The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

She glanced sideways at him. He looked contemplative. Thoughtful. Maybe he would be able to share a little with her once they knew each other better.

She nodded. ‘I can get started on some cleaning. I’m going to wash some of the dust sheets and clean some of the windows in the rooms. How about I meet you back here in a couple of hours?’

He nodded and gave her a smile.

She licked her lips as she watched him walk away. In theory it all sounded fine. But the image of Javier Russo all wet in a pair of trunks had suddenly made her mouth go very dry.

Very, very dry.

CHAPTER THREE

HE WASN’T QUITE sure what it was about her. But Portia Marlowe was proving to be a little unexpected.

Javier had never been someone to believe his own press. Every film set, every job he worked on he got to know people from the runners, to the catering staff, to the executives who liked to visit for around ten minutes.

The film-star tag was a whole different ball game. He played the game when he needed to. He did the interviews. He’d even been conveniently photographed on occasion. The sexy label made him laugh out loud. He was comfortable around women. Usually, he had no problems communicating with them.

But he always kept a distance. He always controlled what was going on. He’d seen what the press had done to his mother. In a way he blamed them for her bipolar disorder. Most of her life she’d kept it under control. But when the press had decided to harass her, the stress had exacerbated all her symptoms. The sleeplessness. The fatigue. Her coping mechanisms. Her moods. Her erratic behaviour, coupled with her irritability and her inability to complete tasks—sometimes even sentences.

He’d been determined to always keep his press under control—to only let them know what he wanted them to know. The truth was he always mistrusted the press.

Portia? She was a little different. His mother had once described an English counterpart as ‘prickly’. Today, it seemed to fit the bill. Prickly Portia. He wasn’t quite sure how old she was, but he’d surely hit a nerve with her in the kitchen today. He wasn’t usually so clumsy around women. His mother would have been horrified by him. Sofia would probably have slapped him around the back of the head.

He was getting little flashes of memories about her. There was something achingly familiar about Portia that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was the occasional way she said a word with her English accent that was pushing his buttons. He loved that accent. Not that he would tell her that.

He’d come here for some peace. He needed to figure out what came next in his life. From the second he’d got that phone call about Aldo he’d known that things would never be the same. He’d known that he would never be the same.

The biggest ache for him was the final diagnosis. Aldo was bipolar.

His friend had suffered from the same disease as his mother and Javier hadn’t picked up on it. They hadn’t spent a lot of time together in the last year. And Javier had been aware that Aldo had been low after the breakdown of his marriage. But that had seemed almost natural. Almost understandable. But Javier had missed the highs that Aldo had also displayed. The erratic behaviour. The despairing lows. Things that would have helped him put the pieces together to get Aldo the correct diagnosis and treatment before it was too late.

He’d already decided he wanted to do something specific for people with the same disorder. For families with loved ones who were suffering and didn’t know how to help.

He just hadn’t managed to decide the best way to do it.

This was his time out. His chance to gather his thoughts, arrange his finances and look at his calendar of work for the next year to take time to devote to this. Working on the house would have been therapeutic. He just hadn’t expected the house to be filled by Portia Marlowe.

He sighed and walked through to the painted drawing room.

The plasterwork had to be done slowly. And once plaster was mixed it had to be used within a certain time frame. The long snaking crack across the dome had taken some gentle sanding and filling. He’d need to examine it again tomorrow. But now he picked up his wide range of trowels, hawk and scarifier to clean them before he used them again.

Upstairs he could hear the shower running. The dust must have got to places that he didn’t even want to tease her about and by the time she came downstairs again he’d finished washing his tools.

Her hair was still damp, coiled around into a bun at the back of her head. She was obviously wearing a swimming costume but had a black sheer kaftan over the top and a pair of flip-flops on her feet.

He shook his head and pointed to them. ‘Remember, we’ve got to get down that path to the beach. Do you have something else?’

She nodded. ‘Oh, yeah, I hadn’t even thought about that path. I have a pair of trainers I can wear.’ She glanced over at him. ‘Do you need to get ready?’

