The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

He was around ten inches taller than her. He didn’t want to intimidate her. She didn’t look like the cat-burglar type.

He let out a laugh. ‘I invented it.’ Then shook his head, curiosity piqued even further. ‘I didn’t tell you it was called Neptune’s arch.’

She jerked. As if she were getting used to his Italian accent speaking English to her.

Her gaze narrowed. Now, she looked angry. She planted her hands on her hips. ‘Who on earth are you, and what are you doing in my house?’

‘Your house?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you Sofia’s goddaughter?’

She shook her head. ‘Yes. Well...no.’

‘Well, make up your mind. You either are, or you aren’t.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘No. Posy is Sofia’s goddaughter. She’s my sister.’ She frowned again. ‘But who are you? And how do you know Sofia?’

The more she spoke, the more he felt the waves of familiarity sweeping across his skin. She wasn’t an actress. He knew every British actress that spoke as she did.

The hairs on his arms stood on end in the cool coastal breeze. Realisation was hitting home. Chances were this English siren was staying here. All hopes of hiding away on this island in peace and quiet were gently floating away in the orange-scented air.

‘Sofia was a good friend of my mother’s. We stayed here often when I was a child and a teenager.’

She mirrored his position and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, you’re not a teenager now and Sofia’s been dead for two years.’

‘I was at her funeral. I never noticed you.’ Even as he said the words he was struck by the realisation that he wasn’t likely to forget a woman like this. She was downright beautiful. As beautiful as any one of his Hollywood leading ladies.

In fact, she was much more natural than most of them. No Botox. No obvious surgery. And skin that was clear and unblemished. If only the public knew just how much airbrushing went on in film studios.

It made him smile that she didn’t remember him. Didn’t recognise him.

But right as that thought crowded his brain, he saw the little flicker behind her eyes.

‘What’s your name? Who is your mother?’ It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.

Something sparked inside him. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him like that. Being a Hollywood movie star meant he was usually surrounded by ‘yes’ people. Part of the point of coming here was to get away from all that. He just hadn’t expected to reach the opposite end of the spectrum.

He sucked in a breath. ‘You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.’

Her beautiful face was marred by a deeper frown. He could sense she wasn’t used to being lost for words. She drew herself up to her full height. She had bare feet and the top of her head was just above his shoulder. The perfect height for a leading woman.

‘I’m Portia. Portia Marlowe.’ She tossed her hair over her shoulder, glancing over at the azure sea, then rapidly sucked in a breath and spun around to face him as the recognition struck.

She pointed her finger. ‘You’re Javier Russo.’ Her voice had gone up in pitch.

There it was. Anonymity gone in a flash. He sighed and walked over to the edge of the terrace. The beach looked inviting, even if it was a bit of a scramble to reach it. As a child he hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.

He almost laughed out loud at the thought of the film insurers’ opinion on him staying in such a place. They’d want to wrap him in cotton wool. What on earth had his last action movie insured his legs for—ten million dollars?

The sun was dipping lower in the sky, sending dark orange streaks across the water. It was a beautiful sunset. He understood why she was sitting out there. But he still didn’t know what she was really doing here. More importantly, was she staying?

She moved next to him. ‘You’re Javier Russo,’ she repeated. Her voice was getting quicker. ‘Javier Russo. Italian movie star.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Thirty. Just finished filming a sci-fi film in the Arabian Desert, and last year the second highest paid action movie star.’

The hairs prickled at the back of his neck. He’d met hundreds of fans over the last few years. Some verging on the slightly obsessive. But he couldn’t imagine he’d be so unlucky to end up staying with one of them on L’Isola dei Fiori.

‘How on earth do you know that?’ Something else flashed into his brain and he gave a half-smile. ‘And what’s with the look you gave me when you said I was thirty?’

‘Is that your real age or your Hollywood age?’ she shot back cheekily.

She waved her hand. ‘Oh, come on, you know. Most Hollywood stars take a few years off their age. Some even more than ten.’ There was the hint of a teasing smile on her face. She seemed to have regained her composure. ‘But once you get up close and personal, you always know if it’s an extension of the truth or not.’

