The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

by Scarlet Wilson

Portia gulped. Alessandro had died two years ago. He and Nico had been cousins, but Alessandro was an only child, meaning Nico was now the heir to the throne.

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  Javier met her gaze with his grey eyes. ‘Yes, it was. We weren’t as close as we’d been as children. Alessandro was quiet. He didn’t like the spotlight. The bright lights of Hollywood didn’t suit him. But he visited a few times.’

  Portia nodded as the water in the pot started to bubble. She got up to make the coffee. ‘That’s quite a difference in childhood. One part with glamorous Sofia and the Princes, and one part handyman with your Uncle Vinnie.’ Javier Russo would be a biographer’s dream. Why hadn’t he done that yet?

  He made a strangled kind of noise. ‘Don’t kid yourself. Small boys aren’t glamorous—we spent most of our time conjuring up trouble. And Uncle Vinnie? He was probably my blessing in disguise. He kept me on the straight and narrow. He taught me discipline.’ He gave her a cheeky smile. ‘Let’s face it, there are a number of my co-stars who could probably benefit from some Uncle-Vinnie-style hard work.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt it.’ She spooned the coffee into the cups and poured the boiling water on top, taking care not to spill it.

  ‘So what about you?’ he asked as she pushed the cup towards him.

  ‘What about me?’

  She was surprised. Again he was catching her unawares. It was clear that part of the conversation had come to an end. Javier Russo was good at hinting without giving too much away. She was almost sure she could name each of the co-stars he’d been referring to when he talked. And the part about his mother? She’d just tucked it away somewhere. Probably alongside the older male film star who hadn’t come out, and the depressed female film star. Already it felt too personal, too deep. The kind of stories she’d spent the last year pretending she hadn’t heard.

  ‘How many sisters do you have?’

  She mopped up some of her egg with the bread. Sisters. The easiest topic in the world for her. She could talk about her sisters for hours. ‘There are four of us. I’m the oldest, then there’s the twins, Imogen and Miranda—she’s the one that just got married—and then there’s Posy—real name Rosalind—she’s the ballerina.’

  He paused for a second. ‘The names—they’re all Shakespeare characters. Were your mother and father fans?’

  She nodded. ‘They met at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford watching Romeo and Juliet. My mother said it was fate. They took us there a few times as kids.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘Posy tried to get up on the stage and dance at one point.’

  ‘And she’s the one that inherited the house?’

  Portia nodded. ‘Sofia was Posy’s godmother. My godmother wasn’t quite so exotic. She was my aunt, my dad’s sister, and lived about two minutes away from us.’ She gave him a smile. ‘Sofia was always much more exciting.’

  He nodded. ‘Oh, I know she was. I saw some of the parties.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Your sister must be very disciplined if she’s a ballerina. It’s every bit as cut-throat as Hollywood.’

  Portia pressed her lips together. ‘To be honest, I think it could be worse. I’m not sure how happy Posy is. She’s been in the corps de ballet for a while now.’ Portia put her hand on her chest. ‘Now, personally, I think Posy is the best dancer they have. But I might be a little biased.’

  ‘Really?’ Javier was sipping his coffee. He looked amused. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Well, Miranda’s a pilot. Cleve, her new husband, is a pilot too. Their wedding was just perfect. When they stood in the garden and said their vows it was gorgeous. I can honestly say I’ve never seen my sister so happy. It almost made me believe that true love might actually exist.’ There was a little pang in her chest. She hated to feel envy. But the love and connection between Andie and Cleve had been crystal clear. ‘And Imogen...’ Portia paused for a second, trying to find the right words. ‘She works at my dad’s company, Marlowe Aviation. She’s planning on getting married soon too.’

  Javier looked at her curiously. ‘Why did you say it that way?’

  Portia sucked in a breath. ‘What way?’

  Javier put down his cup. ‘You don’t want her to get married.’ He was looking at her curiously. Had she really been so obvious?

  Portia thumped her own cup down on the countertop with a little more venom than she meant to. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Really?’ He smiled as he picked up the plates and carried them to the sink. He completely ignored her outburst.

  He kept talking. ‘What I’m not sure about is whether you think you should have got married first, or if you don’t like the guy that Imogen is marrying.’

  Portia was shocked. And Javier still had that look on his face—the one the world had fallen in love with, half joking, half serious. The expression that had drawn women in all over the world. But right now Portia wanted to dump her coffee over his head.

  ‘That’s a terrible thing to say. How dare you?’ She tossed her coffee cup in the sink, trying to ignore the loud crack. Oops.

  ‘Well, which one is it?’

  Darn this man. He wasn’t going to let it go. The words stuck somewhere in her throat. The truth was she’d never liked Immi’s intended. She never had. She never would. There was just something about him she couldn’t put her finger on.

  But she’d also already had horrible irrational thoughts about being left on the shelf and pictured herself with grey hair—a sad old spinster, sitting on a rocking chair like the one on the terrace, watching her sisters’ families playing all around her.

  Irrational. She knew it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  Anger surged through her. ‘None of your business.’

