It made him smile that she didn’t remember him. Didn’t recognise him.
But right as that thought crowded his brain, he saw the little flicker behind her eyes.
‘What’s your name? Who is your mother?’ It wasn’t a question, it was a demand.
Something sparked inside him. It had been a long time since someone had spoken to him like that. Being a Hollywood movie star meant he was usually surrounded by ‘yes’ people. Part of the point of coming here was to get away from all that. He just hadn’t expected to reach the opposite end of the spectrum.
He sucked in a breath. ‘You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.’
Her beautiful face was marred by a deeper frown. He could sense she wasn’t used to being lost for words. She drew herself up to her full height. She had bare feet and the top of her head was just above his shoulder. The perfect height for a leading woman.
‘I’m Portia. Portia Marlowe.’ She tossed her hair over her shoulder, glancing over at the azure sea, then rapidly sucked in a breath and spun around to face him as the recognition struck.
She pointed her finger. ‘You’re Javier Russo.’ Her voice had gone up in pitch.
There it was. Anonymity gone in a flash. He sighed and walked over to the edge of the terrace. The beach looked inviting, even if it was a bit of a scramble to reach it. As a child he hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.
He almost laughed out loud at the thought of the film insurers’ opinion on him staying in such a place. They’d want to wrap him in cotton wool. What on earth had his last action movie insured his legs for—ten million dollars?
The sun was dipping lower in the sky, sending dark orange streaks across the water. It was a beautiful sunset. He understood why she was sitting out there. But he still didn’t know what she was really doing here. More importantly, was she staying?
She moved next to him. ‘You’re Javier Russo,’ she repeated. Her voice was getting quicker. ‘Javier Russo. Italian movie star.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Thirty. Just finished filming a sci-fi film in the Arabian Desert, and last year the second highest paid action movie star.’
The hairs prickled at the back of his neck. He’d met hundreds of fans over the last few years. Some verging on the slightly obsessive. But he couldn’t imagine he’d be so unlucky to end up staying with one of them on L’Isola dei Fiori.
‘How on earth do you know that?’ Something else flashed into his brain and he gave a half-smile. ‘And what’s with the look you gave me when you said I was thirty?’
‘Is that your real age or your Hollywood age?’ she shot back cheekily.
She waved her hand. ‘Oh, come on, you know. Most Hollywood stars take a few years off their age. Some even more than ten.’ There was the hint of a teasing smile on her face. She seemed to have regained her composure. ‘But once you get up close and personal, you always know if it’s an extension of the truth or not.’
He laughed out loud and turned back from the view to meet her head-on. There was a sparkle in her eyes. She’d obviously moved from the initial fear factor to the having-fun factor. She wasn’t flirting. That didn’t seem like her agenda. But she certainly seemed much more comfortable around him. And she wasn’t tugging at her dress or hair. Often, once people recognised him, they frantically tried to get a glimpse of their own appearance, sometimes cursing out loud that they didn’t look their best.
Portia didn’t seem to care. Her simple red dress—which looked as if it came from any high-street store—stopped mid-thigh. The only remnant of make-up on her face was a hint of red stain on her lips.
He moved a little closer. ‘So, what do you think?’
His chest was only a few inches from her nose. She looked a little surprised. She lifted her hand up and he wondered if she was going to push him away.
Her hand stayed in mid-air. ‘Think about what?’ Her voice had quietened and as she looked up at him the sun was in her eyes, making her squint a little.
It was as if a wall of silence fell around him. He was in a movie now. A glass panel had just slid around the two of them and cut out all the surrounding noise. No lapping waves. No breeze. No rustling leaves or tweeting birds.
All that was present was a girl in a red dress, with tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose and dark chocolate eyes. It was that tiny moment in time. A millisecond, when something reached into his chest and punched him square in the heart.
He’d met dozens of beautiful women. He’d dated some of them. Had relationships with others. But he’d never felt the wow factor. That single moment when...zing.
And he couldn’t fathom what had just happened. It was that single look. That single connection.
She licked her lips.
And the sci-fi glass portal disappeared, amplifying all the noise around him. He swayed a little.
‘Do I think that you’re really thirty?’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Well, if you are—you’re the only film star who doesn’t lie about their age.’ She lifted one hand. ‘And don’t get me started on their diets, workout plans or relationships.’
The wind caught her dress, blowing it against her curves. He took a step backwards.
‘How do you know all this stuff?’ His curiosity was definitely piqued. He’d heard that Sofia had a goddaughter. But he didn’t know anything about her—or the fact she had sisters. Now, this sister—Portia—seemed weirdly knowing about Hollywood’s poorly kept secrets.
‘Do you work in Hollywood? How come I’ve never met you?’
Something glanced across her face. Hurt?
‘I have met you,’ she answered quietly.
‘Where?’ He tried to rack his brains. Somehow if he’d met her before he assumed he’d remember.
Her tone had changed. He’d definitely annoyed her. ‘I met you at the award ceremony. I interviewed you on the red carpet about the pirate movie.’
She didn’t even call it by its name—even though it had made one and a half billion dollars at the box office and counting.
The award ceremony—the biggest in Hollywood. That had been March. And reporters had lined the red carpet in their hundreds all hoping for a sound bite from a film star. Trying to remember anyone in amongst that rabble would be nigh on impossible.
It was as if someone had just dumped the biggest bucket of ice in the world over his head. He stepped back. ‘You work for a newspaper?’
A reporter. Just what he needed.
The plague of the earth. At least that was what his mother used to call them. They’d harassed her to death when she’d been unwell. He had clear childhood memories of their home in Italy surrounded by people holding cameras and brandishing microphones, while his mother wept in her bedroom.
He’d learned early on to tell them nothing. Not a tiny little th
ing. Anything that was said could be twisted and turned into a headline full of lies the next day. Nothing had affected his mother’s moods more than the press.
As a Hollywood star he couldn’t possibly avoid them. But he could manage them.
And he always had. Two-minute press junkets. Any longer interviews done in writing by his press officer, along with a legal declaration about misquotes.
All press were to be kept at a distance. Even the pretty ones.
No, especially the pretty ones.
Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘No, I work for Entertainment Buzz TV. Have done for the last five years.’ She held up her hand and counted off on her fingers. ‘I interviewed you after your first appearance in the Slattery action movies. I’ve met you at probably half a dozen film premieres and I met you on the red carpet in March.’
He was surprised she was offended. Every TV reporter in the world knew what press junkets were like. Each person was given an allotted time frame—usually around two minutes—along with a long list of questions they weren’t allowed to ask. It was like speed dating—usually with a really boring outcome, because all the questions that were asked you’d already answered sixty times before.
He felt himself bristle. A reporter. Absolutely the last person he wanted to be around right now. Not when he wanted some privacy and some head space.
‘Are you staying here?’ He couldn’t help the pointed way his words came out.
She blinked at the change of conversation and stuck her hands on her hips. The sea air swept across them both echoing the instant chill that had developed. ‘It’s my sister Posy’s house. Where else would I be staying?’