He laughed out loud and turned back from the view to meet her head-on. There was a sparkle in her eyes. She’d obviously moved from the initial fear factor to the having-fun factor. She wasn’t flirting. That didn’t seem like her agenda. But she certainly seemed much more comfortable around him. And she wasn’t tugging at her dress or hair. Often, once people recognised him, they frantically tried to get a glimpse of their own appearance, sometimes cursing out loud that they didn’t look their best.

Portia didn’t seem to care. Her simple red dress—which looked as if it came from any high-street store—stopped mid-thigh. The only remnant of make-up on her face was a hint of red stain on her lips.

He moved a little closer. ‘So, what do you think?’

His chest was only a few inches from her nose. She looked a little surprised. She lifted her hand up and he wondered if she was going to push him away.

Her hand stayed in mid-air. ‘Think about what?’ Her voice had quietened and as she looked up at him the sun was in her eyes, making her squint a little.

It was as if a wall of silence fell around him. He was in a movie now. A glass panel had just slid around the two of them and cut out all the surrounding noise. No lapping waves. No breeze. No rustling leaves or tweeting birds.

All that was present was a girl in a red dress, with tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and dark chocolate eyes. It was that tiny moment in time. A millisecond, when something reached into his chest and punched him square in the heart.

He’d met dozens of beautiful women. He’d dated some of them. Had relationships with others. But he’d never felt the wow factor. That single moment when...zing.

And he couldn’t fathom what had just happened. It was that single look. That single connection.

She licked her lips.

And the sci-fi glass portal disappeared, amplifying all the noise around him. He swayed a little.

‘Do I think that you’re really thirty?’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well, if you are—you’re the only film star who doesn’t lie about their age.’ She lifted one hand. ‘And don’t get me started on their diets, workout plans or relationships.’

The wind caught her dress, blowing it against her curves. He took a step backwards.

‘How do you know all this stuff?’ His curiosity was definitely piqued. He’d heard that Sofia had a goddaughter. But he didn’t know anything about her—or the fact she had sisters. Now, this sister—Portia—seemed weirdly knowing about Hollywood’s poorly kept secrets.

‘Do you work in Hollywood? How come I’ve never met you?’

Something glanced across her face. Hurt?

‘I have met you,’ she answered quietly.

‘Where?’ He tried to rack his brains. Somehow if he’d met her before he assumed he’d remember.

Her tone had changed. He’d definitely annoyed her. ‘I met you at the award ceremony. I interviewed you on the red carpet about the pirate movie.’

She didn’t even call it by its name—even though it had made one and a half billion dollars at the box office and counting.

The award ceremony—the biggest in Hollywood. That had been March. And reporters had lined the red carpet in their hundreds all hoping for a sound bite from a film star. Trying to remember anyone in amongst that rabble would be nigh on impossible.

It was as if someone had just dumped the biggest bucket of ice in the world over his head. He stepped back. ‘You work for a newspaper?’

A reporter. Just what he needed.

The plague of the earth. At least that was what his mother used to call them. They’d harassed her to death when she’d been unwell. He had clear childhood memories of their home in Italy surrounded by people holding cameras and brandishing microphones, while his mother wept in her bedroom.

He’d learned early on to tell them nothing. Not a tiny little thing. Anything that was said could be twisted and turned into a headline full of lies the next day. Nothing had affected his mother’s moods more than the press.

As a Hollywood star he couldn’t possibly avoid them. But he could manage them.

And he always had. Two-minute press junkets. Any longer interviews done in writing by his press officer, along with a legal declaration about misquotes.

All press were to be kept at a distance. Even the pretty ones.

No, especially the pretty ones.

Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘No, I work for Entertainment Buzz TV. Have done for the last five years.’ She held up her hand and counted off on her fingers. ‘I interviewed you after your first appearance in the Slattery action movies. I’ve met you at probably half a dozen film premieres and I met you on the red carpet in March.’

