She was nodding slowly as she looked out over the bay. ‘So what is it that you want to do here?’
‘You mentioned your sister needed specialist help. I want to do that for Aldo’s condition—for bipolar disorder. The meeting yesterday—it was with a potential director for the charity I want to set up. I want to set up a helpline. I want to raise awareness of the signs of the condition. I want to organise support groups for those that need it—and specialist help.’
She gave a serious nod. ‘That’s a huge undertaking.’
‘I know. But it’s something I need to do. The money is easy—I have the money. I have more money than I can actually spend. I just need to be sure that I set up things to work well.’
Portia looked serious. ‘It could be a minefield. You have to be prepared for anything.’ She paused for a second. ‘People will wonder why Javier Russo is so interested in bipolar disorder. You’ll have to be prepared for the press you might get.’
‘I know.’
He could see her concentrating. ‘What about your mum?’
He nodded. ‘She’s well right now. She hasn’t worked as a model in years. Times have changed. She’s ready to talk about her mental health condition.’
He was overwhelmed by how understanding Portia was being. She was taking what he was saying seriously. She hadn’t let him think—even for the briefest second—that she was disappointed he hadn’t returned the call to Aldo straight away. She’d been kind. She’d been rational. And she’d shown him affection and love.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
She looked surprised. ‘For what?’
‘For being you.’
A soft smile appeared on her lips. ‘Why would I be anyone else?’ She leaned forward and dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead, her hair brushing against his face. ‘You’re a good man, Javier. I’m sorry about your friend—really I am. And I understand you wanting to look out for his family.’ She slid her hand under his dressing gown and placed it over his heart. ‘But you have to look out for yourself too. I get that you want to take some time. I think you’re right to stop working so hard. But you need to think carefully about the next steps.’
Javier breathed slowly. It was as if a whole weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d shared. He’d said the words out loud that had haunted him for the last few months.
Did fate really put people in your path?
He looked up at the pale blue sky above and smiled. He’d come to Villa Rosa for solitude. For quiet. And instead he’d met Portia Marlowe. With her tumbling curls, perfect English accent and chocolate-brown eyes she’d taken him by surprise. Her intuitive questions. Her feisty attitude. Her laugh. The sometimes suggestive twinkle in her eyes. But most of all her good heart.
Slowly but surely, Portia had burrowed her way under his skin and into his own heart.
The gorgeous woman in his arms right now laughed as her stomach growled loudly. ‘Oh, no! That’s what happens when you distract me from breakfast.’
She walked back inside for a second, grabbed an apple then walked back out to his side. She looked back over the Bay of Naples and gave a little sigh. ‘It’s so beautiful here.’
Javier put his hands on her waist. The electric-blue bay was buzzing with activity. White million-dollar yachts and cruise ships bobbed beneath them. The area around the bay was packed with tourists, visiting the shops and heading in towards the city. The distant peak of Vesuvius looked crested in purple this morning with a white cloud misting around it. For lots of people this would be paradise.
Portia waved back in towards the suite. ‘And this place is sumptuous. Won’t you be sorry to go back to our crumbling Villa Rosa with its antiquated plumbing, dust-filled attics and barely functioning kitchen?’
He bent his head and whispered in her ear. ‘Absolutely not. I can’t wait.’
She twirled in his arms to face him. ‘Really, why?’
‘Because Villa Rosa brought me you.’
And he met her lips with his own and they forgot all about breakfast.
* * *
Any minute now she was going to wake up and discover this had all been some kind of wistful dream.
Even now it felt too good to be a dream.
When Javier had told her about his friend the anguish on his face had been heartbreaking. He truly believed he could have done something differently. The fact he hadn’t returned the call straight away would probably haunt him for the rest of his life.
But she loved the fact he was trying to turn something tragic into something positive. Her stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. If she’d come here looking for a story—this was it. And depending on the mood of the press it could be spun either way. In one headline Javier Russo would be the tragic school friend of a man who’d committed suicide and was now trying to start a charity to help others with the same condition. In another, he would be the villain, the heartless Hollywood star who’d ignored the call of a suicidal friend.
But she didn’t want a story any more.
She didn’t want any of it any more.
All she wanted was Javier. The man who made her blood sizzle just by saying her name with his Italian accent. The man who could entice her to cross a room with one look. The man whose touch she would never tire of.
She wanted to help him. She wanted to support him.
She’d thought leaving Hollywood was a curse—instead it was a blessing. She’d had a chance to connect with someone who made her feel whole. Who made her feel complete.
She hadn’t had a chance yet to tell him about her job. Or lack of it.
She’d toyed with the idea of just sending an email to her boss and quitting. But Portia wasn’t that kind of girl. She’d meet her boss, have that conversation and walk out of the room with her dignity and pride intact.
