The Mysterious Italian Houseguest. Scarlet Wilson

‘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 thing. 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?’

      ‘But this place is supposed to be deserted.’ Frustration was building in his chest. He turned around and gestured at the fading building behind him. ‘I mean, look at it. How long has your sister had it? She hasn’t done any work at all. This place is falling apart at the seams.’

      Portia’s dark eyes gleamed. ‘I think you’ll find that this place has been like this for around the last fifteen years. When was the last time you were here, exactly? Sofia let things fall by the wayside. She didn’t keep up the house maintenance. After her relationship with Crown Price Ludano ended, I’m not sure she had the means.’ Portia glared at him. ‘My other sister Miranda and her husband Cleve have made some temporary repairs to the roof and electrics. I was hoping to tidy up a bit while I was here. Posy is a ballerina. She doesn’t have any spare funds right now, let alone enough money to carry out the extensive repairs that this place will need.’ It was obvious she was on the defensive.

      But so was he.

      ‘Last I heard no one was staying here at all.’ All the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on the offensive. Press. He had to get rid of her. How on earth could he sort things out with someone like her around?

      ‘So you thought you would just break in?’ she shot back.

      He pulled the ancient large key from his pocket. ‘I didn’t break in. My mother has a key to Villa Rosa—she has done for years.’

      ‘And that gives you the right to just appear here and let yourself in? My sister inherited this property. It’s hers.’ She placed her hand on her chest and raised her eyebrows. ‘I know that I’m supposed to be here. But I’m quite sure you haven’t asked her permission. Particularly when you don’t even know her name.’

      Javier was stunned. He wasn’t used to people treating him like an unwanted guest. He certainly hadn’t expected anyone to be here. He’d wanted the place to himself. But it was clear that wasn’t going to happen.

      It was too late now to go anywhere else. The last ferry to the mainland had left hours ago. There weren’t any hotels nearby.

      If Ms Portia Marlowe wanted to toss him out to the kerb, movie star or not, he was in trouble.

      It was time to use the old Italian charm. He’d won awards for his acting. He might not mean a single word of it, but that didn’t matter right now. He needed a bed for the night and could sort the rest of this out in the morning.

      He smiled. He already suspected she might have had a few drinks. Maybe it was time to play on the situation.

      He put his hand to his forehead and gave it a rub, throwing in a little sway for good measure. He wasn’t an actor for nothing. ‘Yeow!’ He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, giving his head a shake.

      She frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

      He