  Javier gave a little jerk backwards at her words. His amused, playful glance left his face.

  She turned and strode out to the terrace. By the time the cool sea breeze started blowing her hair across her face she could feel a little wave of panic.

  She was supposed to try and keep Javier sweet. She was supposed to be looking for some insider gossip that could help her keep her job.

  But already things weren’t sitting comfortably with her. What was it about sharing a house with a Hollywood heartthrob to make you feel like the only reject in town?

  She was trying to be cool. She was trying to be professional.

  She was trying to be underhand.

  Ugh.

  Her interview style had always been forthright, if occasionally flirtatious. Trouble was, just being around Javier was unsettling.

  Maybe it was those grey eyes, sincere one moment as if the world were on his shoulders, and smouldering the next, as if any second now he would just push her up against a wall and kiss her as he had done his co-star in the last movie she’d watched.

  She was pretty sure that had been rated the hottest scene on film that year.

  And now she was living it—if only in her head.

  Pathetic really.

  She sensed him walk up beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

  She was watching the azure-blue sea—perfect on a sunny day with waves rising in little white peaks of froth and crashing onto the rocks below.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get personal.’

  She licked her lips and begged her brain to find some nice, rational thoughts.

  ‘I didn’t mean to get shirty.’

  He turned towards her, his brow furrowed. ‘Shirty?’

  The joys of language. ‘Snappy. Impatient.’ She waved her hand as his brow started to unfurl. ‘Generally just a bit badly behaved.’

  He smiled and nodded. ‘Ah, well, maybe we’re both a bit badly behaved.’

  He was trying to be nice—she knew it—but, boy, did this guy speak in double entendres.

 
He stretched his hands out towards the perfect sea. ‘How about I finish some of the more delicate plasterwork and we have a picnic on the beach in a few hours? I miss swimming in the sea around here. I haven’t done it in years. It would be nice to bring back some memories.’

  She glanced sideways at him. He looked contemplative. Thoughtful. Maybe he would be able to share a little with her once they knew each other better.

  She nodded. ‘I can get started on some cleaning. I’m going to wash some of the dust sheets and clean some of the windows in the rooms. How about I meet you back here in a couple of hours?’

  He nodded and gave her a smile.

  She licked her lips as she watched him walk away. In theory it all sounded fine. But the image of Javier Russo all wet in a pair of trunks had suddenly made her mouth go very dry.

  Very, very dry.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HE WASN’T QUITE sure what it was about her. But Portia Marlowe was proving to be a little unexpected.

  Javier had never been someone to believe his own press. Every film set, every job he worked on he got to know people from the runners, to the catering staff, to the executives who liked to visit for around ten minutes.

  The film-star tag was a whole different ball game. He played the game when he needed to. He did the interviews. He’d even been conveniently photographed on occasion. The sexy label made him laugh out loud. He was comfortable around women. Usually, he had no problems communicating with them.

  But he always kept a distance. He always controlled what was going on. He’d seen what the press had done to his mother. In a way he blamed them for her bipolar disorder. Most of her life she’d kept it under control. But when the press had decided to harass her, the stress had exacerbated all her symptoms. The sleeplessness. The fatigue. Her coping mechanisms. Her moods. Her erratic behaviour, coupled with her irritability and her inability to complete tasks—sometimes even sentences.

  He’d been determined to always keep his press under control—to only let them know what he wanted them to know. The truth was he always mistrusted the press.

  Portia? She was a little different. His mother had once described an English counterpart as ‘prickly’. Today, it seemed to fit the bill. Prickly Portia. He wasn’t quite sure how old she was, but he’d surely hit a nerve with her in the kitchen today. He wasn’t usually so clumsy around women. His mother would have been horrified by him. Sofia would probably have slapped him around the back of the head.

  He was getting little flashes of memories about her. There was something achingly familiar about Portia that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was the occasional way she said a word with her English accent that was pushing his buttons. He loved that accent. Not that he would tell her that.

  He’d come here for some peace. He needed to figure out what came next in his life. From the second he’d got that phone call about Aldo he’d known that things would never be the same. He’d known that he would never be the same.

  The biggest ache for him was the final diagnosis. Aldo was bipolar.

  His friend had suffered from the same disease as his mother and Javier hadn’t picked up on it. They hadn’t spent a lot of time together in the last year. And Javier had been aware that Aldo had been low after the breakdown of his marriage. But that had seemed almost natural. Almost understandable. But Javier had missed the highs that Aldo had also displayed. The erratic behaviour. The despairing lows. Things that would have helped him put the pieces together to get Aldo the correct diagnosis and treatment before it was too late.

  He’d already decided he wanted to do something specific for people with the same disorder. For families with loved ones who were suffering and didn’t know how to help.

  He just hadn’t managed to decide the best way to do it.

  This was his time out. His chance to gather his thoughts, arrange his finances and look at his calendar of work for the next year to take time to devote to this. Working on the house would have been therapeutic. He just hadn’t expected the house to be filled by Portia Marlowe.

  He sighed and walked through to the painted drawing room.

