Nothing felt wrong. Everything felt right. For the first time since Aldo had died Javier finally had some peace. He could finally contemplate a future. And he knew exactly who he wanted to contemplate it with. Her breath was quickening, their kisses becoming more fevered, and he reluctantly pulled his lips from hers and pressed his forehead against hers.
‘Ms Marlowe?’ he said hoarsely.
She looked up through thick lashes. ‘Yes?’ Her voice was shaking.
He held out his hand to take her gloved one. ‘Let me introduce you to the magic of opera. Let me introduce you to The Marriage of Figaro.’
* * *
It was as if she were in her own movie.
She was the heroine. And he was the hero.
In some ways she felt as if it were all unreal. As if at any moment she’d wake up from this wonderful dream.
The limousine whisked them to the Teatro di San Carlo. As soon as they stepped outside it was like being on the red carpet. Javier was recognised instantly. She could feel the electricity in the air around them. His hand stayed firmly at her back.
Cameras flashed intermittently. Javier shook hands with people and charmed his way along the row of staff who were standing outside the opera house.
As soon as they stepped inside her nerves increased. There were many hushed voices and glances in their direction. What a fool. She hadn’t given this enough thought.
She’d got used to the anonymity of L’Isola dei Fiori. Of not looking over her shoulder and worrying about what she looked like. It was odd. The thought had flitted through her mind when they were on the ferry. But since they’d arrived in the hotel it had been like their own private world, and when she’d stepped outside the room and seen Javier’s face, all she’d been able to think about was him and her.
Another glass of champagne was placed in her hand and she gathered Sofia’s dress in one hand as they walked up the stairs.
Walking into the teatro was like entering another world.
It was breathtaking. The whole theatre was circular, set around the large stage. Red plush seats filled the stalls and sweeping around the walls were five tiers of individual boxes. White and gold gilt decorated the walls with sweeping red velvet curtains at each of the boxes.
Javier smiled at her and led her up a set of private stairs. A staff member held the door open for her and she stepped inside. And then stopped.
They were directly facing the stage. The box had large sumptuous seats and gold gilt decoration all around. ‘What is this?’ she whispered.
He smiled. ‘We’re in the royal box.’
‘The what?’ It was almost as if the air had been sucked from her chest. Maybe this dress was tighter than she thought.
He gestured to her to sit down. The chair was almost like a throne, possibly the grandest chair she’d ever seen. She perched gingerly on the edge while an amused Javier watched. More champagne was waiting for them in the box along with strawberries. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’ he said with a shrug. Javier settled next to her as the lights started to dim around them.
‘Do you know the story of The Marriage of Figaro?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve never seen it though.’
He smiled and rested back in his chair as he clasped her hand. ‘Then sit back and enjoy, let the magic begin.’
From the first beat of the music it was like a spell being weaved around her. Figaro, Susanna and the Count gripped her attention. Every one of Mozart’s notes, every harmony, every element of comedy had her enthralled. The music from the opera filled every part of the huge theatre, reverberating around them.
In the dark of the theatre their box seemed ultimately private. So when Javier nuzzled at her neck she didn’t object. He fed her strawberries, which trickled down her chin. The champagne made her hiccup, which set her off in a fit of giggles.
And he didn’t let go of her hand the whole night.
She stopped worrying about her work and her life in Hollywood. Javier only had eyes for her. His attention was mesmerising. They whispered to each other. They kissed. She’d never been so connected.
Her heart was swelling so much it felt as though it would fill her chest. When the last beat of music had finished she leapt to her feet and applauded as loudly as she could.
Javier was at her side. ‘Did you like it?’
She couldn’t hold back the enthusiasm that was bubbling inside. She threw her arms around his neck. ‘I didn’t like it, I loved it.’
He looked so amused, but she felt safe around him, assured in his arms. That glint in his eye sent little shockwaves all around her body. No one had ever made her feel like this. No one had ever made her feel so special, and so loved.
She forgot about everyone else around them as they walked hand in hand to the limousine. She only had eyes for Javier. And it seemed he only had eyes for her.
By the time they’d reached the hotel she was breathless with anticipation.
The journey in the lift only took a few seconds and she held her breath the whole way.
Javier was quiet. Maybe he was feeling the same way. As the doors slid open she could see candles flickering all around the suite. Gentle music was playing in the background. It was magical.
But for some reason her feet couldn’t move.
Javier stepped out of the lift and turned and held his hand out towards her. ‘Ms Marlowe...’ he bowed before her ‘...will you be my guest?’
Every part of her was trembling. But it wasn’t nerves. It was excitement.
She’d never wanted anything more.
‘I’d love to,’ she answered as she put her hand in his.
Javier pulled her up against him. They’d never danced together before and this felt exactly how it should.
She slid her arms up to his shoulders and pressed her body against his, moving in time with the music. Javier’s mouth trailed kisses down the side of her face and along her shoulder and neck. His touch so light, it was like butterfly wings against her skin.
