.
    “Fifteen an’ way ready for some hot steamy action,” he guffawed, kicking the door shut with his Nike-clad foot. “We’re gonna get it on, beeitch . I bin waitin’ all day.”
    * * *
    If there was one thing Frankie Romano knew about his girlfriend, Annabelle, it was that she hated cell phones, always had. In fact, she hated phones altogether. It bothered her that with a phone in her purse, anyone could reach her at any time. Frankie often told her that she was crazy, since he was never without his iPhone and his BlackBerry – both of which he used constantly. But Annabelle was adamant. No cell phone for her, she preferred voice mail, on her home phone, which she hardly ever checked.
    “What if there’s an emergency?” Frankie often asked.
    “Then I’ll deal with it when I get home,” she always replied.
    So after Frankie checked into the hotel and caught the news of Gemma Summer’s murder on TV, there was no way he could reach Annabelle. She was locked away somewhere with a fifteen-year-old Arab kid teaching him the joys of sex. Meanwhile her mother had been shot to death in L.A.
    This was obviously the emergency he’d always worried about.
    Damn Annabelle for refusing to carry a phone. She was a stubborn one, always insisting that she wanted things her way. Usually he didn’t object, but today was something else.
    He tried to remember if she’d mentioned where the assignation was taking place, but they’d both been joking about it so much that he couldn’t recall. All he could remember was that they were pocketing thirty thousand dollars for her to have a quick sex romp with a teenager which would probably last all of three minutes.
    “Find out if he’s got a sister,” Frankie had quipped. “I’ll do her for the same price.”
    “You will so not!” Annabelle had retaliated, exhibiting her fiery jealous streak. As far as she was concerned it was okay for her to service a client or two if they paid enough, but Frankie with another woman? No way.
    Frankie was well aware of the house rules, therefore he never pushed it. Why rock the latest Ferrari he’d recently