  The plasterwork had to be done slowly. And once plaster was mixed it had to be used within a certain time frame. The long snaking crack across the dome had taken some gentle sanding and filling. He’d need to examine it again tomorrow. But now he picked up his wide range of trowels, hawk and scarifier to clean them before he used them again.

  Upstairs he could hear the shower running. The dust must have got to places that he didn’t even want to tease her about and by the time she came downstairs again he’d finished washing his tools.

  Her hair was still damp, coiled around into a bun at the back of her head. She was obviously wearing a swimming costume but had a black sheer kaftan over the top and a pair of flip-flops on her feet.

  He shook his head and pointed to them. ‘Remember, we’ve got to get down that path to the beach. Do you have something else?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh, yeah, I hadn’t even thought about that path. I have a pair of trainers I can wear.’ She glanced over at him. ‘Do you need to get ready?’

  He glanced down at himself. A few blobs of plaster had landed on his grey T-shirt and three-quarter-length khaki shorts. He held up his hands. ‘I got an award last year for best-dressed male.’ He shook his head. ‘I have no idea how that happened. They obviously don’t know me at all.’

  Portia crossed the kitchen and picked up the rest of the bread. She opened the fridge and came out smiling, holding a bottle of water with a little condensation around the outside. ‘Look, it’s decided to work today. We can take the rest of the bread, the ham and I have some cheese too.’

  Javier had reached the door to leave but ducked his head back around. ‘What, no wine?’

  Something flitted across her face. ‘I suppose we could if you wanted.’ She ducked back into the fridge. ‘Yep, there’s some white. We’ll take that.’

  A few minutes later he’d washed his face and changed his T-shirt. He’d neglected to bring swimming shorts, but the beach was private and he was sure his black jockey shorts were respectable enough.

  Portia had a couple of towels over her arm as well as a bag with the food. They made their way down the path to the beach. The stone was crumbling in places, and the path a little steep. A few times Portia’s hand landed on his back as they headed down the slope.

  The white sand practically sparkled. Javier kicked off his trainers and almost let out a yelp. ‘Wow. It’s hot.’

  Portia smiled as she kicked hers off too. ‘Well, it is brilliant sunshine—what do you expect?’

  He looked at her skin. Her English rose complexion had seemed to gain an LA tan. It was light golden brown but she still looked as if she could burn easily. ‘Are you all right being out in this sun?’

  She winked at him. ‘Factor fifty. Haven’t you heard? I live in LA. Sun is a crime against skin.’

  He laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t tried one of the crazy remedies?’ He tapped his face. ‘To stop wrinkles and regain youthfulness.’ She burst out laughing as he mimicked one of the other popular male film stars who’d just filmed a TV ad for moisturiser.

  There was a glint in her eyes as she laid the towels down on the sand. ‘Which one? The elephant’s urine? The fungus? Or the sixty-day-old-egg recipe?’

  He shuddered. ‘Is that the latest fad?’ He waved his hands. ‘My last co-star paid over a thousand dollars for some fish-egg cream. The smell—’ he shook his head and screwed up his face ‘—was so horrendous, none of the crew would venture near her trailer.’

  Portia started laughing as she walked towards the waves. ‘And you had to kiss her?’

  This time Javier exaggerated the shudder. ‘I would never speak badly of a co-star. Thankfully, by the time we were filming, the cream was washe
d off and her make-up was firmly in place.’

  Portia let out a little yelp as she paddled at the edge of the sea. ‘Yikes, it looks so inviting but it’s bitter cold.’

  Javier grinned as he strode into sea. It was a little colder than he expected but it was exactly what he needed. He started sloshing the cold sea water over his chest and back. He turned around as he was doing it, letting the waves gently lap up to his back.

  ‘Come on,’ he gestured to her. ‘Get in.’

  She shook her head and pulled up the hem of her black sheer kaftan. ‘Oh, no. Not yet. Paddling is as good as it gets.’

  He squinted at her as she stood in the sun.

  She laughed as the waves lapped up her thighs. ‘How is it that as soon as you put a toe in the sea, it seems to try and drag you in further?’

  His stomach clenched a little. Press. It was easy to forget that Portia was press.

  But he couldn’t forget it. He had to remember—at all times.

  He had to be nice to her. If he wanted to stay here—he had to keep her onside. But he could still do that by keeping her at arm’s length.

  Today was only about being polite. The work might seem like a bonus for Portia, but for him it was therapeutic. He could think while he worked. He could make plans while he worked.

  There was something about Portia. Maybe it was because she was press. But he could see it hidden behind her careful glances at him. She made his spider sense tingle, and that helped him remember she was the enemy. He got the impression there was more to Portia than met the eye.

  He watched her as she took a few steps in, changed her mind and took a few steps back again. ‘There should be a law against water this cold,’ she muttered, her kaftan poised around her thighs. She took another few steps in, then shook her head. ‘Nope. Not for me. Changed my mind.’ She gestured towards the water. ‘You swim. I’ll watch. How about I promise to phone for help if I see you being eaten by a shark?’

  She let her kaftan drop and waded out of the water to drop on one of the towels. She lay back and pulled her sunglasses down from her head.