The Mysterious Italian Houseguest

скачать книгу бесплатно


Her mouth was dry. There could be a story right at her fingertips—literally. His arrogance had annoyed her before. But did she really want to dig deep and let him expose himself and his secrets to her? Was that really the type of person that she was?

‘I want to stay here, Portia. Not in some hotel. Do you think that could be possible?’

Portia. He didn’t say her name. He practically sang it.

He didn’t even remember her. Not that she expected him to—really. But she had met him and interviewed him before. And it was kind of insulting for a guy not to remember you—even in cut-throat Hollywood.

Her rational head understood. At a press junket he met hundreds of journalists and could never be expected to remember them all. On award night he’d spoken to just as many again on the red carpet. She wasn’t any different from any other person who’d shoved a microphone in his face and tried to think of an original question.

But it still stung.

And now he wanted to stay with her. Javier Russo wanted to stay with her.

She lifted her hands from his chest. She needed all her senses to be working. And they were already piqued. A fresh, clean scent drifted up under her nose. She scrunched up her face a second and tried to shake it off. The last thing she needed to think about was fresh, clean Javier Russo.

He’d lied to her. No, not strictly true. He just hadn’t been entirely truthful. Why on earth would moneybags Mr Russo want to hide out in Aunt Sofia’s home? He really wanted to get away from things?

It could be a story. But Internet was scarce around here, nearly as rare as a mobile phone signal. It was part of the reason she’d thought it was a good place to hide out.

She could get all defensive, like some creature marking out their territory, and tell him he couldn’t stay. But...she could also be clever. There was always a chance she could get to the bottom of Javier Russo’s story. It might just be the thing to save her career.

And in the meantime, she would have some company, and some eye candy.

She sucked in a breath and tried to find the ruthless streak she’d once had. ‘You really just want to stay here?’

He nodded.

‘How long for?’

Javier ran his fingers through his dark hair as he took a little step to the side. ‘Not long. Just a few weeks.’

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘You honestly just expected to show up, stay here and then leave, didn’t you?’

His face creased into a smile. ‘Well, kind of.’

She put her hand on her chest. ‘And I’ve thrown a spanner in the works for you?’

He frowned for a second, as if he wasn’t quite sure of the expression. But then he nodded. ‘I get it.’

‘You do?’

She stepped back a little, trying to get her head on straight for the first time since yesterday. Maybe it had been the wine. Maybe it had been the magical setting. But last night had been a bit unreal.

She gave him a serious look. ‘Let’s give this some perspective. Last night some stranger appeared at the place I’m staying. Okay, so he might have had a key—and a history of sorts with the place. But I’d made arrangements with my sister—’ she put her fingers in the air ‘—the owner, to stay here for the next few weeks. I don’t plan on going anywhere.’ She pretended not to see the fleeting disappointment that shot through his eyes. ‘We both thought we would have this place to ourselves.’ She nodded out to the back conservatory. ‘Let’s face it. There’s lots to be done here. And if you’re as handy as you say you are, then I might not have any objections to you staying. My skills involve tidying up. That might sound mediocre, but, believe me, I’ve checked all the rooms and the attic—there’s a lot of tidying up to be done.’ She looked around the room as the acid in her stomach gave a little burn. She was trying her absolute best to be up front. She could hardly tell Javier that finding out what he was hiding from might save her career. Hopefully, it would be a woman. But that made the acid burn even more.

A picture of nails scraping down a chalkboard flashed into her brain with the associated noise. If it was trouble with a co-star, a contract, an affair—any of the above—it might just be enough to give her some leeway with her job.

It would save her telling the other secrets that weren’t really hers to share.

She held out her hands. ‘In the end, my sister needs this place to be liveable. If you can help with that, fine.’ She shook her head and gave him a knowing glance. ‘I just want you to know, I don’t mix business with pleasure. Never have. Never will.’

