The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

by Scarlet Wilson

  She hadn’t dated in so long. When was the last time she’d actually kissed someone? Sometimes, even though there seemed to be sparks flying, one kiss could reveal everything you needed to know. And right now her lips were tingling in anticipation. It didn’t matter that Javier was behind her. It didn’t matter that this probably wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had.

  He didn’t seem to like false relationships any more than she did. He didn’t want to be played—and she was still surprised he’d experienced it. It made him seem less movie star, and so much more human than the arrogant man she’d had in her head from months ago.

  She leaned back a little more, letting her breathing match the rise and fall of his chest. Were the healing powers Javier was talking about for her, or for him?

  She still hadn’t figured out why he was really here. Then again, she hadn’t told him why she was really here either.

  It seemed they both had something to hide.

  But right now, with Javier’s arms around her and their breathing in sync, staring out at the dark sky, the world seemed perfect.

  ‘I could stay like this forever,’ she whispered.

  ‘Me too.’ His reply sounded wistful and it sent little pangs throughout her heart.

  So she settled her head back against his chest and they just stood, watching the dark sea stretching out in front of them, the glistening of the sand beneath them and the twinkling stars up above.

  * * *

  He’d almost kissed her. Two nights ago he’d almost turned her around and kissed her.

  But as the warmth of her body against his had started to flood through his system he’d been struck by the fact that Aldo couldn’t kiss a beautiful woman any more.

  Aldo didn’t get to do anything any more. And until he’d figured how to deal with that, he couldn’t possibly get involved with anyone.

  Which meant he had to apply his energy elsewhere.

  The last two days Portia had continued to clean the upstairs rooms, emerging every now and then with smudges on her nose and cheeks. The glass had been delivered at the villa and he’d spent the last two days measuring, cutting and replacing individual panes of glass.

  It was painstaking work but—as the plaster needed a few days to fully dry—it worked out well.

  The conservatory was gradually beginning to take shape and regain some of its lost splendour. So far he’d only replaced the clear glass. The coloured glass he’d leave until last—because that was the glass that took the conservatory from elegant and sophisticated to dazzling and unique.

  As he tidied his equipment he sighed. He needed to make a few calls. One of the deals he’d just reneged on was with a director he had a good relationship with. Javier knew he’d landed back in LA last night and would prefer to take the time to talk to him in person to explain why he’d backed out. He’d also like to talk to Aldo’s parents—and the only way to do both of these things was to go into the village and find a phone.

  Things were starting to take shape in his head. He had a few ideas. What he really needed to do was talk them over with someone he could trust. But there was only Portia here right now. And if he wanted to talk his ideas through, he’d need to give her the background.

  Telling a reporter about Aldo’s suicide seemed like the worst idea in the world.

  ‘Portia?’ He strode to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up to her. She appeared within seconds, wearing pink capri pants and a white shirt knotted at her waist. She had a list in her hand.

  She waved it at him. ‘I’d just been taking a note of a few cleaning products I need to pick up.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘We need some food too. I was planning on heading into the village.’

  He gave a guarded smile as a few more thoughts processed in his head. ‘Great minds think alike. I have a few errands to run. Let’s take the scooter.’

  She narrowed her gaze for a second. ‘Okay, but who gets to drive?’

  ‘You want to drive?’

  She held out her hands. ‘It’s sunny, I’m in Italy and there’s a scooter sitting in the garage. Of course I want to drive.’

  He shrugged. ‘Then I guess I’m in your hands. Let’s go.’

  * * *

  It had been a strange few days. The time on the terrace had felt magical—at least to her. But just when she’d thought something might happen, Javier had backed away as if he’d been stung.

  She’d gone over and over the moments in her head. Nothing had happened. Nothing. Of that she was sure.

  But it had still stung. It still felt like rejection.

  She’d spent the last two days being polite and mannerly with Javier. Maybe she’d misread the whole situation? Maybe Javier had never even considered kissing her and it was all just a figment of her imagination.

  That made her feel uncomfortable. She hadn’t imagined the way he’d looked at her. She hadn’t. Or the sparks in the air between them.

  But for the last two days she’d cleaned. And cleaned.

  Villa Rosa was finally starting to emerge from the clouds of dust.

  She finished off her list and closed down her computer in the kitchen. Javier walked in at her back. ‘Are you writing something?’ He looked a bit uneasy.

  She waved her hand. ‘It’s nothing. Just a story I’ve been working on for a couple of years. It helps me focus.’

  He looked at her inquisitively. ‘What kind of story takes two years to research?’

  Something clicked in her brain. ‘Oh, it’s not a report. It’s not that kind of story. It’s fiction. I’m writing a book.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You’re writing a story? What kind of story?’

  The computer was closed now. She smiled and folded her arms. ‘I’ll let you guess. What kind of fiction writer do you think I am?’

