The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

by Scarlet Wilson

  It might also help him keep his guard up. Being in a house with one person made things very informal. It tempted him to forget that Portia was a reporter. Particularly when she was lying next to him on the sand looking like this.

  Her hair was tied back with some kind of clasp, with a few loose strands blowing in the breeze around her face. If he leaned forward right now, he could brush that hair back with his fingertips and just touch his lips against hers...

  He couldn’t help it. He reached over and trailed the tip of his index finger down her nose. Her dark eyes widened and she licked her pink lips.

  Something clenched around his heart like a fist. A conversation. Rearing up from the back of his memory out of nowhere. Aldo. Telling him about the first time he’d kissed Lissa. Telling him he’d known straight away that she was the girl he was going to marry. He’d never seen his friend so happy. He’d teased him for months about the devotion to his wife before they were married. Before it had all fallen apart.

  Could he really have made a difference?

  He pulled his finger back, trying to forget the softness of her skin beneath his touch. He didn’t deserve this. He had no right to reach out to Portia—and find even a second of happiness—when Aldo couldn’t do that same.

  A whole host of memories flooded through him again. Sleeping with the enemy. It was only a figure of speech but that was what this equated to. What on earth was he thinking? Portia was press—and press should always be kept at a safe distance.

  His movement was sudden and Portia bit her lip, confusion flooding her eyes. She pulled herself back out of his reach, gathering up the glasses and bag from the sand.

  ‘It’s getting too hot for me,’ she said quickly, her voice wavering slightly. ‘I think it’s time for me to go back inside.’

  He cringed. What was he thinking? One second he wanted to be in her company, the next he was thinking about what he’d lost. He was so conflicted right now.

  Guilt overwhelmed him. It might not be rational. It might not be justified. But it was just where his head was.

  No matter how much he wanted to he couldn’t turn back the clock.

  He couldn’t go back and have that conversation with Aldo.

  And until he made peace with himself and put the steps in motion to make a change—he certainly couldn’t do anything else.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PORTIA WALKED OUT of the room and he sucked in a breath.

  She was wearing a belted pink dress that shimmered and black stiletto heels. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a bun at the back of her head and she was wearing bright red lipstick.

  He hadn’t moved. It was as if a warm breeze had just enveloped his skin making every tiny hair stand on end. There was something achingly familiar about the way she looked.

  ‘I’ve seen those clothes before. That dress—it’s striking. Is it a US designer?’ Maybe one of his co-stars had worn the same dress at a photo shoot.

  She took a long time to answer. Her hand ran across the satin material of the dress. ‘Maybe at the awards ceremony. This is the dress I wore for the red carpet interviews when we met. It’s not designer. I found it in a vintage dress shop a few years ago. I threw it into my case when I came for my sister’s wedding in case I needed something more formal to wear.’

  Her posture had stiffened and she wasn’t quite meeting his gaze.

  The awards ceremony. He’d tried to smile and be sociable but inside he’d felt as if he were dying. One of his co-stars had muttered beneath her smile that he was being inexplicably rude.

  His mouth felt dry. The night had passed in a blur to him. He couldn’t remember a single part of it. He’d still been in shock. Still trying to get his head around what had happened.

  Doubtless Portia had been one of the people he’d been rude to.

  He licked his dry lips as his stomach coiled in a way it hadn’t in a long time. He felt like a kid in a headmaster’s office. ‘Did we talk on the red carpet?’

  The look she shot him told him just about everything he needed to know. She waved her hand dismissively and walked past him. ‘I don’t think you could call it that.’

  He caught her by the shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. ‘Portia, wait. I’m sorry.’

  She spun around, fire dancing behind her eyes. ‘Really?’ The word was spoken like a challenge.

  ‘I wasn’t myself that night.’

  She tilted her head. ‘Oh? You weren’t? The arrogant man I met that night wasn’t you?’

  He cringed. He should have known. Portia was prickly. It was clear he had offended her. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? For asking me if that was the best I could do?’

  She was angry with him. That much was crystal clear. He shook his head. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said. But he did recall feeling exasperated by the never-ending questions that night about the film, his co-star and his suit. It had all seemed so superficial—so unimportant.

  She was facing him now and he put his hand back up on her shoulder. He spoke softly. ‘Please. I was upset. I couldn’t concentrate on being at the ceremony.’

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean? That’s the biggest night in any actor’s career—whether you’re nominated or not.’

  She was right. He knew she was right. Connections made on awards ceremony night could lead to great things—if your head was in the game.

  He could feel all the barriers he’d put up earlier start to crumble. He knew she was a reporter. He knew he should be cautious. ‘I’d just lost a friend. I’d just come back from the funeral.’ He didn’t add any more. He didn’t want to reveal any more about the situation.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ She seemed surprised.

  He gave a wry smile. ‘Not everything reaches the gossip columns.’

  She met his gaze and leaned towards him a little. ‘And not every story that I hear makes the news.’

  She was right under his chin now. The light in the corridor was dim and her pupils had dilated, making her eyes even darker than normal. Her voice was breathy. As she stepped closer her jasmine scent wound its way around him. He could hear one of the old-fashioned clocks ticking in the distance, marking the passing of time.