She was professional enough to know she didn’t want a bad reputation to follow her.
When she got back she would have to pack up her apartment and look for somewhere less expensive to stay. But she didn’t care any more. Holly Payne could be the star at Entertainment Buzz TV. Her heart just wasn’t in it any more.
Javier’s hand stayed intertwined with hers on the car journey back through Naples and then on the ferry back to L’Isola dei Fiori. They talked through his plans for the phone line and she took some notes on questions he needed to ask. His phone rang a few times on the way back. Each time he took it from his pocket, checked it and put it away again.
‘You don’t want to take it?’
Javier shook his head firmly. ‘No. I don’t. It’s my agent. I think he and I will be parting company soon.’
‘You do?’
‘I do. Let’s just say it’s time.’
She licked her lips and looked out at the coastline of L’Isola dei Fiori as the boat moved to dock. ‘So, when are you due back home?’ Asking the question made her a little nervous. It felt like putting a sign above her head saying, Do any future plans include me?
‘Home? Oh, you mean Hollywood? That’s not really home. I have a house in the hills and a house down in Malibu on the beach.’
‘You have an original Malibu beach house?’
‘And guess who helped me remodel?’
She laughed. ‘Uncle Vinnie?’
‘Yep. Uncle Vinnie. And guess what? He was the boss. I had to follow all his instructions.’
‘Wow. I’d love to meet Uncle Vinnie. I bet he keeps you on your toes.’
‘Oh, he does. He’d love you. Once he hears your accent you’ll have him in the palm of your hand.’
A warm feeling spread across her chest. Javier said those words so easily—as if he was assuming she would meet his family.
He flung his arm around her shoulders as they disembarked the ferry. ‘I also have a house at Lake Como. You shou
ld come and see that some time. I think you’d like it.’
Her footsteps faltered. ‘The Lake Como?’
He gave her an amused smile. ‘Is there any other?’
‘So, you’re next door to George Clooney?’
He didn’t miss a beat. ‘Almost.’
It was as if someone had just sprinkled fairy dust over her. She’d spent the last few days thinking of Javier Russo, the man—the person. Because that was what he was to her. But it was Javier Russo the movie star that owned houses in the Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica beach and Lake Como.
Their time in Villa Rosa had been blissful. Private. The three weeks would be over soon. Could the connection they’d made here survive in the real world?
Just thinking about it made her stomach flip-flop.
Right now she wanted to direct her own movie. One where she pressed a button and let time stop all around them. Not so much a Groundhog Day as a Groundhog Three Weeks. They could live in their own private bubble in the pink villa and let the rest of the world pass them by. If only.
Javier led her into one of the fishmongers at the port. ‘Will we grab something for dinner?’
‘Sure.’ They picked up some fish, some vegetables and new potatoes. Then, they added some wine and took a taxi back to the villa.
This time, when Portia turned the old key in the lock and stepped inside the villa had a different feel.
When she’d done this first time around, she’d been sad, sensing the air of neglect and disrepair around her. Walking through the villa had almost made her feel like a ghost.
This time the air around her almost hummed. Javier was by her side, striding through to the kitchen to deposit their food. Now, she felt a sense of belonging. She wandered through to the painted drawing room. The plaster had dried in a long white crack snaking up the pale blue and mauve sky. The rest of the walls had been skimmed smoothly, ready for painting.
Javier appeared at her side again, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she sighed. ‘Or at least it will be again once it’s painted.’ She tilted her chin up towards him. ‘You’ve done a really good job.’
‘Why thank you, madam.’ He kissed her lips and her hand automatically went to his head, running through his hair and holding his lips on hers.
A sweep of anxious desperation that she hated flooded through her. She just honestly didn’t want this time to end.
But it seemed neither did Javier, because he swept one hand under her legs and held her in his arms. His lips touched her ear. ‘Your room, or mine?’ he whispered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE WAS TEMPTED to skip into the village the next morning, but instead she was happy to walk with Javier’s arm around her shoulders. They parted at the top of the street. Javier had decided to buy something special at the fishmonger’s for dinner tonight.
There was a crowd outside the newsagents and several faces turned as she approached, scowling at her and murmuring under their breath.
She almost didn’t go any further, but one of them moved just enough for her to glimpse the billboard outside the newsagent and let her catch a glance at the headline and photo on the board. A flash of pink caught her attention. An achingly familiar pink bikini.
Her feet moved automatically. She shoved her way through the crowd and picked up the paper at the top of the pile.
She had no idea what the headline said but she could understand the photos—after all a picture spoke a thousand words. They were all of her, entwined around Javier. One from the private beach—he was holding her in the water and she had her legs and arms wrapped around him like some kind of limpet. The next was in the restaurant at the port, the third at the opera in Naples with her wearing Sofia’s red dress and the final one—the killer—was of the two of them wearing hotel bathrobes and standing on the balcony of the hotel in Naples.
