The Mysterious Italian Houseguest. Scarlet Wilson
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with me.’
‘What?’
She followed him through the house to the kitchen, conscious of the fact she still didn’t have on any real clothes. The kitchen—though ancient—was almost in working order. Miranda had arranged electricity and gas. Thankfully the water was still running. Portia had bleached a few cupboards in the last few days and put a few supplies away. But that didn’t explain the bag on the countertop.
Javier pulled out some eggs and some freshly baked bread. ‘I think our new arrangement calls for a celebratory breakfast.’
‘We’ve made a new arrangement?’
He gave her his trademark Hollywood smile. ‘Sure we have. I’m staying. I’ll work on the plaster and arrange to get some glass for the conservatory.’ He pulled out a frying pan and turned on the gas. ‘How do you like your eggs?’
Portia sat up on a stool next to the countertop. ‘You cook? And where did you get the eggs and the bread?’
‘I got them when I went to get the supplies this morning.’ He gave her a wink. ‘I was a bit worried that the only sustenance in this place was wine.’ He cracked the eggs as her cheeks flushed. But he hadn’t finished. ‘That was, of course...’ he opened the cupboard nearest him ‘...until I found the candy supply.’
He was teasing her—she knew it. ‘What can I say? There are fruit trees in the garden. Wine, fruit and chocolate. What more does a woman need?’
‘What more indeed?’ The sultry Italian voice shot straight through her, the suggestion in it taking her by surprise.
‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘Scrambled or fried?’
She stared into the pan. ‘Fried is fine. Cooked all the way through.’
He narrowed his gaze. ‘Yolk broken?’
‘Don’t you dare.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never got the hang of sunny side up, over easy, over medium in the States and I’ve lived there five years now.’
‘Maybe it’s time to move back?’ The hairs prickled at the back of her neck. Gossip spread fast in Hollywood. Did he know her job was on the line?
She tried not to sound as defensive as she felt. She had to remember that Javier could be the ticket to keeping her job. ‘If I’m moving back, I’ll need to hire a cruise ship to bring my clothes back. And my shoes. The studio doesn’t let me keep any of the clothes I wear. But, due to the effects of social media, as soon as pictures start appearing the designers usually send me anything they’ve seen me wear—along with a whole host of other things. They like the publicity—’ she shrugged as she broke off a piece of the bread ‘—and I like the clothes.’
He tossed the eggs. ‘You took the job for the clothes? I don’t believe that. What did you do before you got the job?’
She walked over to the sink and filled up a pan with some water. She hadn’t found a kettle, so the old-fashioned way would have to do. She set it on the gas hob next to where Javier was cooking. ‘I studied investigative journalism at university. I was on holiday in the US, when I kind of lucked into the job. The rest—as they say—is history.’ She gave his arm a nudge. ‘A film star who makes his own food. Who would have thought it?’
He let out a laugh. ‘What did you expect?’
She counted off on her fingers. ‘Well, your last co-star on the action movie flew in his own personal chef, who ensured no meal was above three hundred calories. Your last female co-star was on that new-fangled diet where people only eat prawns and drink spring water.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘No. You mean chilled spring water. We’ll not talk about how the smell of prawns seemed to emanate from her pores.’
Portia laughed but kept going. ‘Then, there was the comedian in the sci-fi film who was on the spinach, Brussels sprout and fried beans diet.’
Javier shuddered. ‘Four hours. That’s how long he was on the toilet in his trailer one day. I gave up waiting to film a scene and went for a beer.’
He turned around and pulled out plates from a cupboard. He’d found his way around this kitchen better than she had. Just how much time had Javier spent here?
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