Her breathing stopped. Second time Javier Russo had caught her unawares. What did that mean? Her mouth couldn’t find the next set of words.
For the tiniest second the thought of a story vanished. Instead, in its place, was the muscular body and grey eyes of Javier Russo. All man, right in front of her.
It was almost as if he read her mind. He put the metal square on the floor next to the trowels and stepped closer. So close that his hand rested on her hip. Yes, it did. It really did.
If this were a film she would have spent around three hours in make-up achieving the ‘natural’ look. Unfortunately, her natural look was entirely natural. Her face scrubbed last night and a bit of her usual moisturiser smeared on her face. She always tied her hair up when she went to bed and it generally managed to tangle its way into an unruly mess.
He’d got close last night. But she’d gone from being a little foggy with the wine, to thinking there was an intruder, assaulting a movie star, then finding herself making up a bed for him.
No one would believe that interview.
All of a sudden she was closer than she’d ever expected to be with a movie star. Up close and personal. She could see every tiny line around his eyes. Laughter lines. No Botox. Every strand of his dark hair. The stubble on his jaw line. Her palm wanted to reach up and feel it. His white straight teeth and something hidden behind his grey eyes.
That was what stopped her in her tracks.
She recognised the signs. Hurt. Now she’d glimpsed it she could see it as clear as day.
He still hadn’t told her why he was here. He hadn’t answered many questions last night at all. Had he been dating? Was he here to mend his heart? Somehow, it didn’t really seem to fit the bill.
Hurt. It confused her. What could hurt Mr Arrogant? The part of her conscience that had invaded her thoughts this morning crowded forward again.
She lifted both her hands and placed them on his bare chest. The heat against her palms sent tingles up her arms. It was completely forward. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt natural. Honest. Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘Javier, what are you running from?’
Beneath her palms his chest rose as he sucked in a breath. Silence. The TV host in her ached to fill it. More than three seconds of silence in front of the camera usually meant that something had gone wrong.
But her senses kicked in. The senses that were still functioning while she had her hands on the chest of a film star.
He licked his lips and she stifled her groan. He was looking at her, but it didn’t feel as if he were really seeing her. He was thinking about something else.
She watched as the virtual shields came down behind his eyes. The tiny part of Javier Russo she’d been about to see instantly hidden again. ‘I’ve been busy. Four films in eighteen months and a whole range of press junkets for this year’s new releases. I just needed a bit of time out.’
She bit her bottom lip. It was plausible. But it wasn’t the truth.
‘You have enough money at your disposal to go to a hundred private islands. You’d have as much peace and quiet as you want. Plus, you’d actually have a place with a functioning kitchen and bathrooms.’
He gave the hint of a smile and shook his head. ‘But it wouldn’t be the same.’
Something had changed behind his eyes. Now, he was being honest.
‘What do you mean?’
He glanced down at her hands and her fingers jerked self-consciously. She should really move them. And she would. Just not yet.
He held up his arms. ‘I mean, this is the place I remember. Once I got here as a kid, Sofia always filled it with happy memories. And I’ve never been a lie-on-the-beach kind of guy. I like to be doing something. I like to be industrious. It relaxes me. Helps me sort out things in my head. This place is my idea of a holiday. I just wish I’d thought of it a couple of years ago.’
Her stomach gave a little flip. Her head was all over the place right now. She’d planned to spend the next few weeks deciding what to do about her career. But she didn’t really need to be here. She could be back in Hollywood right now, trying to dig up the career-defining story of a lifetime. Instead, she’d decided to take some time to contemplate her next step.
Entertainment Buzz TV had been good for her. She had a steady income. A nice apartment. A good lifestyle. She’d met more famous people—good and bad—than anyone could possibly want to. But things were changing. Hollywood had lost its glitter—even when there were men like Javier around.
Her mouth was dry. There could be a story right at her fingertips—literally. His arrogance had annoyed her before. But did she really want to dig deep and let him expose himself and his secrets to her? Was that really the type of person that she was?
‘I want to stay here, Portia. Not in some hotel. Do you think that could be possible?’
Portia. He didn’t say her name. He practically sang it.
He didn’t even remember her. Not that she expected him to—really. But she had met him and interviewed him before. And it was kind of insulting for a guy not to remember you—even in cut-throat Hollywood.
Her rational head understood. At a press junket he met hundreds of journalists and could never be expected to remember them all. On award night he’d spoken to just as many again on the red carpet. She wasn’t any different from any other person who’d shoved a microphone in his face and tried to think of an original question.
But it still stung.
And now he wanted to stay with her. Javier Russo wanted to stay with her.
She lifted her hands from his chest. She needed all her senses to be working. And they were already piqued. A fresh, clean scent drifted up under her nose. She scrunched up her face a second and tried to shake it off. The last thing she needed to think about was fresh, clean Javier Russo.
He’d lied to her. No, not strictly true. He just hadn’t been entirely truthful. Why on earth would moneybags Mr Russo want to hide out in Aunt Sofia’s home? He really wanted to get away from things?
It could be a story. But Internet was scarce around here, nearly as rare as a mobile phone signal. It was part of the reason she’d thought it was a good place to hide out.
She could get all defensive, like some creature marking out their territory, and tell him he couldn’t stay. But...she could also be clever. There was always a chance she could get to the bottom of Javier Russo’s story. It might just be the thing to save her career.
And in the meantime, she would have some company, and some eye candy.
She sucked in a breath and tried to find the ruthless streak she’d once had. ‘You really just want to stay here?’
He nodded.
‘How long for?’
Javier ran his fingers through his dark hair as he took a little step to the side. ‘Not long. Just a few weeks.’
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘You honestly just expected to show up, stay here and then leave, didn’t you?’
His face creased into a smile. ‘Well, kind of.’