He was surprised she was offended. Every TV reporter in the world knew what press junkets were like. Each person was given an allotted time frame—usually around two minutes—along with a long list of questions they weren’t allowed to ask. It was like speed dating—usually with a really boring outcome, because all the questions that were asked you’d already answered sixty times before.

He felt himself bristle. A reporter. Absolutely the last person he wanted to be around right now. Not when he wanted some privacy and some head space.

‘Are you staying here?’ He couldn’t help the pointed way his words came out.

She blinked at the change of conversation and stuck her hands on her hips. The sea air swept across them both echoing the instant chill that had developed. ‘It’s my sister Posy’s house. Where else would I be staying?’

‘But this place is supposed to be deserted.’ Frustration was building in his chest. He turned around and gestured at the fading building behind him. ‘I mean, look at it. How long has your sister had it? She hasn’t done any work at all. This place is falling apart at the seams.’

Portia’s dark eyes gleamed. ‘I think you’ll find that this place has been like this for around the last fifteen years. When was the last time you were here, exactly? Sofia let things fall by the wayside. She didn’t keep up the house maintenance. After her relationship with Crown Price Ludano ended, I’m not sure she had the means.’ Portia glared at him. ‘My other sister Miranda and her husband Cleve have made some temporary repairs to the roof and electrics. I was hoping to tidy up a bit while I was here. Posy is a ballerina. She doesn’t have any spare funds right now, let alone enough money to carry out the extensive repairs that this place will need.’ It was obvious she was on the defensive.

But so was he.

‘Last I heard no one was staying here at all.’ All the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on the offensive. Press. He had to get rid of her. How on earth could he sort things out with someone like her around?

‘So you thought you would just break in?’ she shot back.

He pulled the ancient large key from his pocket. ‘I didn’t break in. My mother has a key to Villa Rosa—she has done for years.’

‘And that gives you the right to just appear here and let yourself in? My sister inherited this property. It’s hers.’ She placed her hand on her chest and raised her eyebrows. ‘I know that I’m supposed to be here. But I’m quite sure you haven’t asked her permission. Particularly when you don’t even know her name.’

Javier was stunned. He wasn’t used to people treating him like an unwanted guest. He certainly hadn’t expected anyone to be here. He’d wanted the place to himself. But it was clear that wasn’t going to happen.

It was too late now to go anywhere else. The last ferry to the mainland had left hours ago. There weren’t any hotels nearby.

If Ms Portia Marlowe wanted to toss him out to the kerb, movie star or not, he was in trouble.

It was time to use the old Italian charm. He’d won awards for his acting. He might not mean a single word of it, but that didn’t matter right now. He needed a bed for the night and could sort the rest of this out in the morning.

He smiled. He already suspected she might have had a few drinks. Maybe it was time to play on the situation.

He put his hand to his forehead and gave it a rub, throwing in a little sway for good measure. He wasn’t an actor for nothing. ‘Yeow!’ He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, giving his head a shake.

She frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

He gestured to the glass on the terrace. ‘I didn’t notice at first. But that glass packed a bit of a punch.’ He shot her a smile and shook his head again. ‘I’m fine. Just dizzy for a second.’

For the briefest moment her eyes narrowed, almost as if she suspected she was being played. But then, guilt must have swamped her. She moved forward and pointed towards the rocking chair behind them. ‘Do you want to sit down? Will I get you some water?’

He gave a nod, and stepped backwards to the chair. It creaked as he lowered himself into the wooden frame and he prayed it wouldn’t splinter and send him sprawling on the ground.

Peaceful quiet surrounded him.

From up here he could hear the lapping sea. Hear the rustling leaves. Hear the occasional chirrup of a bird. Tranquillity. This was what he’d come here for. This was what he’d hoped to find.

Aldo would have loved this place. He wished he’d had the chance to bring him. He would have adored the waves crashing into the cove. At one point Aldo had fancied himself as a surfer, but the sea had had other ideas. When they were young guys, every holiday Aldo had hired a surfboard and spent hour after hour wiping out. Most of the time they’d nearly drowned laughing. His fists clenched. Why had he never taken the opportunity to bring him to Sofia’s? It spun around in his head, adding to the list of things he ‘should’ have done. Instead, time had just slipped away. Life had been too busy. There was always tomorrow.