  He paced in front of her for a few seconds. ‘Let’s see. Thriller? No.’ He shook his head and kept pacing. ‘Historical? Hmm...no. Not that either. Romance?’ He wiggled his palm. ‘Maybe. Women’s fiction?’ He gave her a quizzical glance. ‘Now, if I had my way, it would be science fiction or fantasy.’ He turned to face her. ‘But no, I think it’s a romance. Am I right?’

  She couldn’t help but give a little smile. It felt ironic. ‘You think I’m a romantic?’

  His answer was automatic. ‘Shouldn’t we all be?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not exactly romance. It’s more Hollywood bonkbuster. I used to read them as a teenager and absolutely loved them. They’ve kind of gone out of fashion lately. But you know what they say.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Write what you know.’

  She picked up the keys to the scooter. ‘Ready to go?’

  He nodded and fell into step next to her as they left the house and headed to the garage. ‘You are going to let me read this at some point, aren’t you?’

  She laughed as she slid her leg over the seat. ‘Well, that depends how hard you work. Now, get on. The sooner we get to the village, the sooner we can get back. I’ve got an attic to tackle this afternoon.’ She winked at him. ‘Did I tell you that I crashed this once?’

  ‘You what?’ She was grinning, revelling in the fact he was horrified. ‘What do you mean you crashed it?’ He looked over the vehicle again. There were no obvious signs of damage.

  She shrugged. ‘You know, teenage girl, sneaking out in the dark to meet a teenage boy in the village...’ She laughed. ‘I ended up in a ditch. But I was more angry about the fact I’d ruined my favourite dress and taken the toe out of one of my shoes.’ There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and he wasn’t quite sure whether to believe her or not.

  He shook his head. ‘And there are four of you? How on earth did your father cope?’

  ‘If you think I’m bad you should meet my sisters. I’ll have you know that I’m probably the best behaved.’ She
winked again. ‘Come on, slowcoach, get on.’

  With her dark eyes and tumbling locks—and if her sisters were anything like her—he was sure that the Marlowes must have been the most popular girls in town when they visited.

  He climbed on behind her, then paused for a second, before moving closer and putting his hands on her waist. ‘Why do I feel as if I’m going to regret this?’ he murmured in her ear.

  She laughed, gunned the small engine and took off.

  * * *

  By the time they reached the village Javier wasn’t sure he wanted to get back off the bike. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand straight.

  Portia drove as if she were being chased by a pack of man-eating zombies. It didn’t matter that the top speed of the scooter wasn’t exactly law-breaking, she zipped around corners and snaked between cars fearlessly. She laughed as she jumped off and took off her helmet. Her cheeks were tinted pink and her brown eyes were gleaming. Her shiny brown hair fell back over her shoulders. He almost sucked in a breath.

  Portia was always a pretty girl. But sometimes she just glowed. Like now. He tried not to focus on her lips. Her pink, distinctly kissable lips.

  It was easy to forget other things around Portia. Most of the time she was good company and light-hearted. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t have a boyfriend back home—especially with the kind of job she had.

  And she could actually eat. In LA that was practically a miracle. Lots of people in TV or film had their own personal trainer and chef and spent the day eating unappetising seeds, drinking green smoothies and timing their next workout.

  Portia seemed happy in her own skin. He was intrigued about her writing. Next time they were back at the villa he was going to try and persuade her to let him read her bonkbuster. He had a feeling he might recognise a few of the characters.

  She pulled sunglasses from her cross-body bag and put them on. ‘Will we meet back here in an hour?’

  ‘Sure.’ He glanced around the village. He was pretty sure he knew where he could find a phone. He watched as she strolled off towards the fishmongers, trying not to focus on the swing of her hips or the shape of her bottom in those capri pants.

  He felt a huge pang of regret. He could have kissed her the other night. He should have kissed her the other night. But right now it just felt as if his timing was completely off.

  He found a phone in the local café and made the calls he needed to. The director was disappointed but not upset. He understood that Javier needed some time. Aldo’s parents spoke briefly. They still sounded vacant and it broke his heart.

  It made him more determined. More focused on what he should be doing. The work on the house was therapeutic, but what he actually should be doing was putting words into action. Bipolar disorder. How many people around the world were actually affected? How many families? Would the average person recognise the signs? After all, he’d missed them—or at least he felt he had. There were helplines all across the world. But was there something specific for bipolar disorder? Or was that something that he could do in Aldo’s memory?

  It was time to stop being distracted. It didn’t matter how dark those brown eyes were. It didn’t matter how kissable Portia’s lips looked.

  The ache and guilt in his heart were still there. It was time to put all his focus on one thing.

  * * *

  The trouble with trying to stay incognito was that curiosity drove her crazy. She’d been in the village less than half an hour, the groceries in a bag at her side, before she found herself in an Internet café.

  She wouldn’t look at her emails. She wouldn’t. She’d maybe just have a five-minute browse of the Web and see what was happening in the world. There was a geriatric TV in Villa Rosa, but the signal was pretty rubbish and, with no phone line or Internet, there was none of the digital services that went along with most modern-day TVs.

  So, unless something made it into the relatively conservative Italian newspapers stocked on L’Isola dei Fiori, or into the Italian TV news, she was essentially cut off.

