The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

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.’