The Mysterious Italian Houseguest. Scarlet Wilson
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out. Most of the time they’d nearly drowned laughing. His fists clenched. Why had he never taken the opportunity to bring him to Sofia’s? It spun around in his head, adding to the list of things he ‘should’ have done. Instead, time had just slipped away. Life had been too busy. There was always tomorrow.
Until there wasn’t.
A fact he was going to have to learn to live with.
Too busy. Too busy filming. Too busy in meetings. Too busy to answer the phone to an old friend. He’d meant to call back that night. But after sixteen hours on set it had just slipped from his mind.
The next call he’d received had ripped his heart out.
That was why he’d come here. To find space. To find peace. For a reality check on the life he was living.
Instead, he’d found Portia Marlowe. A beautiful woman, but a Hollywood reporter. It was like a romance and a horror movie both at once. He would have to manage this situation carefully.
He closed his eyes and let the chair rock back and forth. Maybe she was due to go home in the next day or so? This might actually be okay. He only planned to stay here for a few weeks. Just enough time to give him some space. Some alone space.
There was a tinkling noise. Portia was on her knees sweeping the broken glass up with a dustpan and brush, her face a little pink. She caught his gaze and shrugged. ‘I didn’t know who you were. You caught me unawares.’
‘So did you.’
The answer came out before he had time to alter it. She looked surprised. Her dark gaze locked with his. Against the backdrop of the now purple and pink sky Portia almost looked as if she were standing inside the painted drawing room. A cameraman would wait hours for a shot like this. But right now, Javier was the only person with this view. Portia blinked, breaking their gaze and picking up the bottle of water she had next to her feet. ‘Here, it’s not too cold. The fridge seems to be a temperamental teenager right now. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t bother.’
He nodded and took the lukewarm bottle of water, his fingers brushing against hers. A film director would have added a little twinkle and sparkling stars to match the pulses that shot up his arm.
He pushed the feeling aside. Being attracted to Portia Marlowe wasn’t an option. Not for a second. It couldn’t go anywhere. He had enough to sort out without bringing a Hollywood reporter into the equation.
She leaned forward, the soft curves of her breasts only inches from his hand. Her thumb brushed his forehead. ‘There’s not even a mark. I should probably be relieved.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Can you imagine the hoo-ha if I’d damaged the face of one of the world’s most famous film stars?’
Her face paled and her hand gripped the edge of the rocker. His stomach sank. The enormity of her actions had just hit her—him too. A scar would have resulted in his agent and publicist probably having some kind of fit. In the space of a few seconds, he could see the headlines, the plastic-surgeon consultations, the juggling of schedules and the threatened lawsuits all from an action that hadn’t really been intentional. It had been reactive. Not pre-planned. When he’d feigned feeling dizzy it had only been for his own ends. He didn’t want to spend the night sleeping on the street when he’d come here uninvited. Now he felt like some kind of cad.
He breathed in slowly, inhaling some of her rose perfume. It was tantalising. Or maybe that was just Portia. He gave his head a quick shake, trying to realign his senses. ‘I think maybe I just need to sleep. I’ve been travelling for a long time. I’m sure after a good night’s sleep I’ll feel fine.’
He let the words hang in the air. She opened her mouth to start to speak then closed it again. He could practically see the thoughts tumbling around in her brain. Her English sensibilities and good manners were obviously bubbling underneath the surface.
‘I’m sure I can fix up a bed for you. One of the other bedrooms is almost cleaned. I did some laundry the other day.’ There was hesitation in her voice.
Javier shot her his best smile. ‘That’s really kind of you. Thanks very much.’
He closed his eyes again as he heard her walk back into the house. He rocked back and forward in the chair. This was almost therapeutic.
And he needed that right now.
Because his time at Villa Rosa had just changed beyond all measure.
PORTIA LAY IN her bed wondering if the man in the next room was up yet.
Or maybe he’d died in the night of some hidden head injury she’d caused by throwing the wine glass?
She groaned and rolled onto her side. Sleep had been a stranger to her. She’d tossed and turned all night.
Somehow, Javier Russo had ended up sleeping in the room next to hers.
Talk about messing with her head.
She’d interviewed dozens of famous stars and met every personality trait. The smug. The bored. The sweetheart. The ignorant. The people pleaser. The desperate. And the person who appeared to be from another planet.
Javier had been charming in the way that only an Italian film star could be. But it was all an act. Last time she’d met him he’d been arrogant. He could barely even bother to say hello. He’d looked at her with those steely grey eyes as she’d asked a question and replied, ‘Is that really the best you can do?’ before walking away with a dismissive glance. It was obvious he hadn’t thought she’d been important enough to speak to.
Stars being rude was nothing new to Portia. But it had felt as though he was mocking her. And that had stung.
Most Hollywood stars at least pretended to like the press. Some tried to charm her. A few had even sent her gifts. One particularly sleazy older guy had slipped his hand a bit too low and earned himself a slap and he was apparently happily married. Five years in Hollywood had fast made her realise that everything was merely a façade. Hardly any of it was real—let alone the love stories.
The charm was all superficial. As for Javier Russo? Last time around he hadn’t even feigned interest—she’d felt as welcome as something on the bottom of his shoe. It was only when his press officer had nudged him and whispered in his ear harshly that he’d tried to turn on the charm again—but with the next person in line.
And it had annoyed her beyond belief that as soon as he’d started to speak the rhythm of his words in that alluring tone had sent shivers down her spine.
That same voice that she’d heard last night.
She still wasn’t entirely sure why he was there.
And that was pretty much the reason she couldn’t sleep.
This was it. This was her chance. This was her chance for a story. Why on earth would Javier Russo be here? The man could probably afford to rent an entire hotel to himself. What on earth was he doing at Villa Rosa?
She tried to remember everything she’d ever heard about him. The truth was there was very little scandal around him. Yes, he was arrogant and sometimes aloof. But there were never on-set rumours about weird demands or keeping others waiting for hours. His star had definitely risen in the last few years and he’d been known to date a model, a pop star, and a few co-stars.
She hadn’t realised his mother had been friends with Sofia. They’d both been models around the same time; it made sense that they’d moved in the same circles. Sofia had photograph album after photograph album in the attic above Portia’s head. Doubtless she would find some memento of the women’s past history together.
In the meantime she was trying to keep calm. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed. This could be the story that could save her career. Or it could be nothing. It could simply be about a film star that had just filmed back-to-back movies and was looking