  It was a mistake as soon as she sat down. She knew that. She just couldn’t help herself.

  She pulled up Entertainment Buzz TV’s website and Holly Payne’s white teeth, blonde hair and size-six figure screamed back at her. She was covering while Portia was gone and it looked as if she was planning on making her mark.

  Portia signalled to the waiter for a drink. She couldn’t do this without coffee.

  She flicked back over the last week. Holly covering the latest film premiere. Holly interviewing an unknown actor who’d just signed to star in the film of the biggest selling novel last year. Holly covering the death of an old-time movie star.

  Portia breathed an audible sigh of relief. There was nothing spectacular there. Nothing that would draw attention to Holly as anything other than another Hollywood reporter.

  Just to be sure she put Holly’s name into the search engine on the Web.

  It literally exploded.

  So much for no attention.

  Is Holly Payne about to become Holly Parker? screamed one headline. There were dozens more like it—all from last night. It seemed Entertainment Buzz TV’s website needed updating.

  Heading the article was a smudgy photo—obviously taken on someone’s phone. It wasn’t great. But there was no mistaking the people. Holly had her lips on Corey Parker, the latest pop sensation. He, in turn, was leaning her backwards and kissing her in the middle of an LA club. Portia recognised it immediately.

  She let out a laugh. Really? Holly pretended to be twenty-two. But Portia knew exactly how old she was—and that was seven years older than Corey Parker. She was just blessed with a youthful demeanour.

  Portia peered at the screen again. Was that even a dress Holly was wearing? It looked more like a handkerchief. But the picture seemed to have caught one of Holly’s best features—her legs—in all their glory.

  Speculation was rife. There were hints at how long she’d been secretly dating Corey Parker. Rumours that she’d already met the family. Even more rumours that she and Corey had been seen checking out wedding venues. Really?

  She blinked as she noticed something in the corner of her screen. What?

  She sucked in a breath and sat back. Holly Payne’s social media followers had just sky-rocketed to three hundred thousand. Oh, no. Oh, no.

  Her fingers moved without her brain really engaging, pulling up her email provider and automatically typing in her email address and password.

  She hadn’t been in her emails since she’d arrived on the island for her sister’s wedding. She didn’t even glance at the total number. She just pulled up the name she was looking for. There were seventeen from her boss at Entertainment Buzz TV.

  She pulled her hands back from the keyboard for a second and picked up the coffee the waiter had delivered, trying to ignore the shake.

  This was pathetic. She hadn’t even opened any of them and she wanted to cry.

  Her boss had been succinct as she’d left. ‘Don’t come back without a killer story.’

  It had played on her mind ever since. And with each passing day the nerves and racing heart seemed to multiply like a killer virus. It was the hint as well. The implication. Almost as if she wanted something sordid. Portia hated that. Her boss was pushing her in a direction that she didn’t want to go.

  Ping. She opened the latest email from her boss. What was the point of reading the rest?

  Due to recent events our executive director has suggested it might be time to review the arrangements for lead presenter on Entertainment Buzz TV. As per your contract, we are required to give you four weeks’ notice. That is unless, of course, you can bring us a story that generates as much publicity as our current Holly Payne/Corey Parker headline. In those circumstances we would, of course, reconsider.

 
The breath left her body like a deflated balloon.

  She was a has-been.

  Was it even worth going home at all? Her stomach twisted. She loved her LA apartment. She loved her friends. Up until a few months ago she’d loved her job. She couldn’t quite work out in her head what had happened. Maybe she’d always known her sell-by date would be coming up soon. Maybe she’d always known that there were some stories that shouldn’t be told.

  But how could she pay for her apartment if she wasn’t working? Her salary at the TV station had been good—where else could she get paid like that?

  Her skin started to prickle. Maybe she should reconsider the scoops she already knew. The Hollywood actress famous for her smile. She’d always been intensely private about her life. Her young daughter was terminally ill. That was why she was depressed. That was why she’d had to seek help at a private clinic. But was that really something Portia could share with the world?

  No. She just couldn’t. If she did something like that she wouldn’t be able to look at her reflection in the mirror.

  What about the nearly ninety-year-old Hollywood classic actor—married three times but thoroughly gay? She liked him. She really liked him. He was like one of the last true gents. It all seemed thoroughly unfair.

  Then, something else came into her head.

  Something so ridiculous she wasn’t quite sure how it got there.

  Holly had landed Corey. What if she could land Javier Russo?

  Javier was a much bigger star. The highest earner in Hollywood this year. He’d topped every Most Eligible list for the last few years. Being seen on the arm of Javier Russo was much more newsworthy. Being seen in a clinch with Javier Russo could send the Internet into meltdown.

  She winced. It was ridiculous. Of course it was ridiculous. He was the most gorgeous man on earth. He wouldn’t be interested in her. He could have kissed her at any point the other night—and he hadn’t. The humiliating part was he probably hadn’t even contemplated it.

  And she couldn’t help but wish he had.