Her skin was on fire. Every sense aching for his touch. His fingers traced a line down her closed eyes, past her mouth and over the delicate skin at her decoupage, stopping tantalisingly at the mound of her breasts. He moved it across her chest and down the length of one arm, spinning her around so she had her back to him and peeling her glove, oh, so slowly, so temptingly down her arm. It was like being part of an exotic and extremely private striptease. The next glove followed just as slowly. She could feel the planes of his chest and abdomen pressed against her back. She sucked in a breath as his hand slid between their bodies and rested in the arch between her shoulder blades. The noise of the slide of the zipper was achingly teasing. As the pressure of the dress released around her, she spun around, letting it fall on the floor at her feet and leaving her standing in only her underwear in front of him.
She didn’t feel embarrassed. She didn’t feel exposed. She just lifted her hands and started slowly pulling his bow tie apart. He stood still, not moving as she took charge. Instead, she relished him watching the candlelight dance over her body as she slowly undid each button on his shirt. Once she’d pulled it apart she slid her hands over the planes of his chest as he let out a groan. He pulled her bare breasts against his now bare chest.
‘Do you know what you’re doing to me, Portia Marlowe?’
She licked her lips as she lowered her gaze. ‘Pretty much the same as you’re doing to me, Mr Russo. How about we see where this takes us?’
She let out a whimper as his hands slid over the curves of her bottom. ‘Let’s see indeed,’ he groaned as he lowered her to the floor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE WOKE UP with the sheets tangled around him and her bare body pressed against his.
In previous circumstances he’d always known there would be an end poi
nt in the relationship. He’d never been sworn on forever.
But with Portia he just couldn’t picture how things would come to a natural end.
He didn’t want to.
She smiled as she turned around, still sleeping, and reached out to press her head against his chest. He ran his fingertip down her nose. ‘Hey, sleepyhead. We need to wake up at some point. We need to get back to our own private paradise.’
She let out a groan, still not opening her eyes. ‘I like the sound of that.’
But she wasn’t finished. She stretched, then swung one leg over his body, sitting astride him and brushing her lips against his. ‘I love Villa Rosa, but I’m kind of liking it here too. Why don’t we stay another night? Do a tour of the city like you said?’
He hesitated, trying to find the words. But they didn’t come quickly enough. His mind was blank. Everything had gone well yesterday. But he was anxious to finish at Villa Rosa and get back to the real world. Get back to where he felt he could make a difference. He just hadn’t had a chance to talk to Portia about it yet.
‘How about we save that for another day? I’d like to finish up at Villa Rosa first.’
She frowned and sat back, placing her palms flat on his chest. Even though this was a little awkward, part of him loved that she wasn’t embarrassed by their nakedness. She looked the tiniest bit hurt. ‘Oh, okay, then.’
She sighed and swung her leg back from his body and stepped down onto the floor. She walked over to the wardrobe and pulled it open, reaching for one of the white luxury dressing gowns that hung inside. She wrapped it around herself and turned around. ‘I think you should order me some coffee. It’s time for you to tell me what’s going on.’
He could tell by the tone of her voice that he wouldn’t be able to brush her off with any made-up tales. And he didn’t want to do that anyway.
They’d got this close. Maybe it was time to finally share the secret that had been eating away at him since he’d got the phone call to say that Aldo was dead.
It was surprising how quickly room service could arrive. Within ten minutes they were sitting on either side of a table with an array of food in front of them. Portia pulled one leg up onto the chair, revealing her bare knee as she reached for a croissant and tore it apart. Her dark curls from last night tumbled around her face. Not a trace of make-up was left.
He poured the coffee and left it black.
Portia didn’t speak, she just studied him with her dark brown eyes.
‘You know how we spoke about the funeral I went to just before the awards ceremony?’
She nodded. ‘It was a friend, wasn’t it? I just assumed he’d died of cancer or something similar. You never really told me much about it.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I never told anyone much about it.’
She narrowed her gaze. ‘Okay, why?’
He felt his voice start to shake. ‘Aldo was my oldest friend. I’d known him forever. He still lived in the village my mother’s family came from. Aldo didn’t die from cancer.’
She set down her coffee cup. ‘What did he die from?’
Javier’s eyes went to the bay, sweeping around the beauty of the view and glistening sea. ‘Aldo committed suicide.’
Saying the words out loud was so harsh. It was like an admission of reality. The thing he really didn’t want to talk about at all—but was trying to find a way to deal with.
‘Oh.’ Portia pressed her lips together. She was still studying him intently. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that.’ She waited a few seconds and then added, ‘Had he been unwell?’
Bile rose in the back of his throat. There was an ache in his stomach. A real, physical ache. A gust of wind blew in through the open doors, carrying the aroma of all the food on the table, and he almost retched. Javier pushed his chair back from the table.
As he looked down he saw the goosebumps appear on his skin. ‘Yes—but I didn’t know it.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I didn’t recognise the signs.’ He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t there to recognise the signs.’
Portia spoke quietly. ‘What do you mean?’
Javier’s grey eyes met hers, pain etched through them. ‘Aldo had bipolar disorder—just like my mother has.’
Portia’s eyes widened. ‘Oh.’