She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry. Who on earth had taken these pictures? And what did the story say?
She walked numbly into the Internet café and sat down at one of the computers. She winced as she searched for her own name and Javier’s.
If she’d thought Holly had caused an Internet explosion a few weeks ago, then she and Javier had caused an Internet meltdown. At least in the US and in Italy.
But as she started to read the hairs on her arms stood on end as if chilled by an icy blast. A few headlines were just romanticising the relationship between herself and Javier. Some said they’d secretly dated for months, some claimed she’d seduced him on an aeroplane, others claimed they’d met by accident in Italy.
The same four pictures featured over and over again. How on earth had they got that picture on the private beach?
The boat. The boat moored in the distance. There must have been a photographer on board. She felt physically sick.
The picture at the restaurant or opera could have been taken by any of the other guests who’d recognised them. But the one on the balcony? She groaned. If they’d been recognised at the opera, it wouldn’t have taken any reporter worth their salt long to figure out where they were staying. Years ago that reporter might have been her. That balcony looked over the whole bay. It was just that the picture was so close, so clear.
Her stomach lurched as she reached the next version of the headlines. There were video clips. She clicked on the first and her producer’s face filled the screen. It was only a ten-second burst.
‘Well, I told her she had three weeks to go and get a story and she certainly did that! We’ll get the full exclusive when she returns from her break next week...’
But it was the next translated headline that stopped her breathing. Ignored by the Billionaire. She clicked and started to speed-read.
No.
There in the middle of the page was Aldo’s name, followed by the fact that he’d phoned Javier—his old friend—pleading for help before he’d committed suicide.
It felt as if her blood had just turned to ice.
There was more. The reporter had tried to get comments from Aldo’s family.
Oh, no. She glanced at when the report had appeared. It was only minutes ago in an Italian news website. It wouldn’t take the US sites long to pick up the story and start to run with it. She knew how these things worked.
She grabbed the paper and ran out of the café. She had to find Javier. She had to warn him. She had to speak to him now.
Her chest was tight. She needed to find Javier.
But there was no sign of him around the port area and the more she looked, the more she got suspicious glances.
She flagged a taxi. She’d go back to Villa Rosa. It was safer there. Javier would appear eventually and she would have a chance to talk to him then.
But as soon as they pulled up outside the pale pink villa her stomach dropped. The front door was lying wide open.
She thrust some money at the taxi driver and rushed up the steps. ‘Javier?’ she shouted.
There was no reply. She ran up the stairs and headed for his room.
His room was in complete disarray. All his clothes were scattered across the bed, wardrobe still open and drawers askew. Javier’s face was like thunder as he was blindly stuffing everything into his bag.
‘Javier?’ The air was almost black in the room. She was almost scared to speak.
The look he gave her almost cut her in two.
‘Did you enjoy your story? Did I give you what you need? Do you know what’s happened to Aldo’s family in the last few hours? There are paparazzi camped outside their house—banging on their door and harassing them. How do you think they can deal with that?’ He didn’t even stop to draw breath, he just kept thundering on.
‘I don’t care that you used me, Portia. I don’t care that all that you ever wanted was a headline to keep your job. Funny how you never me
ntioned that to me. But what I will never, ever forgive you for is the fact you used a grieving family to feather your own nest.’
The last item of clothing was stuffed in the bag. His face was red, his eyes blazing. She’d never, ever seen him like this.
‘Wait, that’s not what happened. I was going to tell you about my job—I was going to tell you that I was giving it up. That it wasn’t for me any more. But I wanted to wait until I got back to LA and talked to my producer. I would never do something like this. Don’t you know that?’
Javier grabbed his bag from the bed. ‘What I do know, Portia, is that the woman I thought I knew doesn’t exist at all. You knew, Portia, you knew what I experienced as a child. You knew how my mother was treated then. But you didn’t care. You just wanted your story.’ He glanced up and down her body and shook his head. ‘Boy, you’re good. You had me believing that this might actually be real.’
She was stunned. She couldn’t find the words to speak. It was her that had had all the fears. The fears that she might be played. The fears that Javier Russo might not really be interested in her.
She tried to speak but he lifted his hand in front of her face. ‘Answer me one question: your boss, did she or did she not give you three weeks to find a story or you’d be fired?’
The words stuck at the back of her throat. She knew exactly how this would sound. Her heart was twisting in her chest. In less than an hour her life had turned upside down. The love that she’d never been sure she’d encounter was right in front of her but slipping from her grasp in a way she hadn’t even imagined.
‘Javier...’ It came out as a croak and he shot her a look of disgust as he shouldered his way past her and thundered down the corridor.
The Mysterious Italian Houseguest Page 14
