by Nina Singh
But somewhere, in the back of his brain, he’d held fast the little element that this place was a sanctuary. Somewhere to find calmness. Somewhere to find peace. And that was what he needed right now. A place where the paparazzi weren’t waiting around every corner. A place where he could nod at someone in the street without their frowning and wondering where they’d seen him before. A place where he could have a drink in a bar without someone whipping out their phone to take a selfie with him in the background.
He left his money on the bar and picked up his bag. He’d been here for at least three hours with minimal conversation. He liked that. The hours of travel had caught up with him. He patted the large iron key in his pocket. At some point over the years his mother had ‘acquired’ a key to Villa Rosa. It was odd. Neither of them had been back since Sofia’s funeral a few years ago and he’d heard that the house, once in its prime, was now pretty run-down.
Maybe he could make himself useful while he kept his head below the parapet for a while. When he was a teenager his Uncle Vinnie—a veritable handyman—had taken him on many of his jobs. Anything to keep him from turning down the wrong track. At the age of thirteen, with a mother as a model and a father as a film producer, he’d probably already seen and heard a million things he shouldn’t. After he’d almost dabbled with some drugs, his father had shipped him back to Italy and into his brother’s care for the summer. Javier had learned how to plaster and how to glaze. It appeared that sanding and smoothing walls, and cutting panes of glass were therapeutic for a teenage boy. Not that he’d used any of those skills in Hollywood...
He walked out into the warm evening. Dusk was settling around him. The port was still busy with the boats silhouetted against a purple and blue darkening sky. If he were an artist he would be tempted to settle down with some paints, a canvas and easel. But Javier Russo had never been known for his painting skills.
Instead, his name normally adorned the front of Hollywood cinemas. His latest film had just been publicised by putting a forty-five-foot-high image of Javier next to the D on the Hollywood sign. He’d never live that one down.
But it seemed that Hollywood loved Italian film stars. In another year it was predicted he’d be one of Hollywood’s highest earners—much to his agent’s delight.
He’d just finished four back-to-back movies taking him halfway around the world. Two action movies, one romantic comedy and one sci-fi. He’d ping-ponged between the Arabian Desert, the expanse of the Indian Ocean, the nearby island of Santorini, the Canadian Rockies and the streets of London. For some it sounded completely glamorous. In truth it was lonely and had taken him away from those that he loved. The family that he’d failed.
Now, he was exhausted. Pictures had emerged of him attending the funeral of a family friend looking tanned and muscular—just as well nothing could reveal how he was feeling, the way his insides had been curling and dying from the fact he hadn’t been there to help.
Much to his agent’s disgust he’d reneged on some immediate future arrangements. In another four weeks the cycle would start again with publicity and interviews for the first of those films. Right now he needed some space.
He smiled as he turned the corner to Villa Rosa. The long walk had done him some good. He stretched muscles that had been cramped on the flight over from Los Angeles and frowned at the cracks in a pale pink façade. This place was in bad need of repair. He wasn’t entirely sure about the material. Maybe he could phone Uncle Vinnie for some advice?
He set his bag down and pulled the key from his pocket. With a wiggle, the key gave a satisfying turn in the lock. He pushed the door open not quite knowing what to expect.
Silence.
He frowned. Something was off. The house wasn’t as musty as he’d expected. He walked slowly through the large main hall. It was clear someone must have been here. There were small signs of life.
Large dust covers had been pulled from the furniture in the painted room and heaped in one corner. He ran his finger along the plaster, snatching it back as a tiny piece of paint flaked to the ground. In the dim light his eyes caught the line snaking up the curve of the dome. He felt his frown deepen. It would take skill to mend a crack like that. Skill he wasn’t sure he possessed.
He glanced around him. The air in here was fresh. There was a hint of something else. The rustling from outside sounded far too close. Windows were open in this house.
He strode through towards the back of the house. The conservatory had seen better days. A few of the small panels of glass were missing and others were cracked or damaged. Something crunched beneath his feet. He knelt down; a small fragment of red glass was under his shoe. He brushed it off as he heard a small cough.
His head shot back up, looking out across the terrace.
A woman.
Who on earth was here?
According to his mother this place had been deserted since Sofia had died. That was why it had fallen into the state it was in. He hadn’t stood up yet. Wondering how to deal with the mysterious woman on the terrace.
Could she have broken in? Was she some tourist who had spotted the giant pale pink neglected house and decided she could squat here? He moved his head, squinting at the figure.
A brunette. In her twenties. Dressed in something short and red. He shifted uncomfortably. Whatever she was wearing, it seemed to have inched upwards as she lay in the rocking chair, sleeping with her legs stretched out and resting on the low wall. He could see a hint of black underneath. She moaned a little and shuffled in her seat, the hard wood beneath her obviously not as comfortable as she wanted. The chair rocked back and forth.
He straightened up, trying to get a better look. On the terrace was an empty glass and a bottle of wine. Was she drunk?
Maybe Sofia had a wine cellar that everyone had forgotten about and some light-fingered thief was now drinking her way through the contents?
Now, he was getting angry. He’d come here for some peace. Some tranquillity. The last thing he wanted was to have to call out the local polizia.
He strode out onto the terrace ready to tackle the intruder. But his footsteps faltered. He’d only really glimpsed her from sideways. Now he could see her clearly he was surprised.
Her hair tumbled around her face, chocolate at the roots, blonde-tipped courtesy of the sun—or a salon. Her dress was indeed almost around her hips revealing her well-shaped firm legs blessed with a light golden tan. Her chest went up and down lightly beneath the thin cotton of her dress that did little to hide her curves.
There was something vaguely familiar about her. Something he couldn’t quite place.
His foot crunched on a stone on the terrace and her eyes flew open.
Before he even had a chance to speak she was on her feet, her eyes wide and her hands grabbing for the nearest item.
‘Mi scusi, non volevo spaventarti...’
He’d automatically reverted to his native language but it did nothing to stop the wine glass being hurled in his direction and catching him squarely on his brow. It shattered at his feet on the terrace as he took another step towards her.
This time she had the wine bottle, brandishing it like a weapon in front of her.
‘Don’t move, buster. Take another step and I’ll... I’ll...’
She glanced sideways. And he caught the wave of fear that had rolled over her.
But the comedy of the moment hadn’t escaped him. He stepped forward and took the empty wine bottle firmly from her hands and smiled. ‘You’ll spring vault backwards past the hot spring and straight down to the beach and the lovers’ arch?’
Her eyes widened even further. If it were possible they were the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. Like a dark whirlpool that could suck you right in.
Waves of confusion were sweeping over her face. The obvious change from Italian to English seemed to have caught
her unawares. Her head flicked sideways to the lovers’ arch. He could almost read her mind. Only someone who was familiar with this property would know about the hot spring and private beach beneath.
And there was still something vaguely familiar about her...
Her body was still stuck in the vaguely defensive stance. ‘You know about Neptune’s arch?’
The accent. That was what it was. And those eyes. The plummy accent had sounded strange when she’d shouted so quickly. A bit like a member of the British royal family yelling at him. He smiled again and set the bottle down on the terrace, folding his arms across his chest.
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 cu
riosity 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.