Until there wasn’t.

A fact he was going to have to learn to live with.

Too busy. Too busy filming. Too busy in meetings. Too busy to answer the phone to an old friend. He’d meant to call back that night. But after sixteen hours on set it had just slipped from his mind.

The next call he’d received had ripped his heart out.

That was why he’d come here. To find space. To find peace. For a reality check on the life he was living.

Instead, he’d found Portia Marlowe. A beautiful woman, but a Hollywood reporter. It was like a romance and a horror movie both at once. He would have to manage this situation carefully.

He closed his eyes and let the chair rock back and forth. Maybe she was due to go home in the next day or so? This might actually be okay. He only planned to stay here for a few weeks. Just enough time to give him some space. Some alone space.

There was a tinkling noise. Portia was on her knees sweeping the broken glass up with a dustpan and brush, her face a little pink. She caught his gaze and shrugged. ‘I didn’t know who you were. You caught me unawares.’

‘So did you.’

The answer came out before he had time to alter it. She looked surprised. Her dark gaze locked with his. Against the backdrop of the now purple and pink sky Portia almost looked as if she were standing inside the painted drawing room. A cameraman would wait hours for a shot like this. But right now, Javier was the only person with this view. Portia blinked, breaking their gaze and picking up the bottle of water she had next to her feet. ‘Here, it’s not too cold. The fridge seems to be a temperamental teenager right now. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t bother.’

He nodded and took the lukewarm bottle of water, his fingers brushing against hers. A film director would have added a little twinkle and sparkling stars to match the pulses that shot up his arm.

He pushed the feeling aside. Being attracted to Portia Marlowe wasn’t an option. Not for a second. It couldn’t go anywhere. He had enough to sort out without bringing a Hollywood reporter into the equation.

She leaned forward, the soft curves of her breasts only inches from his hand. Her thumb brushed his forehead. ‘There’s not even a mark. I should probably be relieved.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Can you imagine the hoo-ha if I’d damaged the face of one of the world’s most famous film stars?’

Her face paled and her hand gripped the edge of the rocker. His stomach sank. The enormity of her actions had just hit her—him too. A scar would have resulted in his agent and publicist probably having some kind of fit. In the space of a few seconds, he could see the headlines, the plastic-surgeon consultations, the juggling of schedules and the threatened lawsuits all from an action that hadn’t really been intentional. It had been reactive. Not pre-planned. When he’d feigned feeling dizzy it had only been for his own ends. He didn’t want to spend the night sleeping on the street when he’d come here uninvited. Now he felt like some kind of cad.

He breathed in slowly, inhaling some of her rose perfume. It was tantalising. Or maybe that was just Portia. He gave his head a quick shake, trying to realign his senses. ‘I think maybe I just need to sleep. I’ve been travelling for a long time. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep I’ll feel fine.’

He let the words hang in the air. She opened her mouth to start to speak then closed it again. He could practically see the thoughts tumbling around in her brain. Her English sensibilities and good manners were obviously bubbling underneath the surface.

‘I’m sure I can fix up a bed for you. One of the other bedrooms is almost cleaned. I did some laundry the other day.’ There was hesitation in her voice.

Javier shot her his best smile. ‘That’s really kind of you. Thanks very much.’

He closed his eyes again as he heard her walk back into the house. He rocked back and forward in the chair. This was almost therapeutic.

And he needed that right now.

Because his time at Villa Rosa had just changed beyond all measure.

CHAPTER TWO

PORTIA LAY IN her bed wondering if the man in the next room was up yet.

Or maybe he’d died in the night of some hidden head injury she’d caused by throwing the wine glass?

She groaned and rolled onto her side. Sleep had been a stranger to her. She’d tossed and turned all night.

Somehow, Javier Russo had ended up sleeping in the room next to hers.

