The Mysterious Italian Houseguest. Scarlet Wilson

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       CHAPTER TWO

      PORTIA LAY IN her bed wondering if the man in the next room was up yet.

      Or maybe he’d died in the night of some hidden head injury she’d caused by throwing the wine glass?

      She groaned and rolled onto her side. Sleep had been a stranger to her. She’d tossed and turned all night.

      Somehow, Javier Russo had ended up sleeping in the room next to hers.

      Talk about messing with her head.

      She’d interviewed dozens of famous stars and met every personality trait. The smug. The bored. The sweetheart. The ignorant. The people pleaser. The desperate. And the person who appeared to be from another planet.

      Javier had been charming in the way that only an Italian film star could be. But it was all an act. Last time she’d met him he’d been arrogant. He could barely even bother to say hello. He’d looked at her with those steely grey eyes as she’d asked a question and replied, ‘Is that really the best you can do?’ before walking away with a dismissive glance. It was obvious he hadn’t thought she’d been important enough to speak to.

      Stars being rude was nothing new to Portia. But it had felt as though he was mocking her. And that had stung.

      Most Hollywood stars at least pretended to like the press. Some tried to charm her. A few had even sent her gifts. One particularly sleazy older guy had slipped his hand a bit too low and earned himself a slap and he was apparently happily married. Five years in Hollywood had fast made her realise that everything was merely a façade. Hardly any of it was real—let alone the love stories.

      The charm was all superficial. As for Javier Russo? Last time around he hadn’t even feigned interest—she’d felt as welcome as something on the bottom of his shoe. It was only when his press officer had nudged him and whispered in his ear harshly that he’d tried to turn on the charm again—but with the next person in line.

      And it had annoyed her beyond belief that as soon as he’d started to speak the rhythm of his words in that alluring tone had sent shivers down her spine.

      That same voice that she’d heard last night.

      She still wasn’t entirely sure why he was there.

      And that was pretty much the reason she couldn’t sleep.

      This was it. This was her chance. This was her chance for a story. Why on earth would Javier Russo be here? The man could probably afford to rent an entire hotel to himself. What on earth was he doing at Villa Rosa?

      She tried to remember everything she’d ever heard about him. The truth was there was very little scandal around him. Yes, he was arrogant and sometimes aloof. But there were never on-set rumours about weird demands or keeping others waiting for hours. His star had definitely risen in the last few years and he’d been known to date a model, a pop star, and a few co-stars.

      She hadn’t realised his mother had been friends with Sofia. They’d both been models around the same time; it made sense that they’d moved in the same circles. Sofia had photograph album after photograph album in the attic above Portia’s head. Doubtless she would find some memento of the women’s past history together.

      In the meantime she was trying to keep calm. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed. This could be the story that could save her career. Or it could be nothing. It could simply be about a film star that had just filmed back-to-back movies and was looking for some peace and quiet. It wasn’t really that outrageous a thought. Apart from an occasional interest in the royal family, L’Isola dei Fiori wasn’t exactly the most sought-out destination. The ferry boat from the mainland was the only way here. Tourism was low. This place was off the beaten track. That was partly why she was here too.

      But maybe it was something else? Maybe there was much more to Javier Russo than anyone knew. Her stomach flipped a little. She was still annoyed at him being so dismissive at their last meeting—one that he didn’t even remember. Maybe finding a story on Javier Russo would give her the boost she needed for her flagging career?

      She pushed the horrible nagging feeling to the back of her head.

      She’d only agreed to let him stay here one night. Maybe if there was a chance of a story she should reconsider?

      There was a noise from downstairs. She frowned and swung her legs out of bed. It only took a few minutes to source where the noise was coming from.

      Oh, Javier Russo was awake all right. He was so awake he was standing bare-chested in the painted drawing room. She rubbed her eyes. Maybe she hadn’t woken up yet. Maybe this was all just some kind of weird dream. He was wearing a pair of blue jeans and black boots. And he was mixing something in a bucket, his actions allowing her to admire every chiselled muscle in his arms and abs. She was pretty sure her chin just bounced off the floor and came back up again. That smattering of dark curls across the chest then thickening and leading downwards... There should be a law against this kind of thing.

      ‘What on earth are you doing?’

      He looked up and smiled. ‘Just making myself useful.’

      There was quiet confidence in those words that actually made her smart. The painted room was her favourite in the whole house and she knew that Posy felt the same. Although they hadn’t exactly spoken about it, she was sure that getting repairs done in a room like this was entirely outside all of her sisters’ budgets.

      He smeared some of the white plaster on a metal square he held in one hand. There were a number of different-sized trowels lined up on the floor, some brushes and a large open bag of plaster powder.

      ‘Where on earth did you get all this?’

      He smiled again. ‘I borrowed the scooter parked in the garage and went to the local hardware store early this morning. If you know what you’re looking for you can always find it.’

      She shook her head as she eyed the bag of plaster. That had to be heavy. ‘Where even is the hardware store? I didn’t even know one existed.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And when on earth did you go there?’

      He shrugged. ‘It’s on the outskirts of Baia di Rose. Most tradesmen like to start their work early. They don’t like to work in the heat of the day. The hardware store opened at six.’

      He ran his hand along the wall and frowned, grabbing a piece of sandpaper and giving a gentle rub around the crack.

      ‘What do you think you’re doing? Don’t touch that. You’ll make it worse. This place is in a bad enough state without you deciding to play Mr Handyman.’