The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

‘So, you’re next door to George Clooney?’

He didn’t miss a beat. ‘Almost.’

It was as if someone had just sprinkled fairy dust over her. She’d spent the last few days thinking of Javier Russo, the man—the person. Because that was what he was to her. But it was Javier Russo the movie star that owned houses in the Hollywood Hills, Santa Monica beach and Lake Como.

Their time in Villa Rosa had been blissful. Private. The three weeks would be over soon. Could the connection they’d made here survive in the real world?

Just thinking about it made her stomach flip-flop.

Right now she wanted to direct her own movie. One where she pressed a button and let time stop all around them. Not so much a Groundhog Day as a Groundhog Three Weeks. They could live in their own private bubble in the pink villa and let the rest of the world pass them by. If only.

Javier led her into one of the fishmongers at the port. ‘Will we grab something for dinner?’

‘Sure.’ They picked up some fish, some vegetables and new potatoes. Then, they added some wine and took a taxi back to the villa.

This time, when Portia turned the old key in the lock and stepped inside the villa had a different feel.

When she’d done this first time around, she’d been sad, sensing the air of neglect and disrepair around her. Walking through the villa had almost made her feel like a ghost.

This time the air around her almost hummed. Javier was by her side, striding through to the kitchen to deposit their food. Now, she felt a sense of belonging. She wandered through to the painted drawing room. The plaster had dried in a long white crack snaking up the pale blue and mauve sky. The rest of the walls had been skimmed smoothly, ready for painting.

Javier appeared at her side again, sliding his arm around her waist. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she sighed. ‘Or at least it will be again once it’s painted.’ She tilted her chin up towards him. ‘You’ve done a really good job.’

‘Why thank you, madam.’ He kissed her lips and her hand automatically went to his head, running through his hair and holding his lips on hers.

A sweep of anxious desperation that she hated flooded through her. She just honestly didn’t want this time to end.

But it seemed neither did Javier, because he swept one hand under her legs and held her in his arms. His lips touched her ear. ‘Your room, or mine?’ he whispered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SHE WAS TEMPTED to skip into the village the next morning, but instead she was happy to walk with Javier’s arm around her shoulders. They parted at the top of the street. Javier had decided to buy something special at the fishmonger’s for dinner tonight.

There was a crowd outside the newsagents and several faces turned as she approached, scowling at her and murmuring under their breath.

She almost didn’t go any further, but one of them moved just enough for her to glimpse the billboard outside the newsagent and let her catch a glance at the headline and photo on the board. A flash of pink caught her attention. An achingly familiar pink bikini.

Her feet moved automatically. She shoved her way through the crowd and picked up the paper at the top of the pile.

She had no idea what the headline said but she could understand the photos—after all a picture spoke a thousand words. They were all of her, entwined around Javier. One from the private beach—he was holding her in the water and she had her legs and arms wrapped around him like some kind of limpet. The next was in the restaurant at the port, the third at the opera in Naples with her wearing Sofia’s red dress and the final one—the killer—was of the two of them wearing hotel bathrobes and standing on the balcony of the hotel in Naples.

She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry. Who on earth had taken these pictures? And what did the story say?

She walked numbly into the Internet café and sat down at one of the computers. She winced as she searched for her own name and Javier’s.

If she’d thought Holly had caused an Internet explosion a few weeks ago, then she and Javier had caused an Internet meltdown. At least in the US and in Italy.

But as she started to read the hairs on her arms stood on end as if chilled by an icy blast. A few headlines were just romanticising the relationship between herself and Javier. Some said they’d secretly dated for months, some claimed she’d seduced him on an aeroplane, others claimed they’d met by accident in Italy.

The same four pictures featured over and over again. How on earth had they got that picture on the private beach?

The boat. The boat moored in the distance. There must have been a photographer on board. She felt physically sick.

The picture at the restaurant or opera could have been taken by any of the other guests who’d recognised them. But the one on the balcony? She groaned. If they’d been recognised at the opera, it wouldn’t have taken any reporter worth their salt long to figure out where they were staying. Years ago that reporter might have been her. That balcony looked over the whole bay. It was just that the picture was so close, so clear.

Her stomach lurched as she reached the next version of the headlines. There were video clips. She clicked on the first and her producer’s face filled the screen. It was only a ten-second burst.

‘Well, I told her she had three weeks to go and get a story and she certainly did that! We’ll get the full exclusive when she returns from her break next week...’

But it was the next translated headline that stopped her breathing. Ignored by the Billionaire. She clicked and started to speed-read.

No.

There in the middle of the page was Aldo’s name, followed by the fact that he’d phoned Javier—his old friend—pleading for help before he’d committed suicide.

It felt as if her blood had just turned to ice.

There was more. The reporter had tried to get comments from Aldo’s family.

Oh, no. She glanced at when the report had appeared. It was only minutes ago in an Italian news website. It wouldn’t take the US sites long to pick up the story and start to run with it. She knew how these things worked.

She grabbed the paper and ran out of the café. She had to find Javier. She had to warn him. She had to speak to him now.

Her chest was tight. She needed to find Javier.

But there was no sign of him around the port area and the more she looked, the more she got suspicious glances.

She flagged a taxi. She’d go back to Villa Rosa. It was safer there. Javier would appear eventually and she would have a chance to talk to him then.

But as soon as they pulled up outside the pale pink villa her stomach dropped. The front door was lying wide open.

She thrust some money at the taxi driver and rushed up the steps. ‘Javier?’ she shouted.

There was no reply. She ran up the stairs and headed for his room.

His room was in complete disarray. All his clothes were scattered across the bed, wardrobe still open and drawers askew. Javier’s face was like thunder as he was blindly stuffing everything into his bag.

‘Javier?’ The air was almost black in the room. She was almost scared to speak.

The look he gave her almost cut her in two.

‘Did you enjoy your story? Did I give you what you need? Do you know what’s happened to Aldo’s family in the last few hours? There are paparazzi camped outside their house—banging on their door and harassing them. How do you think they can deal with that?’ He didn’t even stop to draw breath, he just kept thundering on.

‘I don’t care that you used me, Portia. I don’t care that all that you ever wanted was a headline to keep your job. Funny how you never me

ntioned that to me. But what I will never, ever forgive you for is the fact you used a grieving family to feather your own nest.’

The last item of clothing was stuffed in the bag. His face was red, his eyes blazing. She’d never, ever seen him like this.

‘Wait, that’s not what happened. I was going to tell you about my job—I was going to tell you that I was giving it up. That it wasn’t for me any more. But I wanted to wait until I got back to LA and talked to my producer. I would never do something like this. Don’t you know that?’

Javier grabbed his bag from the bed. ‘What I do know, Portia, is that the woman I thought I knew doesn’t exist at all. You knew, Portia, you knew what I experienced as a child. You knew how my mother was treated then. But you didn’t care. You just wanted your story.’ He glanced up and down her body and shook his head. ‘Boy, you’re good. You had me believing that this might actually be real.’

She was stunned. She couldn’t find the words to speak. It was her that had had all the fears. The fears that she might be played. The fears that Javier Russo might not really be interested in her.

She tried to speak but he lifted his hand in front of her face. ‘Answer me one question: your boss, did she or did she not give you three weeks to find a story or you’d be fired?’

The words stuck at the back of her throat. She knew exactly how this would sound. Her heart was twisting in her chest. In less than an hour her life had turned upside down. The love that she’d never been sure she’d encounter was right in front of her but slipping from her grasp in a way she hadn’t even imagined.

‘Javier...’ It came out as a croak and he shot her a look of disgust as he shouldered his way past her and thundered down the corridor.