Kitabı oku: «The Mysterious Italian Houseguest»

CHAPTER ONE

PORTIA CLOSED THE door behind her and breathed out as the car puttered off into the distance. Finally, peace perfect peace.

Somewhere, on the other side of the house, she could hear the chirrup of birds. After three days of being constantly surrounded by people and chatter it was music to her ears.

She leaned back against the cool wall, tempted to just slide down it.

Her sister Miranda’s wedding was over. She could stop smiling. She could stop fending off the intrusive questions from her sisters. Miranda had looked radiant, lost in the pink cloud of love and drifting off somewhere that seemed a million miles out of Portia’s reach.

She was the oldest sister—wasn’t she supposed to get married first?

The tightness that had gripped her chest since she’d got here eased just a little.

The last wedding guest had left. Miranda was off on her honeymoon, Posy had gone back to work, and Immi had returned to her job in the family business. Finally, Portia could have some quiet.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her sisters. Of course she did. It was just that being around them was so...busy. They all talked at once, and over the top of each other. And what she really needed right now was a chance to take stock, to weigh up what to do next.

Her discarded mobile phone lay on one of the gilded tables in the large entrance hall almost mocking her.

L’Isola dei Fiori had patchy mobile coverage. Villa Rosa had an old phone line that didn’t currently work, and no Internet.

She didn’t need emails. She didn’t need a phone signal.

The last conversation on the phone had turned her work life upside down.

‘What have you brought us in the last four weeks, Portia? The award ceremony was weeks ago. Your red carpet interviews are yesterday’s news. You’re supposed to be an investigative reporter. This is Hollywood. And at twenty-seven your time is almost up. Bring me a headline story in the next four weeks or you’re history.’

She’d felt numb. Studying investigative journalism at university had been a dream come true. Finding a job in Fleet Street had been much harder. When she’d decided to hitch around the US with a friend for a few weeks she’d no idea how her life would turn out. One random conversation in a small café in Los Angeles had led to a temporary job at a TV station as a runner. When one of the producers had found out what she’d studied he’d asked her to pull some material together for their entertainment gossip show. Portia was smart and Portia was beautiful. Two months later she’d still been there and when the TV host had been involved in an auto accident on the way to the studio, she’d filled in with less than an hour’s notice. The audience had loved her. Social media had exploded. The gorgeous brunette with tumbling curls, dark eyes, plummy English accent and sense of humour had attracted more viewers. Within a year the show had been a hit. All for a job that Portia had landed due to a complete fluke.

Five years on she’d broken more Hollywood stories than any of her rivals. The truth was, she’d been a little ruthless at first. She’d had a natural tendency to sniff out a story at fifty paces and her boss had quickly pushed her for more and more headlines. At first, she’d enjoyed it. She’d interviewed film stars past and present with aplomb. And while she’d charmed them with her smile, she hadn’t lost her investigative edge. For the last five years she’d happily exposed liars, cheats and corruption in Hollywood. But as time had marched on the colours around her had muted a little. She was becoming jaded. She’d lost the fire that had once burned in her belly. Hollywood seemed to be a cycle, with only the faces changing while the stories sounded the same. And her boss was pushing and pushing her for more scandal-led headlines—the kind that had started to make her stomach flip over.

The thing was, she did have two major stories she could break. But the conscience she’d developed wouldn’t let her. One, about an elderly well-respected actor who was gay. As far as she was aware, virtually no one knew. And no matter how much the information spun around in her brain—and even though she knew it would make headlines around the world—she really didn’t feel the urge to ‘out’ him. The second story, about a major actress who was secretly crippled by depression, would also make headlines. This woman was known for her sense of humour and smile. But it was all completely fake. The thing was, Portia knew why. Her daughter was very sick. And it was a story that she didn’t think she should break either.

It played on her mind. Unless she could find another story in the next few weeks she would have to find a whole new career. And what kind of story could she find on L’Isola dei Fiori? A place with a tiny population and barely any mobile phone signal.

