Venice Nights by Ava Claire Page A

I did not find the statuesque Italian woman towering over the sink, but a petite, young woman with a dirty blonde fishtail braid trailing to her waist. A scarlet colored apron, black tunic, and black leggings hung on her thin frame. Leather combat boots dashed up her legs, stopping at the knee.
    She stopped humming, picking up on the fact that she was not alone. She slowly faced me. She had sharp, hawk-like features, but her sky colored eyes softened as she sized me up. A nervous smile pulled her lips into a friendly hello.
    When I did not say anything, she blushed red, eyes dropping to the floor. “Was I too loud? I'm sorry if I woke you—”
    “No,” I said quickly, returning the smile as I held out my hand. “You must be Blanka.”
    Her smile returned instantly as she shook my hand. “That is me. And you’re Leila Montgomery.”
    I frowned, dropping my hand back to my side gingerly. I guess it was better than being known as a guest, but it still surprised me that she knew my full name.
    “Jacob told you about me?”
    She let out a giggle, scooping her side swept bang behind her ear. “No. You’re a celebrity.”
    “A celebrity?” I repeated, shaking my head. “Jacob’s the celebrity. If I’m a celebrity, it’s purely by association...” I trailed off when she moved past me. Her eyes scanned the room, stopping when she turned to the cart beside the fridge.
    She picked up her cell and swiped a finger across the screen, illuminating it, then holding it up for me to see.
    I felt sick all over again. Front and center was a picture of me standing in the living room of Jacob’s villa, moments before I snapped the blinds shut. Beneath the picture in big, block letters was, “Who is Leila Montgomery?”
    “I recognized the shutters,” Blanka said brightly, her face beaming with pride. “Well, that and Mr. Whitmore’s name.”
    She looked back and forth between her screen and my face, probably comparing and contrasting the nearly identical deer-in-headlights expression. After she had completed the analysis, she reached out, touching one of my stray chocolate brown tendrils.
    “Your hair is curlier in person.” She pondered that fact for a moment, her smile unwavering. “I like it!”
    I let out a weak chuckle and a half-hearted thank you, looking past her to the spread on the island. I needed to change the subject before I started hyperventilating. The countertop was lined with glass mixing bowls filled with assortments of food: flour, eggs, and a kaleidoscope of berries. “This is quite impressive.”
    “Mr. Whitmore requested breakfast in bed,” she explained.
    I sighed, deflated. “I guess great minds think alike.”
    She cocked her head to the side, her blonde braid spilling over her shoulder. “You were going to make breakfast?”
    I nodded ruefully. “I really wanted to do something special and surprise him.”
    Her whole demeanor changed as she backed up, hands out in a gesture of submission. “I’m sorry, I just do what he says..”
    “Oh, I’m not upset,” I said, trying to calm her fears. My efforts were obviously ineffective because she looked ready to drop to her knees and beg for my forgiveness. My heart went out to her when I saw the genuine fear that drained all color from her face. “Blanka, really, it’s fine.”
    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