  It was a simple sentence. But he could see a whole host of other things on her face. Conflict. Learning. She was a reporter. This kind of thing was her job. But how many secrets did Portia know that she hadn’t shared? He’d never even contemplated that before.

  ‘Isn’t it your job just to find the next story?’

  They stood in the dim hall for a few seconds. He was conscious of her breathing, of the rise and fall of her chest under the pink shimmering material. His finger itched to reach out and touch her skin.

  But he resisted. He couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to start something he couldn’t continue.

  It felt as if they stood there for a while. Neither moving. Both of them wondering what could come next.

  She met his gaze. ‘That depends on me. I’m not as hungry for a story as I used to be. I won’t let myself be pushed in directions I don’t want to go. Hollywood lost its gloss for me a long time ago. We have a saying in Britain that today’s headlines are tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. It’s Hollywood. There will always be countless affairs and scandals. I don’t worry about revealing cheaters. I don’t worry about breaking news about who has got the next big role in a blockbuster movie. But even I have morals. There are some things I won’t tell. Ever.’

  He was kind of taken aback at the declaration. She’d obviously listened when he’d revealed his dislike of reporters earlier. He hadn’t invited Portia for dinner tonight in the hope that something would happen between them. Just the opposite.

  He’d hoped that in a formal environment it would be easier to remember wh
o she was. Too bad they hadn’t even reached the restaurant yet. Because she seemed to have turned all that on its head.

  He couldn’t help the attraction that was simmering beneath the surface. Right now he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

  Portia licked her lips and took a step to the side. ‘I think that was our taxi.’ She smiled.

  ‘It was? I didn’t even hear it.’

  He stepped back and put a smile on his face, making a sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Ms Marlowe, can I take you to dinner?’

  He strode over to the main door and reached for the handle just as she did too.

  Their hands brushed together again. Somewhere, in that last romantic movie he’d made, the film director had just cut to include multicoloured fireworks in the distance. He could practically hear them exploding next to his ear.

  Portia pulled her hand back. ‘Sorry.’ He could almost see something change in her eyes. There was a glimmer of determination. Where had that come from?

  He watched as she sucked in a breath and tilted her head towards him.

  ‘About the awards. You were cheated. You should have been nominated yourself.’ Even the pitch of her voice was different. It was as if she’d just moved back into Hollywood reporter mode.

  It changed the atmosphere in the air between them.

  But he couldn’t help but smile. ‘I appreciate the sentiment. But no, I shouldn’t. That film was terrible.’

  He could tell she couldn’t help it—her shoulders started to move and then her suppressed laughter bubbled over, her hand at her mouth. ‘You think your own film was terrible?’

  He laughed as he opened the front door for them just as the taxi pulled up outside. ‘Sure, I do. At least, I was terrible. My co-star had a much better part than I did.’

  ‘Then why on earth did you make it if you didn’t like it?’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘My agent told me to. He said the film was clever. He thought it was more art nouveau than anything else I’d made. He said it would widen my audience appeal.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Like that’s what you need. Just about everyone in the world knows who you are.’

  He opened the door on the taxi for her. ‘And that’s not always a good thing. Anonymity can be nice.’

  She gave him a curious stare as she climbed in the taxi. ‘If you say so.’

  * * *

  The journey in the taxi took less than five minutes. Javier was wearing dark trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. The evening was warm so neither of them had a jacket, which meant that in the confines of the vehicle the dark hairs on his arms were practically tickling her skin. She was flustered and she hated being flustered.

  It wasn’t a normal state for Portia Marlowe. She spent most of her time in front of the camera, cool and unruffled.

  She was about to go out to dinner with Javier Russo. The film star currently adorning a thousand teenagers’ walls.

  What on earth was she going to say?

  Javier chatted easily in Italian with the taxi driver, asking him questions then taking a piece of paper and scribbling some notes before handing it back. She blinked as he pulled out his wallet and took out a wad of cash. ‘What’s that for?’ She looked around—not quite sure what she was looking for—but almost as if it was some kind of clandestine act.

  Javier laughed. ‘The taxi driver lives next door to the builder’s merchant. I’ve asked him to get me some glass for the conservatory. He’s going to bring the delivery to Villa Rosa tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She gave a sigh and flopped back against the cool leather of the two-seater. Her brain was spinning. What was wrong with her?

  From the second he’d touched her cheek on the beach her brain had been filled with a thousand thoughts. She’d been straight with him. She’d been in Hollywood too long. She’d been propositioned by some actors, and seen others cheat and betray. She was jaded. And while the attention Javier was giving her was flattering, she also had the tiniest belief in the back of her mind that she could be being played. After all, wasn’t Javier one of the best actors around?