It might be time to take another look at that book she’d been writing for the last three years. Anything would be better than feeling like this.

A gentle sea breeze blew through the hallway. The back French doors must be open.

Space. That was one of the marvels of this place.

Portia wandered through to her favourite room of the house. The ceiling curved into a dome and the washes of blue, mauve and pink—even though faded—made it seem as though a magical sunset were taking place right above your head. If she closed her eyes she could remember this house in its prime. It had belonged to Sofia, her sister Posy’s godmother. Sofia had been a famous model and, a number of years ago, the then Prince’s mistress. If Portia could turn back the clock she’d love to interview Sofia. When she was a child it had all just seemed so normal. A godmother who lived in a huge house on a mystery island, sweeping up and down the grand staircase in a whole array of glittering gowns like some forgotten starlet.

If she closed her eyes she could remember most of the movie stars, rock stars and models of the nineties that had filled the rooms in this house. If she could really turn back the clock she would pay more attention to some of the conversations and liaisons she could vaguely remember hearing and witnessing.

Coming to L’Isola dei Fiori had always been such an adventure. The flight to Italy and then the journey over on the ferry had always seemed like part of a children’s story complete with the image of the pale pink Villa Rosa sitting on the headland.

But Villa Rosa wasn’t quite as magnificent as it had remained in her head. The pale pink stucco had cracked and faded. The exotic flowers in the gardens had been surrounded by weeds. Part of the scullery roof had fallen in and been mended by Miranda’s new husband, Cleve, along with some of the ancient electrics in the house. It seemed that in years gone by each room had only required one plug point.

Portia ran her hand along the wall. Some of the plaster was crumbling. There was a crack running up the wall towards the top of the dome, bisecting part of the beautiful paintwork. The whole place was more than tired. Parts of it were downright neglected.

Even though Posy had inherited it from Sofia, all the sisters felt an element of responsibility. They’d all enjoyed holidays here as children. Sofia had been the ultimate hostess. Sipping cocktails and treating the girls like adults instead of children. There had been no fixed bedtimes. No explicit rules. As long as the girls were respectful and well-mannered Sofia had seemed to be entirely happy.

Villa Rosa conjured up memories of lazy days with beautiful sunrises and sunsets, long hours on the private beach and by the hot spring pool, the many legends about the craggy rock arch bisecting the beach, and a flurry of fun in a rainbow of satins, silks and sequins. Sofia had had the most spectacular designer wardrobe and she hadn’t hesitated to let her mini charges play dress up.

Portia leaned against the wall and sighed. The ugly crack annoyed her. Doubtless it would require some specialist to repair it. Like most of this house. Why did it feel as if the house was reflecting her life right now?

She couldn’t remember. Was Villa Rosa a listed building? Did they have listed buildings in L’Isola dei Fiori? Miranda and Cleve had done some emergency repairs on the house. There were a few liveable rooms. But the kitchen and bathrooms were antiquated and barely functioning. The dusty full attics would probably be an antique dealer’s dream. But Portia knew nothing about things like that and was too wary to even attempt to help with a clean-up for fear she would throw something valuable away.

She breathed in deeply. The warm sea air was wafting through the house bringing with it the aroma of calla lilies, jasmine and a tang of citrus from the few trees along the wall of the garden. She sighed, walked through to the kitchen and retrieved a semi-chilled bottle of rosé wine from the sometimes functioning fridge, grabbing a glass and walking through the double doors to the glass-ceilinged conservatory. There was a sad air about it. A few of the delicate panes were missing or cracked. At some point Sofia had commissioned a specialist stained-glass maker to install some coloured panes in a whole variety of shades, randomly dotted throughout the conservatory. It meant that when the sun streamed in from a particular angle the conservatory was lit up like a rainbow, sending streams of colour dazzling around the space. The doors at the end of the conservatory opened out to the terrace and gardens, which led to the sheltered cove below with a bubbling hot spring. It really was like a little piece of paradise.

