The Mysterious Italian Houseguest. Scarlet Wilson

her well-shaped firm legs blessed with a light golden tan. Her chest went up and down lightly beneath the thin cotton of her dress that did little to hide her curves.

      There was something vaguely familiar about her. Something he couldn’t quite place.

      His foot crunched on a stone on the terrace and her eyes flew open.

      Before he even had a chance to speak she was on her feet, her eyes wide and her hands grabbing for the nearest item.

      ‘Mi scusi, non volevo spaventarti...’

      He’d automatically reverted to his native language but it did nothing to stop the wine glass being hurled in his direction and catching him squarely on his brow. It shattered at his feet on the terrace as he took another step towards her.

      This time she had the wine bottle, brandishing it like a weapon in front of her.

      ‘Don’t move, buster. Take another step and I’ll... I’ll...’

      She glanced sideways. And he caught the wave of fear that had rolled over her.

      But the comedy of the moment hadn’t escaped him. He stepped forward and took the empty wine bottle firmly from her hands and smiled. ‘You’ll spring vault backwards past the hot spring and straight down to the beach and the lovers’ arch?’

      Her eyes widened even further. If it were possible they were the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. Like a dark whirlpool that could suck you right in.

      Waves of confusion were sweeping over her face. The obvious change from Italian to English seemed to have caught her unawares. Her head flicked sideways to the lovers’ arch. He could almost read her mind. Only someone who was familiar with this property would know about the hot spring and private beach beneath.

      And there was still something vaguely familiar about her...

      Her body was still stuck in the vaguely defensive stance. ‘You know about Neptune’s arch?’

      The accent. That was what it was. And those eyes. The plummy accent had sounded strange when she’d shouted so quickly. A bit like a member of the British royal family yelling at him. He smiled again and set the bottle down on the terrace, folding his arms across his chest.

      He was around ten inches taller than her. He didn’t want to intimidate her. She didn’t look like the cat-burglar type.

      He let out a laugh. ‘I invented it.’ Then shook his head, curiosity piqued even further. ‘I didn’t tell you it was called Neptune’s arch.’

      She jerked. As if she were getting used to his Italian accent speaking English to her.

      Her gaze narrowed. Now, she looked angry. She planted her hands on her hips. ‘Who on earth are you, and what are you doing in my house?’

      ‘Your house?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you Sofia’s goddaughter?’

      She shook her head. ‘Yes. Well...no.’

      ‘Well, make up your mind. You either are, or you aren’t.’

      She gritted her teeth. ‘No. Posy is Sofia’s goddaughter. She’s my sister.’ She frowned again. ‘But who are you? And how do you know Sofia?’

      The more she spoke, the more he felt the waves of familiarity sweeping across his skin. She wasn’t an actress. He knew every British actress that spoke as she did.

      The hairs on his arms stood on end in the cool coastal breeze. Realisation was hitting home. Chances were this English siren was staying here. All hopes of hiding away on this island in peace and quiet were gently floating away in the orange-scented air.

      ‘Sofia was a good friend of my mother’s. We stayed here often when I was a child and a teenager.’

      She mirrored his position and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Well, you’re not a teenager now and Sofia’s been dead for two years.’

      ‘I was at her funeral. I never noticed you.’ Even as he said the words he was struck by the realisation that he wasn’t likely to forget a woman like this. She was downright beautiful. As beautiful as any one of his Hollywood leading ladies.

      In fact, she was much more natural than most of them. No Botox. No obvious surgery. And skin that was clear and unblemished. If only the public knew just how much airbrushing went on in film studios.

      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