Javier looked amused; the little glint was back in his eye. She liked it when that was there. It lightened the mood. She’d spent the last five years harmlessly flirting in front of the camera; it was the unwritten rule of TV hosts. She’d dated people in Hollywood. But never anyone to do with work. Dating a popstar/film star/TV star was the ultimate no-no. Inevitably there would be a messy fallout and he would tell all his fellow performers not to be interviewed by her. Two of her associated press members had found themselves almost blacklisted around Hollywood when their short-term flings had ended.

Portia was far too clever to be that girl.

Javier was watching her carefully. His tools were now on the floor and he made a grab for a T-shirt that she’d missed sitting on top of a white dust sheet.

‘Come with me.’

‘What?’

She followed him through the house to the kitchen, conscious of the fact she still didn’t have on any real clothes. The kitchen—though ancient—was almost in working order. Miranda had arranged electricity and gas. Thankfully the water was still running. Portia had bleached a few cupboards in the last few days and put a few supplies away. But that didn’t explain the bag on the countertop.

Javier pulled out some eggs and some freshly baked bread. ‘I think our new arrangement calls for a celebratory breakfast.’

‘We’ve made a new arrangement?’

He gave her his trademark Hollywood smile. ‘Sure we have. I’m staying. I’ll work on the plaster and arrange to get some glass for the conservatory.’ He pulled out a frying pan and turned on the gas. ‘How do you like your eggs?’

Portia sat up on a stool next to the countertop. ‘You cook? And where did you get the eggs and the bread?’

‘I got them when I went to get the supplies this morning.’ He gave her a wink. ‘I was a bit worried that the only sustenance in this place was wine.’ He cracked the eggs as her cheeks flushed. But he hadn’t finished. ‘That was, of course...’ he opened the cupboard nearest him ‘...until I found the candy supply.’

He was teasing her—she knew it. ‘What can I say? There are fruit trees in the garden. Wine, fruit and chocolate. What more does a woman need?’

‘What more indeed?’ The sultry Italian voice shot straight through her, the suggestion in it taking her by surprise.

‘Hurry up,’ he said. ‘Scrambled or fried?’

She stared into the pan. ‘Fried is fine. Cooked all the way through.’

He narrowed his gaze. ‘Yolk broken?’

‘Don’t you dare.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve never got the hang of sunny side up, over easy, over medium in the States and I’ve lived there five years now.’

‘Maybe it’s time to move back?’ The hairs prickled at the back of her neck. Gossip spread fast in Hollywood. Did he know her job was on the line?

She tried not to sound as defensive as she felt. She had to remember that Javier could be the ticket to keeping her job. ‘If I’m moving back, I’ll need to hire a cruise ship to bring my clothes back. And my shoes. The studio doesn’t let me keep any of the clothes I wear. But, due to the effects of social media, as soon as pictures start appearing the designers usually send me anything they’ve seen me wear—along with a whole host of other things. They like the publicity—’ she shrugged as she broke off a piece of the bread ‘—and I like the clothes.’

He tossed the eggs. ‘You took the job for the clothes? I don’t believe that. What did you do before you got the job?’

She walked over to the sink and filled up a pan with some water. She hadn’t found a kettle, so the old-fashioned way would have to do. She set it on the gas hob next to where Javier was cooking. ‘I studied investigative journalism at university. I was on holiday in the US, when I kind of lucked into the job. The rest—as they say—is history.’ She gave his arm a nudge. ‘A film star who makes his own food. Who would have thought it?’

He let out a laugh. ‘What did you expect?’

She counted off on her fingers. ‘Well, your last co-star on the action movie flew in his own personal chef, who ensured no meal was above three hundred calories. Your last female co-star was on that new-fangled diet where people only eat prawns and drink spring water.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘No. You mean chilled spring water. We’ll not talk about how the smell of prawns seemed to emanate from her pores.’

Portia laughed but kept going. ‘Then, there was the comedian in the sci-fi film who was on the spinach, Brussels sprout and fried beans diet.’

Javier shuddered. ‘Four hours. That’s how long he was on the toilet in his trailer one day. I gave up waiting to film a scene and went for a beer.’

He turned around and pulled out plates from a cupboard. He’d found his way around this kitchen better than she had. Just how much time had Javier spent here?