Venice Nights (3 page)

I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip, remembering the way I squealed when he picked me up like it was nothing. Legs dangling off the edge of the island. Cool granite beneath me. Heat roaring inside me.

I crept toward the cotton sheet, my fingers aching to touch him. One glance at his face made me pause. He was more serene than I had ever seen him, wrapped up in some dream. Even though I doubted he would turn down some morning loving, he looked too peaceful to disturb. Not the brutal businessman ready to decimate anyone or anything that crossed him. Not guarded and holding tight to his secrets.

I wiggled off the edge of the bed, pulling on one of his button-down shirts. I moved lazily down the steps, stomach grumbling.

“All right, all right,” I yawned, pausing at the landing, stretching my arms toward the ceiling. Sunlight pushed through the sheer curtains, glittering on the hardwood floor. A very familiar space was highlighted, and my body hummed as images of being on my hands and knees  blazed through my mind. Nails raking the floor. Body slick with sweat and want.

My stomach interrupted the delicious memory, reminding me that other hungers needed to be satisfied too. I succumbed, continuing the trek to the kitchen.

Jacob told me he gave the staff a few weeks off, but I could not tell that it had been nearly a month since the staff had walked the halls. The place was still spotless, not a single speck of dust anywhere despite the antique pieces that combined with shiny, modern chrome. The fridge and pantry were completely stocked. If we were suddenly hit with the apocalypse, I was sure we could survive on his current inventory for a couple of years at least.

I opened the refrigerator, skimming the contents. I could keep it simple and just do cereal and a banana. The decision was made and I scouted out the components needed. I remembered spotting the cereal beside the tortillas in the pantry. I zeroed in on the pitcher of milk on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, hiding behind a carton of eggs. Humming to myself, I bent at the waist, stretching to retrieve it.

“Ahem.”

A single word, wrapped in a female tone.

My fingers were still stretched toward the milk when it hit me.

I was bent over, Jacob’s button down shirt riding up to my waist...and I did not have on any underwear.

I snapped upright, yanking my hand from the shelf—and brought the carton of eggs with me.

“Oh my God,” I groaned, looking down at the mess of broken eggs at my feet. Feeling like a world class klutz, I turned to face the visitor, ready to apologize. When I met her gaze, I realized “I’m sorry” was not going to cut it.

The woman had a look of pure disgust on her face. She towered above me, dark eyes burning like coals against her caramel hued skin. Her eyes matched her hair, splashes of gray streaking through her locks. She might have been beautiful if her pretty features were not weighed down by her frown and liberally arched eyebrows.

Her red lips curdled as she crossed her arms. “Who are you?”

I gulped, still recovering from the fact that she had just gotten an eyeful of my vagina. “I’m—” I stopped, frowning. Wait a second. Why was I about to apologize to
her
? And who was I? Who was
she
? I may have been dressed in a man’s shirt, showing parts of my body that only lovers and my mother had seen, but I gathered what was left of my dignity.

“Who are
you
?” I countered, buttoning the shirt and stood tall.

Her eyes did not warm in the slightest, and her silence was unnerving—as was her beauty.

She was statuesque, clad in a black blazer and a matching shirt beneath. Bootcut jeans skated her trim legs and her feet were wrapped in leather stilettos. Not that she needed them. I guessed she was at least 5’9 without them.

I guessed she was late thirties, but when she took a step closer, I saw crows feet around her coal-colored eyes. There was something in those dark eyes, and in the way she held herself that told me she had experienced things that made me guess she was closer to mid to late forties.

She advanced once more. I backed up, crying out as my foot crushed one of the few surviving eggs. Tiny pricks erupted along the sole of my feet, matching the daggers she flung my way. My indignation turned to goo, just like the slimy guts from the eggs smeared on the floor.

You still don’t know who she is. You belong here. She could be a burglar for all you know.
A very stylish burglar, who knew the alarm code, or else it would have been blaring. Even though Jacob kept a lot of the old charm of the place, the estate was still gated, and he had a top of the line security system installed.