  The taxi driver opened her door and she stepped out. Javier had chosen a small restaurant overlooking the port. The waiter showed them to a table on the terrace without so much as a blink. Portia reached up to grab a strand of hair and twiddle it around her finger. It was a nervous habit—one she’d had since she was a child. But she’d forgotten her hair was coiled tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  Did no one else recognise Javier? She glanced around the restaurant. It was exactly as it should be. There was a large family at one table, and two other couples at tables on either side of them. Both couples were completely engaged in conversations with each other. No one seemed to have noticed their resident film star.

  Javier pulled out a chair for her. ‘Would you prefer inside? Will you be too cold out here?’

  She shook her head quickly. Inside the restaurant was lit by flickering candles. Much too intimate. Javier gave her a nod. ‘Would you like some wine?’

  She nodded quickly. ‘Rosé?’ he asked as one eyebrow arched jokingly.

  ‘No, white, please.’ The waiter had placed a menu in front of her but her eyes had caught sight of a wooden board listing their special for the evening. ‘I think I’ll have the fish. White would suit better.’

  Javier looked over his shoulder and nodded at the board too. ‘Ah, yes, the fish looks good. We’ll both have that.’ He handed the menus back to the waiter and pointed to something on the wine menu. ‘And this, please.’

  The waiter nodded and disappeared. Portia felt her stomach do a little flip-flop.

  She was out for dinner with Javier Russo. And those sexy grey eyes that usually graced the big screen were looking straight at her. Javier looked completely relaxed. He glanced around the port, watching the bobbing boats and fishermen packing up for the night. His head nodding slowly.

  ‘Do you recognise this place?’

  ‘Of course, I spent hours here as a kid.’

  She was surprised. ‘You did?’

  He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. ‘You didn’t?’

  Portia shook her head. ‘Hardly ever. We mainly just played at the house or on the beach.’

  Javier gave a little smile. ‘You and your sisters were obviously good girls. I couldn’t wait to get a bit of freedom and wander into the town.’ He pressed his lips together for a second, ‘The house was either too quiet, or complete chaos.’

  She was tempted to press for more. ‘Didn’t you enjoy spending time with Sofia?’

  He looked out over the water. ‘Well, yes, and no. The days could be long for a small boy.’

  ‘You weren’t playing with the Princes?’

  He raised his eyebrows and she burst out laughing. ‘That didn’t quite come out right.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t play with the Princes. I didn’t meet them at first. It was only when we had to stay for a bit longer that Sofia made the arrangements with the tutor. Even then, I always knew I was persona non grata in the palace. Alessandro was quite reserved to begin with—not like Nico at all.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Even now, every time I hear Nico’s name, I wonder what crazy sport he’s up to now.’ He picked up the fork on the table and passed it from hand to hand. ‘Alessandro would have been a good King.’ He looked out over the port again. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky sending streaks of orange and red across the water. ‘He loved L’Isola dei Fiori. He wanted the absolute best for this place and its people.’

  He looked up and met her gaze for a second. ‘Parents just shouldn’t outlive their kids. There’s just something so wrong about it.’

  There was an ache to his words. A pain. Was he talking about Alessandro’s death and the fact his father Vincenzo was still
on the throne, or had Javier lost a child himself?

  Almost instantly a cool breeze swept over her skin and she shivered. The waiter chose that moment to appear and pour their wine. She’d never been so glad to let the dry, sharp taste fill her senses.

  Javier paused for a few seconds, sipping at his wine and staring at the horizon.

  Her stomach did another flip-flop. If Javier had something deep and dark in his past she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She liked the Javier Russo that the world did. His sexy smile, the glint in his pale grey eyes and the way he could look at you as if you were the only person on the planet.

  The flash of pain there had unsettled her.

  She was looking for a headline. Something that could cause a five-minute frenzy, and let her get in her boss’s good books again. But as tempting as that could be, she’d meant it when she’d told him that not every story made it onto her entertainment show.

  Just being in Javier’s company meant the questions she’d already been asking herself about her job seemed to be magnifying in her brain. He wasn’t acting like the arrogant man she’d met on the red carpet in March. She’d brushed off his explanation—but maybe it had been true?

  Javier turned his attention back to her. She could almost see him switch off—push the thoughts he was having away.

  He leaned on the table again. ‘So, Portia, what are your plans for the rest of this week?’

  She smiled as the waiter set down their plates and she picked up her fork. That was a couple of times he’d done that with her. It seemed Javier had learned the art of changing the subject well. ‘I haven’t decided. I’m split between just cleaning in general or going up into the attic and starting to find out what’s up there.’

  ‘Knowing Sofia, it could be anything.’

  She sighed. ‘Part of me is excited, and part of me is dreading it.’

  ‘Dreading what?’

  Portia poked at the fish in front of her. It looked wonderful, it smelt fantastic, but her stomach was still doing flip-flops. She pressed her lips together and gave Javier a smile. She closed her eyes, seeing the villa in all its splendour in her head. Sofia in a beautiful long green satin dress, gliding down the staircase with a glass in her hand. Guests mingling all around her, spilling out through the conservatory and onto the terrace. Others gathering in the flickering candlelight of the domed room. ‘Dreading getting rid of all the memories of Sofia,’ she admitted. She opened her eyes again. Javier was looking at her with the strangest expression.