The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

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.