My memory connected the dots, recalling Jacob’s brief orientation when I asked about the staff. He only maintained a couple of people to take care of the house. He employed a maid, a chef for special events, a groundskeeper, and a house manager. Since he rarely made it out to the estate, they treated Jacob’s home as their home, with freedom to roam about the house as they saw fit.

Most wealthy guys probably would not even know their staff’s names, but not Jacob. He told me about the maid, Blanka Dvorak, a college student in Venice and emigrated from the Czech Republic. The chef, Francois Armand, was from France and one of the few people Jacob admitted was a better cook than he was. The groundskeeper, Mark Blount, had a passion for writing and told fantastical stories about his travels in Europe.

When I asked about the house manager, the light in Jacob’s eyes dimmed. After some prodding, he told me she was a local. When I asked if she was a friend of Allegra’s, he quickly changed the subject. When I asked how I would know her, he had snorted and replied, “That won’t be a problem.”.

“You’re the house manager, aren’t you?” I said gingerly, fairly certain I was spot on. Who else would know the alarm code and march in like she owned the place? “ Isabella.”

Her eyebrows leapt in surprise. She was only caught unaware for a moment, however. She raised her chin a few inches and her eyes hardened to obsidian.

“You can address me as Ms. Moretti.” One side of her mouth twitched disapprovingly when I didn’t respond. “And who are you?”

“Leila,” I answered, pulling down the shirt. It was a futile gesture. It rode right back up. “Leila Montgomery.”

“Ah.”  Isabella stepped around me, eyeing the damage. “I’m assuming you’re a...guest of Jacob’s?”

The way she said it made me blush all over again at her emphasis on guest. I did not know what it was about this woman that made me feel like I was two feet tall and out of place, but I pushed the nerves aside.

“I wasn’t aware that you’d be back today,” I said.

“And I wasn’t aware that Jacob talked to his guests about the house staff.” She removed her blazer, turning on her heels, then marched to a small closet beside the pantry. She came back with a bucket and rags, walking right past me like I was not even there.

“I’m Jacob’s girlfriend.” The word sent goosebumps prickling all over me. It was the first time I had said it out loud, and it just felt...right. And empowering.

I angled toward her, finding my spine but words failed me when she squatted in her skinny jeans and stilettos like it was nothing. She went to work on the mess, without another word to me.

My mess.

I scanned the kitchen for paper towels, springing to action. Armed with a roll of Bounty, I turned back to the refrigerator. “Let me help you with that.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of it,” she said brusquely, tossing me a look that nearly put me six feet under before she went back to scooping up yolk and egg fragments. She muttered something in Italian, and I did not need to be fluent to know she was grumbling about me.

I had a choice. I could do what she clearly expected and go away, leaving her to clean it. Flit away and sunbathe; check my phone and drink mimosas—or I could do what was right.

I made a mess, and I was perfectly capable of cleaning it up.

I got down on my hands and knees and started wiping. She eyeballed me, the heat of her gaze morphing from one of bemusement to one of annoyance.

After a few minutes of silence and almost an entire roll of paper towels, the floor was spotless and shining. I stood up first, offering my hand. She looked at it like it was poison and gripped a neighboring stool instead.

Her brush off stung, but I forced cheer in my voice.
Kill her with kindness, Lay.

“Maybe this time the eggs will actually make it to the pan,” I joked.

She blocked my path, flicking her bangs from her eyes. “Jacob’s guests don’t cook.”

I clenched my teeth, struggling to keep my cool. I tried to hold onto the fact that I had to share a roof with this woman, repeating it like a mantra until it stuck.

“Well, I’m not Jacob’s guest. I’m his girlfriend. And I make a killer plate of scrambled eggs.” I held back the attitude that itched to break free, turning to the cabinet for dishes since she was guarding the refrigerator. “Okay...you whisk, I scramble?”

“Do you think you’re special?”

I gripped the handle of the frying pan, the question bringing fresh hurt from battling Rachel and my own insecurities to the surface. Her seething dislike of me shone a light on the part of me that worried the world would take one look at me and ask the same thing. That they would laugh at me as they answered with a resounding “No.” They would wield evidence to support their belief that I was just a phase; Jacob had dated drop dead, gorgeous celebrities and socialites, and he was trying something new by dating Jane Nobody.

