Venice Nights (7 page)

She did not look wholly convinced. “I really need this job. I’m a student and my mother back home doesn’t work, so I send her part of my check.” She dropped her chin to her chest. Her breathing was elevated, nearly giving
me
heart palpitations.

I put both hands on her shoulders. “It’s really all right. I promise.”

She peered at me skeptically, like she was sure this was some trick. The worry that darkened her previously cheery features made me feel guilty, even though I knew that her fear was rooted in experiences that had nothing to do with me. What
guests
had Jacob brought here that bullied this poor girl? Had they threatened her job? Jacob could not have believed any of the made-up offenses. Anyone that had a conversation with Blanka, or even looked at the Taylor Swift-humming girl could clearly she meant no harm.

I gestured at the ingredients in front of me, trying to alleviate the suffocating tension that hung in the air. “Why don’t I give you a hand with this?”

She went even paler. “But Isa—”

“I won’t take no for an answer. And I won’t steal your thunder.” I said lightly. I stepped around her to the sink and washed and dried my hands, turning my attention back to breakfast. “I’m about 99.9% sure you can make better eggs than me, but I’m pretty good at following instructions.”

A smile danced in her eyes, but she was still hesitant. “That really isn’t necessary, Miss Montgomery.”

“Call me Leila,” I corrected gently. To prove I was serious about helping, I opened the egg carton. “Are we scrambling or doing one of those folding egg thingies?”

“Folding egg thingies?” Her hesitation melted into confusion as she repeated it to herself, and I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. “You mean an omelet?”

“Oh yeah,” I nodded, like it was coming back to me. “One of those.”

“I think you better listen to my instructions
very
carefully,” she giggled. “If Francois found out that someone was cooking in his kitchen that called an omelet a folding egg thingy he’d probably lose it.” She pointed at the eggs, then the milk, and salt and pepper. “Can you whisk eight eggs in the glass bowl with one cup of milk and a pinch of salt and pepper?”

“I sure can!” I cracked the eggs, miraculously keeping the shell fragments out of the egg mixture, then poured in the milk. I reached for the salt and pepper. “So you’re a student? What are you studying?”

She sprinkled flour over the counter. “Fashion.”

“Milan, here you come?” I said with a smile.

She stole a glance at me, like she almost thought I was poking fun, but when she saw I was being genuine, the bright and bubbly girl I met returned. “New York too. It’s my dream to see the world then go back home and open a boutique.” She paused for a moment, then gathered up the ball of dough and dropped it on the floured surface, kneading it with strong thrusts that surprised me given her slight frame. “My mother was an artist, but her work never left the walls of our living room. I won’t let that happen to me.”

I had only just met her, but there was something powerfully genuine about her. I had a feeling that she had the drive and talent to make every dream come true.

“Someday, celebrities will be clamoring to wear Blanka.” Her eyes shot to me then she flattened the ball of dough into a disc. “Maybe someday you would wear my dresses?”

I had not seen a single sketch, but I knew if her dresses were anything like her personality, I would shine the brightest in the room. “I’d love to! Honestly, I’m not sure how much capital Leila Montgomery wearing your clothing will bring. A month from now, I’m sure no one will remember my name.”

She grabbed a pizza cutter and sliced the flat disc into equal sections. “You might not be first page news, but you are like Cinderella. No one will forget that the billionaire fell in love with someone so—”

“Ordinary?” I offered, trying to disguise my hurt with a tight smile.

“Independent,” she corrected, moving the slices of dough to a baking sheet. “You’re not known because you were in a movie or because of what family you are from. People will remember you because in every stolen picture, when you don’t notice the photogs and it’s just you and Jacob, you look at him like you could care less about any of the fame or money. You look like a woman in love.” She slid the sheet in the oven. “With people famous for being famous and so many fake relationships for publicity’s sake that makes you worth remembering. You’re real—and anyone with two eyes can see that you and Jacob are real.” She wiped the flour on her apron. “And anyone that says anything negative is just stupid.”