She settled on an old pale pink wooden rocker sitting on the terrace that creaked as she sat down. She smiled, holding her breath for a few seconds for fear the wood might split. But the rocker held as she poured her wine then rested her feet on the ledge in front.

The azure sea sparkled in front of her. The horizon completely and utterly empty. It was as if the whole rolling ocean had been made entirely for her viewing pleasure.

She closed her eyes for a second. There was something about this place. Something magical.

In her head she could see the glittering parties that Sofia had hosted. Full of film stars, models, producers, and Sofia’s very own special Prince. Portia sipped her rosé wine, letting the dry fresh flavour with hints of cherry and orange zest fill her senses as she rocked back and forward in the chair.

If she could capture just one of those moments, and bring all the gossip twenty years into the future, she wouldn’t need to worry about her job any more. Times had been different then. No instant social media. No mobile phones in every pocket or every bag.

She gave a little smile as she closed her eyes and continued to rock. A warm breeze swept over her, scented with jasmine and hugging around her like a comforting blanket. It was almost as if time had stood still at Villa Rosa.

And for Portia’s purposes, that was just fine.

* * *

Javier finished nursing his last bottle of beer. He’d crossed over on the last evening ferry to L’Isola dei Fiori and, instead of heading straight to the house, he’d headed straight to the nearest bar.

L’Isola dei Fiori had been a favourite haunt of his mother’s. Her friend Sofia’s house had been a refuge for her when her manic behaviour had got out of control, she’d stopped eating and stopped taking her medication. His father had learned quickly not to try and intervene. Sofia’s presence had been one of calmness and serenity. A fellow model, she’d understood the ingrained eating habits and learned behaviour that his mother just couldn’t shake in later life. Even though she was always beautiful in Javier’s eyes, as his mother had aged she hadn’t taken kindly to losing modelling jobs. Each loss had seemed to spark more erratic behaviour and his film producer father had struggled to cope.

Javier had been too young to understand much. He’d just learned that when his father pulled out the large monogrammed case, it generally meant a visit to Aunt Sofia’s. She’d never really been an aunt, but he’d thought of her in that way. Sofia’s air of grace could never be forgotten. She hadn’t walked—she’d glided. She’d talked to him as if he were an adult, not a child, with no imposed rules or regulations. Instead, Javier had been mainly allowed to amuse himself. Not always wise for a young boy.

But somewhere, in the back of his brain, he’d held fast the little element that this place was a sanctuary. Somewhere to find calmness. Somewhere to find peace. And that was what he needed right now. A place where the paparazzi weren’t waiting around every corner. A place where he could nod at someone in the street without their frowning and wondering where they’d seen him before. A place where he could have a drink in a bar without someone whipping out their phone to take a selfie with him in the background.

He left his money on the bar and picked up his bag. He’d been here for at least three hours with minimal conversation. He liked that. The hours of travel had caught up with him. He patted the large iron key in his pocket. At some point over the years his mother had ‘acquired’ a key to Villa Rosa. It was odd. Neither of them had been back since Sofia’s funeral a few years ago and he’d heard that the house, once in its prime, was now pretty run-down.

Maybe he could make himself useful while he kept his head below the parapet for a while. When he was a teenager his Uncle Vinnie—a veritable handyman—had taken him on many of his jobs. Anything to keep him from turning down the wrong track. At the age of thirteen, with a mother as a model and a father as a film producer, he’d probably already seen and heard a million things he shouldn’t. After he’d almost dabbled with some drugs, his father had shipped him back to Italy and into his brother’s care for the summer. Javier had learned how to plaster and how to glaze. It appeared that sanding and smoothing walls, and cutting panes of glass were therapeutic for a teenage boy. Not that he’d used any of those skills in Hollywood...

He walked out into the warm evening. Dusk was settling around him. The port was still busy with the boats silhouetted against a purple and blue darkening sky. If he were an artist he would be tempted to settle down with some paints, a canvas and easel. But Javier Russo had never been known for his painting skills.