And just like the rest, he would toss me aside once he got bored, or something better came along.

I would become just another guest.

My throat constricted. There was a reason this woman insisted on calling me a guest. I was disposable. Temporary. My fingertips grazed the wrinkled shirt I wore. How many pulled on his crumpled button down shirts after a night of screaming his name in this very house?

I glanced at  Isabella, my heart sinking. One side of her mouth curled with satisfaction. She got her wish; the same thing all bullies hoped for—power.

The smile changed when she looked past me.

“
Bambino
!” she cooed, her chilly exterior changing instantly. I turned to the doorway, watching in shock as they embraced. He murmured something to her, eyes closed.

They clearly had a history and from the way his eyes flew open when he remembered me and quickly extricated himself, it was not something he wanted to talk about. He raked a hand through his sleep mussed hair.

“Good morning, Leila.”

I eyed them suspiciously. I knew who she was, but it was a little weird that he was not going to do an introduction—especially since he had hugged her like they were seeing each other for the first time in years. “Good morning.”

The faintest show of embarrassment darkened his cheeks. He cleared his throat, looking around. “Any coffee yet?”

Isabella sighed with frustration. “Your guest—”

“I am
not
a guest!” I said shrilly, clenching both hands into fists.

The exclamation was followed by silence, both of them whipping to face me.

Jacob squinted in confusion. He looked at me, then Isabella. “Is everything all right?”

Isabella glowered at me whenever he looked in my direction, smoothing it over when his eyes fell on her. I wanted nothing more than to tell Jacob how rude she had been, but I was no tattletale. I fought my own battles.

“Everything’s fine,” I said with a tight smile to go with my taut nerves.

All of a sudden Isabella acted like making breakfast was her idea, rounding up the eggs and swiping the bag of coffee beans.

Jacob strode to the island, leaning against it casually, but his eyes studied me. He knew me, and he knew I wasn’t being honest. After I pecked him on the cheek and slid onto the stool beside him, he dropped the investigation.

“So I take it the two of you are acquainted?” he mused.

Isabella cracked an egg with a flourish. “I’ll have to ask Blanka to come in the morning since I wasn’t aware that your guest—”

“She’s not my guest, Bella,” Jacob corrected gently. “Leila is my girlfriend.” He threaded his fingers through mine and brought my hand to his lips. The kiss was a whisper on my skin, echoing over me when I met his eyes. They were filled with stars, each one shining for me. The light pierced through the dark, bursting through my doubts. How could I hold onto my reservations, my worries when  he was looking at me like I was the only girl in the world?

I cut my eyes over to Isabella, wanting to flash her a smug little smirk of my own, but she was not glaring at us with disapproval. The look she wore was a pained one, agony pulling her skin tight over her perfect bone structure.

Jacob’s face clouded when he saw my surprise, glancing over his shoulder at Isabella.

Catching herself, she turned from both of us.

Jacob pushed from the counter. “Isabella, are you—”

“Since she’s not a guest,” Isabella interrupted, whisking the eggs furiously, “I assume she can help me with breakfast?”

“How about both of us help?” Jacob said. He leaned toward her like he was about to tell her a secret. “Trust me, I’ve had her eggs.”

“Hey!” I elbowed him playfully, holding my smile until he stepped away to gather ingredients. I stole a look at Isabella, but she caught me and flashed a smile that almost looked real.

It was too little too late. She clearly had a problem with me and Jacob.

Not Jacob
, I corrected silently.
She has a problem with you
.

Great.

Chapter Four

I  folded my legs beneath me, staring at the screen of the iPad. Gmail was up, a new message waiting to be penned. I started typing the email address of my best friend, Megan Scott. I only had to tap out the first two letters before her information popped up.

My inbox was filled with email conversations spanning the length of our friendship. From reflective emails sent during freshman year and nervous jitters over my first college party; to crying into the keyboard as she consoled me after my first heartbreak and musings on life after college. Megan had always been the one person I could tell anything. My secret keeper, my loudest cheerleader, my sister even though we didn’t share blood.