He shook his head. ‘I spent my life around someone with bipolar disorder. If anyone should have recognised it—it should have been me. But I wasn’t there. I didn’t see enough of Aldo. I knew he was down. I knew he was depressed—but I thought that seemed like part of the grieving process after the breakdown of his marriage.’
‘And it was more than that?’
Javier nodded. ‘Yes. His sister told me later about the mood swings. The sleeplessness. The irritability. The erratic behaviour.’ He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. ‘All things I could have recognised.’
‘And if you had—would you have been able to help?’
Javier threw up his hands in frustration. ‘Of course I would have. I could have got him to see a specialist doctor, a therapist that could have helped with his condition.’
She gave her head a little shake. ‘This isn’t your fault, Javier. You weren’t here. You were working.’
Javier clenched his fists. ‘I know that. But still...’
Javier looked up and met her gaze. Those dark brown eyes were fixed on his. No judgement. No blame. His voice broke. ‘There’s more.’
Portia leaned across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘What?’
He let out a long slow breath.
‘I hadn’t been good at keeping in touch. I’d called. I’d emailed. But we hadn’t physically seen each other for seventeen months.’ He shook his head and bowed it. ‘That was far too long. Far too long for someone I’d known that long.’
Portia still had her hand over his. She stopped squeezing and started moving her thumb in little circles over his knuckles. ‘But that happens with friends. Even the best of friends. I have friends from school that I only ever get to see every five years or so, and we just pick up from where we left off. Time doesn’t matter to us. We’re all leading our own lives.’ Her hand came up and touched his cheek. ‘But they’re the kind of friends—almost like sisters—that I know if I picked up the phone to them in the middle of the night and told them I was in trouble, they’d drop everything to help me. And I would them.’
He could see the sincerity on her face. She absolutely meant it. Portia Marlowe was a much better friend than he’d ever been.
He snatched his hand back and stalked out to the balcony, putting his arms on the railing and stretching down, closing his eyes and willing the Bay winds to sweep away his conscience and regrets.
‘Javier?’ Portia stood beside him in her dressing gown, worry etched across her face. Her voice was quiet. ‘What is it?’
She knew there was so much more to this. He couldn’t pretend any more.
He started to shake. ‘It was my fault, Portia. Mine. I was away—filming in the Arabian Desert. It was a terrible location. No phone signals. Sixteen-hour days on set. And even as I say that out loud I know exactly what a pathetic excuse that is.’ His voice was getting louder. He couldn’t help himself. He was so wrapped up in the emotion that he couldn’t stop. ‘He phoned me, Portia. He phoned me and left me a message saying he really needed to talk. And do you know what I did? I got back to the trailer, couldn’t get a signal and fell asleep. I fell asleep!’
Portia had pulled back, her eyes wide. But she stood her ground next to him as her hair was blown around her face.
‘What kind of friend am I? My best friend calls—tells me he needs me. And I’m too busy—too tired to call back. I was the last person Aldo called before he killed himself.’ He thudded his hands down on the railing.
His breaths were coming in short, sharp burs
ts. He could feel his heart thudding against his chest.
There was a flicker to his left. Someone standing on the balcony of the neighbouring suite; a man also stood looking out over the bay.
Portia didn’t speak. She just took one of his hands and pulled him back indoors. She pushed him firmly down onto one of the large armchairs and settled on his lap.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and dipped her head next to his ear. ‘Don’t, Javier. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t blame yourself because you didn’t answer the phone on one occasion. You have no idea if it would have made a difference or not. How could you? If you had spoken to him, and he’d still done it, would you feel better or worse?’
He was numb. But Portia was sitting in his lap, putting her cheek against his and letting the heat from her body reach through the robe towards him.
His throat was completely dry. Her fingers stroked through his hair. She was trying to offer some modicum of comfort.
His voice was throaty. ‘He wanted to talk, Portia. That’s what he said. He just wanted to talk.’
She gave her head the smallest shake. ‘But you still don’t know. You had no idea your friend was unwell. If you had done—I’m sure you would have called him straight away.’ She closed her eyes for a second. ‘We all have points in our lives where we’d like to turn the clock back and take different steps. But that doesn’t always mean we’ve done something wrong.’ Her hand was still on his face. ‘What about his mum and dad? His sister? How are they doing?’
‘I try and speak to them every week. I don’t think his mum or dad will ever get over it. How do you do that? How does a parent get over losing a child?’
‘And they didn’t know either?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s just it. They didn’t recognise the signs. He’d lost weight. He’d apparently mentioned he had trouble sleeping. His moods were erratic.’
She held out her hands. ‘And because of your experience with your mother, you think you would have put the pieces together?’
He gave the briefest of nods. His emotions were bubbling beneath the surface. He’d never really spoken to anyone about all this before. He’d never really shared like this. It didn’t matter that there was still that tiny voice in the back of his brain, telling him that Portia was a reporter. The woman he’d come to know in the last few days hadn’t shown any cut-throat tactics that he’d seen in his childhood. None of the deviousness. None of the manipulative behaviour. The Portia Marlowe he knew had a good and honest heart.
The Mysterious Italian Houseguest Page 13