Instead, his name normally adorned the front of Hollywood cinemas. His latest film had just been publicised by putting a forty-five-foot-high image of Javier next to the D on the Hollywood sign. He’d never live that one down.

But it seemed that Hollywood loved Italian film stars. In another year it was predicted he’d be one of Hollywood’s highest earners—much to his agent’s delight.

He’d just finished four back-to-back movies taking him halfway around the world. Two action movies, one romantic comedy and one sci-fi. He’d ping-ponged between the Arabian Desert, the expanse of the Indian Ocean, the nearby island of Santorini, the Canadian Rockies and the streets of London. For some it sounded completely glamorous. In truth it was lonely and had taken him away from those that he loved. The family that he’d failed.

Now, he was exhausted. Pictures had emerged of him attending the funeral of a family friend looking tanned and muscular—just as well nothing could reveal how he was feeling, the way his insides had been curling and dying from the fact he hadn’t been there to help.

Much to his agent’s disgust he’d reneged on some immediate future arrangements. In another four weeks the cycle would start again with publicity and interviews for the first of those films. Right now he needed some space.

He smiled as he turned the corner to Villa Rosa. The long walk had done him some good. He stretched muscles that had been cramped on the flight over from Los Angeles and frowned at the cracks in a pale pink façade. This place was in bad need of repair. He wasn’t entirely sure about the material. Maybe he could phone Uncle Vinnie for some advice?

He set his bag down and pulled the key from his pocket. With a wiggle, the key gave a satisfying turn in the lock. He pushed the door open not quite knowing what to expect.

Silence.

He frowned. Something was off. The house wasn’t as musty as he’d expected. He walked slowly through the large main hall. It was clear someone must have been here. There were small signs of life.

Large dust covers had been pulled from the furniture in the painted room and heaped in one corner. He ran his finger along the plaster, snatching it back as a tiny piece of paint flaked to the ground. In the dim light his eyes caught the line snaking up the curve of the dome. He felt his frown deepen. It would take skill to mend a crack like that. Skill he wasn’t sure he possessed.

He glanced around him. The air in here was fresh. There was a hint of something else. The rustling from outside sounded far too close. Windows were open in this house.

He strode through towards the back of the house. The conservatory had seen better days. A few of the small panels of glass were missing and others were cracked or damaged. Something crunched beneath his feet. He knelt down; a small fragment of red glass was under his shoe. He brushed it off as he heard a small cough.

His head shot back up, looking out across the terrace.

A woman.

Who on earth was here?

According to his mother this place had been deserted since Sofia had died. That was why it had fallen into the state it was in. He hadn’t stood up yet. Wondering how to deal with the mysterious woman on the terrace.

Could she have broken in? Was she some tourist who had spotted the giant pale pink neglected house and decided she could squat here? He moved his head, squinting at the figure.

A brunette. In her twenties. Dressed in something short and red. He shifted uncomfortably. Whatever she was wearing, it seemed to have inched upwards as she lay in the rocking chair, sleeping with her legs stretched out and resting on the low wall. He could see a hint of black underneath. She moaned a little and shuffled in her seat, the hard wood beneath her obviously not as comfortable as she wanted. The chair rocked back and forth.

He straightened up, trying to get a better look. On the terrace was an empty glass and a bottle of wine. Was she drunk?

Maybe Sofia had a wine cellar that everyone had forgotten about and some light-fingered thief was now drinking her way through the contents?

Now, he was getting angry. He’d come here for some peace. Some tranquillity. The last thing he wanted was to have to call out the local polizia.

He strode out onto the terrace ready to tackle the intruder. But his footsteps faltered. He’d only really glimpsed her from sideways. Now he could see her clearly he was surprised.

Her hair tumbled around her face, chocolate at the roots, blonde-tipped courtesy of the sun—or a salon. Her dress was indeed almost around her hips revealing 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 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.