She put her hand on her chest. ‘And I’ve thrown a spanner in the works for you?’
He frowned for a second, as if he wasn’t quite sure of the expression. But then he nodded. ‘I get it.’
‘You do?’
She stepped back a little, trying to get her head on straight for the first time since yesterday. Maybe it had been the wine. Maybe it had been the magical setting. But last night had been a bit unreal.
She gave him a serious look. ‘Let’s give this some perspective. Last night some stranger appeared at the place I’m staying. Okay, so he might have had a key—and a history of sorts with the place. But I’d made arrangements with my sister—’ she put her fingers in the air ‘—the owner, to stay here for the next few weeks. I don’t plan on going anywhere.’ She pretended not to see the f
leeting disappointment that shot through his eyes. ‘We both thought we would have this place to ourselves.’ She nodded out to the back conservatory. ‘Let’s face it. There’s lots to be done here. And if you’re as handy as you say you are, then I might not have any objections to you staying. My skills involve tidying up. That might sound mediocre, but, believe me, I’ve checked all the rooms and the attic—there’s a lot of tidying up to be done.’ She looked around the room as the acid in her stomach gave a little burn. She was trying her absolute best to be up front. She could hardly tell Javier that finding out what he was hiding from might save her career. Hopefully, it would be a woman. But that made the acid burn even more.
A picture of nails scraping down a chalkboard flashed into her brain with the associated noise. If it was trouble with a co-star, a contract, an affair—any of the above—it might just be enough to give her some leeway with her job.
It would save her telling the other secrets that weren’t really hers to share.
She held out her hands. ‘In the end, my sister needs this place to be liveable. If you can help with that, fine.’ She shook her head and gave him a knowing glance. ‘I just want you to know, I don’t mix business with pleasure. Never have. Never will.’
Javier looked amused; the little glint was back in his eye. She liked it when that was there. It lightened the mood. She’d spent the last five years harmlessly flirting in front of the camera; it was the unwritten rule of TV hosts. She’d dated people in Hollywood. But never anyone to do with work. Dating a popstar/film star/TV star was the ultimate no-no. Inevitably there would be a messy fallout and he would tell all his fellow performers not to be interviewed by her. Two of her associated press members had found themselves almost blacklisted around Hollywood when their short-term flings had ended.
Portia was far too clever to be that girl.
Javier was watching her carefully. His tools were now on the floor and he made a grab for a T-shirt that she’d missed sitting on top of a white dust sheet.
‘Come 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?
‘A beer? You eat and drink? Well, you’re just a Hollywood novelty.’
Javier put the eggs down in front of her, then searched through a few more cupboards. ‘Yes, I eat. I know the damage it causes when you don’t eat. Sorry, can’t find the salt and pepper. Eggs and bread it is.’
He sat down opposite her with his own plate. Her stomach clenched. That sentence had just been thrown in there with the rest. Was he referring to his mother, or fellow film stars? Not eating was something that made the hackles rise on the back of her neck. A few years ago her sister Immi had suffered from an eating disorder. But that was the thing about not eating. It didn’t just affect one person—it affected the whole family. Even now, every time she saw Immi the first thing she did was check her cheekbones, shoulder bones and her silhouette. Anything that might show any hint of trouble again.
She pushed the thoughts from her head, licked her lips and tried to keep the conversation going. ‘I’m a terrible hostess, aren’t I? I promise, once that water starts boiling, I’ll make the coffee.’
He gave her a nod and she kept talking. ‘So, how have you managed to stay away from the Hollywood madness, then?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You haven’t met my mother, have you?’
She shook her head. ‘What was her name again? She modelled with Sofia.’
He nodded. ‘Anna Lucia. She’s around ten years younger than Sofia and I was a late baby. An unexpected surprise.’ He picked up his fork. ‘My mother is surprisingly traditional. She’s seen all the madness of Hollywood and London. The drink, the drugs, the diets and general craziness.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘She won’t admit what ones she trialled, but she’s had her own problems.’
There was a change in his tone. It was only slight, but Portia picked up on it straight
away. ‘What kind of problems?’
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment—as if he was trying to decide how to answer. ‘We came here when my mother was stressed due to work.’ He paused for a second. ‘It didn’t help at times that she was hounded by the press. Trapped in her home by reporters and photographers camped outside the house.’ There was an edge of resentment in his voice and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. He looked around himself. ‘This place was good for her too. It calmed her. Brought her the peace that she needed.’
Portia’s skin prickled. The words sounded so simple but the expression on his face was anything but. Guilt was swamping her. It felt as if he could see inside her heart and soul and knew that she was one of those people. The story chasers.
It made her uncomfortable. Especially when she wanted to reach out and touch his cheek right now. To offer some shred of comfort. ‘And you came with her?’ was all she could say.
He licked his lips. ‘Most of the time. My father worked away a lot. When he realised my mother was getting unwell he tended to pack us both up and send us to Sofia.’ He gave a half-hearted smile. ‘I even went to school for a while on L’Isola dei Fiori. If you can call it that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Javier shifted in his chair. ‘Sofia arranged for me to be schooled “with friends” as she put it.’
‘And who were the friends?’
‘Alessandro and Nico del Castro.’
Portia started to choke on her eggs. Had he really just said that out loud? ‘You went to school with the Princes?’
Javier looked nonchalant about it. ‘Only for a few months until my mother was better. Sofia didn’t want me to fall behind at school so she arranged for the palace tutor to include me in the lessons.’
‘You were friends with the Princes?’
A black shadow crossed his eyes as she realised her mistake at once. Sometimes her press brain asked the questions before she’d had time to edit them. ‘Nico, not so much. He was younger. But Alessandro, yes. There was only a year between us.’
The Mysterious Italian Houseguest Page 4