He glanced down at himself. A few blobs of plaster had landed on his grey T-shirt and three-quarter-length khaki shorts. He held up his hands. ‘I got an award last year for best-dressed male.’ He shook his head. ‘I have no idea how that happened. They obviously don’t know me at all.’

Portia crossed the kitchen and picked up the rest of the bread. She opened the fridge and came out smiling, holding a bottle of water with a little condensation around the outside. ‘Look, it’s decided to work today. We can take the rest of the bread, the ham and I have some cheese too.’

Javier had reached the door to leave but ducked his head back around. ‘What, no wine?’

Something flitted across her face. ‘I suppose we could if you wanted.’ She ducked back into the fridge. ‘Yep, there’s some white. We’ll take that.’

A few minutes later he’d washed his face and changed his T-shirt. He’d neglected to bring swimming shorts, but the beach was private and he was sure his black jockey shorts were respectable enough.

Portia had a couple of towels over her arm as well as a bag with the food. They made their way down the path to the beach. The stone was crumbling in places, and the path a little steep. A few times Portia’s hand landed on his back as they headed down the slope.

The white sand practically sparkled. Javier kicked off his trainers and almost let out a yelp. ‘Wow. It’s hot.’

Portia smiled as she kicked hers off too. ‘Well, it is brilliant sunshine—what do you expect?’

He looked at her skin. Her English rose complexion had seemed to gain an LA tan. It was light golden brown but she still looked as if she could burn easily. ‘Are you all right being out in this sun?’

She winked at him. ‘Factor fifty. Haven’t you heard? I live in LA. Sun is a crime against skin.’

He laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t tried one of the crazy remedies?’ He tapped his face. ‘To stop wrinkles and regain youthfulness.’ She burst out laughing as he mimicked one of the other popular male film stars who’d just filmed a TV ad for moisturiser.

There was a glint in her eyes as she laid the towels down on the sand. ‘Which one? The elephant’s urine? The fungus? Or the sixty-day-old-egg recipe?’

He shuddered. ‘Is that the latest fad?’ He waved his hands. ‘My last co-star paid over a thousand dollars for some fish-egg cream. The smell—’ he shook his head and screwed up his face ‘—was so horrendous, none of the crew would venture near her trailer.’

Portia started laughing as she walked towards the waves. ‘And you had to kiss her?’

This time Javier exaggerated the shudder. ‘I would never speak badly of a co-star. Thankfully, by the time we were filming, the cream was washe

d off and her make-up was firmly in place.’

Portia let out a little yelp as she paddled at the edge of the sea. ‘Yikes, it looks so inviting but it’s bitter cold.’

Javier grinned as he strode into sea. It was a little colder than he expected but it was exactly what he needed. He started sloshing the cold sea water over his chest and back. He turned around as he was doing it, letting the waves gently lap up to his back.

‘Come on,’ he gestured to her. ‘Get in.’

She shook her head and pulled up the hem of her black sheer kaftan. ‘Oh, no. Not yet. Paddling is as good as it gets.’

He squinted at her as she stood in the sun.

She laughed as the waves lapped up her thighs. ‘How is it that as soon as you put a toe in the sea, it seems to try and drag you in further?’

His stomach clenched a little. Press. It was easy to forget that Portia was press.

But he couldn’t forget it. He had to remember—at all times.

He had to be nice to her. If he wanted to stay here—he had to keep her onside. But he could still do that by keeping her at arm’s length.

Today was only about being polite. The work might seem like a bonus for Portia, but for him it was therapeutic. He could think while he worked. He could make plans while he worked.

There was something about Portia. Maybe it was because she was press. But he could see it hidden behind her careful glances at him. She made his spider sense tingle, and that helped him remember she was the enemy. He got the impression there was more to Portia than met the eye.

He watched her as she took a few steps in, changed her mind and took a few steps back again. ‘There should be a law against water this cold,’ she muttered, her kaftan poised around her thighs. She took another few steps in, then shook her head. ‘Nope. Not for me. Changed my mind.’ She gestured towards the water. ‘You swim. I’ll watch. How about I promise to phone for help if I see you being eaten by a shark?’

She let her kaftan drop and waded out of the water to drop on one of the towels. She lay back and pulled her sunglasses down from her head.