Venice Nights (His Submissive #4.5)(5)
Author: Ava Claire

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.