Talk about messing with her head.

She’d interviewed dozens of famous stars and met every personality trait. The smug. The bored. The sweetheart. The ignorant. The people pleaser. The desperate. And the person who appeared to be from another planet.

Javier had been charming in the way that only an Italian film star could be. But it was all an act. Last time she’d met him he’d been arrogant. He could barely even bother to say hello. He’d looked at her with those steely grey eyes as she’d asked a question and replied, ‘Is that really the best you can do?’ before walking away with a dismissive glance. It was obvious he hadn’t thought she’d been important enough to speak to.

Stars being rude was nothing new to Portia. But it had felt as though he was mocking her. And that had stung.

Most Hollywood stars at least pretended to like the press. Some tried to charm her. A few had even sent her gifts. One particularly sleazy older guy had slipped his hand a bit too low and earned himself a slap and he was apparently happily married. Five years in Hollywood had fast made her realise that everything was merely a façade. Hardly any of it was real—let alone the love stories.

The charm was all superficial. As for Javier Russo? Last time around he hadn’t even feigned interest—she’d felt as welcome as something on the bottom of his shoe. It was only when his press officer had nudged him and whispered in his ear harshly that he’d tried to turn on the charm again—but with the next person in line.

And it had annoyed her beyond belief that as soon as he’d started to speak the rhythm of his words in that alluring tone had sent shivers down her spine.

That same voice that she’d heard last night.

She still wasn’t entirely sure why he was there.

And that was pretty much the reason she couldn’t sleep.

This was it. This was her chance. This was her chance for a story. Why on earth would Javier Russo be here? The man could probably afford to rent an entire hotel to himself. What on earth was he doing at Villa Rosa?

She tried to remember everything she’d ever heard about him. The truth was there was very little scandal around him. Yes, he was arrogant and sometimes aloof. But there were never on-set rumours about weird demands or keeping others waiting for hours. His star had definitely risen in the last few years and he’d been known to date a model, a pop star, and a few co-stars.

She hadn’t realised his mother had been friends with Sofia. They’d both been models around the same time; it made sense that they’d moved in the same circles. Sofia had photograph album after photograph album in the attic above Portia’s head. Doubtless she would find some memento of the women’s past history together.

In the meantime she was trying to keep calm. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed. This could be the story that could save her career. Or it could be nothing. It could simply be about a film star that had just filmed back-to-back movies and was looking for some peace and quiet. It wasn’t really that outrageous a thought. Apart from an occasional interest in the royal family, L’Isola dei Fiori wasn’t exactly the most sought-out destination. The ferry boat from the mainland was the only way here. Tourism was low. This place was off the beaten track. That was partly why she was here too.

But maybe it was something else? Maybe there was much more to Javier Russo than anyone knew. Her stomach flipped a little. She was still annoyed at him being so dismissive at their last meeting—one that he didn’t even remember. Maybe finding a story on Javier Russo would give her the boost she needed for her flagging career?

She pushed the horrible nagging feeling to the back of her head.

She’d only agreed to let him stay here one night. Maybe if there was a chance of a story she should reconsider?

There was a noise from downstairs. She frowned and swung her legs out of bed. It only took a few minutes to source where the noise was coming from.

Oh, Javier Russo was awake all right. He was so awake he was standing bare-chested in the painted drawing room. She rubbed her eyes. Maybe she hadn’t woken up yet. Maybe this was all just some kind of weird dream. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans and black boots. And he was mixing something in a bucket, his actions allowing her to admire every chiselled muscle in his arms and abs. She was pretty sure her chin just bounced off the floor and came back up again. That smattering of dark curls across the chest then thickening and leading downwards... There should be a law against this kind of thing.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

He looked up and smiled. ‘Just making myself useful.’

There was quiet confidence in those words that actually made her smart. The painted room was her favourite in the whole house and she knew that Posy felt the same. Although they hadn’t exactly spoken about it, she was sure that getting repairs done in a room like this was entirely outside all of her sisters’ budgets.