Her words made pride bloom in my chest, and tears rose in my throat. I knew she was young, but her words were as deep and resounding as anything my grandmother ever said when I went to her, finally opening up about the bullying I endured as a kid.

“Don’t listen to a single word, you hear? I won’t patronize you by saying they’re jealous, or that words don’t hurt, Leila. I will tell you that you’ve got a light inside you that won’t go out unless you let them put it out.”

I opened my mouth to tell Blanka just how sweet her words were, but a croak came out when I looked to the left and realized we were not alone.

Isabella stood in the doorway, dark eyes burning like lasers. I was surprised Blanka and I did not burst into flames.

Isabella’s hair was slicked into a tight bun on top of her head, making her cheekbones as intense as her bottomless eyes. Her button down, black shirt was tailored and professional, tucked into ebony colored wide leg trousers. Stiletto heels clicked on the floor as she sauntered toward us.

She looks like she’s going to a funeral.
I gulped.
Our funeral.

“What is going on here?” Her eyes swept across the counter and froze on us.

My jaw twitched when I realized it was not
us
. She was zeroed in on Blanka.

The sunniness that beamed from Blanka dimmed, turning her into a ghost of her former self.

She was terrified of Isabella.

“Uh,” Blanka stammered, her voice low and nervous. “I was j-just—”

“Speak up, girl,” Isabella snarled, nostrils flaring. “And look at me when you address me. I’m not a speck on the floor.”

I stepped forward, anger of my own making silence impossible. “You don’t have to talk to her like—”

“I’m her boss?” Isabella cut in, still not looking at me. Burning holes into Blanka’s face. “I
am
her boss. Aren’t I, Blanka?”

“Yes ma’am,” Blanka said quietly.

She was disappearing into herself, and it made me want to save her; tell Isabella to get off her high horse before I knocked her from it. An uncomfortable truth kept me quiet. While I had no idea that Isabella was in charge of Blanka, I knew that Jacob was in charge of the house—and the last time I tried to take on Isabella, Jacob reminded me that she was in charge of what went on in the house. End of story.

Isabella clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “What time were you supposed to get breakfast to Mr. Whitmore and his guest?”

Oh, here we go with that word again.

“At—” Blanka stopped, shooting her gaze at the clock on the wall. Her face crumbled. “I didn’t realize—”

“Don’t bother,” Isabella butted in. “After you finish preparing the tardy meal, you are free to go.”

Blanka glanced at me, her blue eyes swimming before they returned to Isabella. Or Isabella’s back, since the brutal woman was halfway to the door.

“F-Free to go?” Blanka called after her.

Isabella stopped, casting a final, smoldering glare at Blanka. “You’re fired.”

She dropped the bomb and left us to deal with the fallout. My mouth hung open in shock. Horror.

Tears streamed down Blanka’s face as she obeyed, going back to fixing breakfast.

Say something...anything!

“She can’t do that,” I said weakly, standing awkwardly beside the stove. “You lost track of time because of me.”

Blanka did not say a word, pouring the egg mixture into the skillet. The sizzle cut me to the bone.

What was left to say?

I had cost Blanka her job.

Chapter Eight

I paced back and forth in front of the door to Jacob's study. I remembered the first time I had made my way to this room, nerves bunched in my stomach because I was not sure what to expect. It was the first time I had fully submitted; the study leading to the special room he had created for a very specific purpose: kink.

We had not returned to the study since. It was the door to Jacob's world. A world where Saint Andrews crosses stood against the wall, four poster beds took on a whole new meaning, and toy chests were filled with chains and whips instead of dolls and fire trucks.

Well, I was back in his study—but not for erotic reasons.

Jacob, Blanka, and Isabella were brought together when I made a last ditch effort to circumvent Isabella's overreaction earlier that morning. I just could not let Blanka be fired for something that was my fault. Or something as silly as running a little late with breakfast.

I paused mid-pace in front of the door, the word ‘guest’ drawing me in. I scanned the room like there would be eyes in the shadows; watching as I leaned toward the wooden door, ears peeled for any further developments.

There was a string of indiscernible words, but even muffled I knew that it was Isabella—and she was pissed.

I pulled back, glaring at the closed door like there was no barrier. I wished I did not have to tattle on Isabella, but she left me no choice. When I was a kid and the teachers showed up right after a confrontation, hurt still all over my face and tears flooding my eyes, I would keep my mouth shut. I would look past the teacher to the bullies, fear flashing in their narrowed gaze—and then I would lie and tell the teacher’s I was okay.

I fought my own battles, with quips and worst case with my fists. As much as I wished I could have blocked the kitchen doorway and demanded that Isabella give Blanka another shot, I was not her employer. I did not even have a place on the chain of command. So I could have swallowed the guilt and let Isabella get away with it, or I could go to the boss.

I frowned, my ear practically glued to the door.
The boss that apparently has nothing to say!
In fact, the whole room was silent.

I took a step back, just in case the conversation was done, and they were about to exit.

“Mr. Whitmore...apologize...” Blanka’s voice cut through the quiet and I let out a sigh of relief. There was no way Jacob could let her go when he sees how earnest she was, and I told him it was my fault, right?

I chewed on my lip, not a fan of the lingering doubt that clouded my head. I would like to think the answer to that question was yes, but Jacob had built a ‘no access’ zone around Isabella. I did not know anything about their past or why he would hire some drill sergeant to watch over a home that he rarely came to. Or why her word was law in the first place.

I braced my hands on the door, leaning closer.

“Second chance...if—”

“Your job is
facile
!”

I winced as Isabella’s voice shrilled into my ears, coming through loud and well, loud. She must have realized that she was shouting, or maybe Jacob gave her a look because she quieted down, fragments of her defense, harder to grasp.

“Job...control...guest—”

“I swear if she calls me a guest one more time...” I covered my mouth, the words coming out louder than I intended. I took a step back, heat prickling my skin. It had been a wise move disengaging from the door because I would have spilled in the office, crashing to the floor. The door was pulled open, and the vitriol oozing form Isabella was proof that she had heard me—and hoped I would fall on my face too.

I cleared my throat, pushing aside the last remnants of my embarrassment. I pulled on a mask that would make Jacob proud.

My voice was calm and measured, just as non-confrontational as the neutral walls of Jacob’s office. “Is everything all right in here?”

I knew the answer was no, but I would not admit that I had all but put a cup against the door to eavesdrop. My eyes swooped around the room, taking in the cold and efficient furnishings that filled Jacob’s office—dark couches, a black and white painting on the wall, an impressive mahogany desk—and the increasingly impressive man behind it.

His eyebrow perked at my abrupt entrance. Blanka looked like a woman standing in front of a firing squad. Isabella glowered like she was the one holding the gun.

“No, everything is not all right.” Isabella plowed toward me, and it took every ounce of guts in me not to back up.

She stopped a few feet from me, then cast a look at Jacob like she expected him to banish me from the room. When he remained silent, her mouth twisted in disgust.

“This is a private matter. Haven’t you shoved your nose where it doesn’t belong enough for the day?” When I didn’t budge, she reached out and poked me with her finger. “You’ve already cost Blanka her job—”

“Excuse me?” I snapped, the cool facade crumbling. “So breakfast would have been a few minutes late—it’s not like Jacob was biting his nails, watching the clock. And I told you it was my fault.”

“Oh, no one denies that
bambina
,” she huffed with a bitter laugh. “If only you had minded your business and remembered your place.”

“Which is where?” I butted in, planted firmly in front of her.

“Where all the other guests belong,” she said acidly, her dark eyes wild with anger. “In the bedroom.”

My mouth flew open, the flush of embarrassment and indignation painting my face bright red. “You’ve got a lot of nerve—!”

“That’s enough.”

Jacob’s two words were more effective than all the ones me and Isabella were throwing at each other. We turned back to him; the billionaire planted behind his desk. His eyes glowed, and I knew he was tired of us all. He looked at me first, then flicked his eyes at Isabella.

“For the time being, we all have to live under the same roof.”

Isabella sighed dramatically. “Jacob, I just think that—”