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It might also help him keep his guard up. Being in a house with one person made things very informal. It tempted him to forget that Portia was a reporter. Particularly when she was lying next to him on the sand looking like this.
Her hair was tied back with some kind of clasp, with a few loose strands blowing in the breeze around her face. If he leaned forward right now, he could brush that hair back with his fingertips and just touch his lips against hers...
He couldn’t help it. He reached over and trailed the tip of his index finger down her nose. Her dark eyes widened and she licked her pink lips.
Something clenched around his heart like a fist. A conversation. Rearing up from the back of his memory out of nowhere. Aldo. Telling him about the first time he’d kissed Lissa. Telling him he’d known straight away that she was the girl he was going to marry. He’d never seen his friend so happy. He’d teased him for months about the devotion to his wife before they were married. Before it had all fallen apart.
Could he really have made a difference?
He pulled his finger back, trying to forget the softness of her skin beneath his touch. He didn’t deserve this. He had no right to reach out to Portia—and find even a second of happiness—when Aldo couldn’t do that same.
A whole host of memories flooded through him again. Sleeping with the enemy. It was only a figure of speech but that was what this equated to. What on earth was he thinking? Portia was press—and press should always be kept at a safe distance.
His movement was sudden and Portia bit her lip, confusion flooding her eyes. She pulled herself back out of his reach, gathering up the glasses and bag from the sand.
‘It’s getting too hot for me,’ she said quickly, her voice wavering slightly. ‘I think it’s time for me to go back inside.’
He cringed. What was he thinking? One second he wanted to be in her company, the next he was thinking about what he’d lost. He was so conflicted right now.
Guilt overwhelmed him. It might not be rational. It might not be justified. But it was just where his head was.
No matter how much he wanted to he couldn’t turn back the clock.
He couldn’t go back and have that conversation with Aldo.
And until he made peace with himself and put the steps in motion to make a change—he certainly couldn’t do anything else.
CHAPTER FOUR
PORTIA WALKED OUT of the room and he sucked in a breath.
She was wearing a belted pink dress that shimmered and black stiletto heels. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a bun at the back of her head and she was wearing bright red lipstick.
He hadn’t moved. It was as if a warm breeze had just enveloped his skin making every tiny hair stand on end. There was something achingly familiar about the way she looked.
‘I’ve seen those clothes before. That dress—it’s striking. Is it a US designer?’ Maybe one of his co-stars had worn the same dress at a photo shoot.
She took a long time to answer. Her hand ran across the satin material of the dress. ‘Maybe at the awards ceremony. This is the dress I wore for the red carpet interviews when we met. It’s not designer. I found it in a vintage dress shop a few years ago. I threw it into my case when I came for my sister’s wedding in case I needed something more formal to wear.’
Her posture had stiffened and she wasn’t quite meeting his gaze.
The awards ceremony. He’d tried to smile and be sociable but inside he’d felt as if he were dying. One of his co-stars had muttered beneath her smile that he was being inexplicably rude.
His mouth felt dry. The night had passed in a blur to him. He couldn’t remember a single part of it. He’d still been in shock. Still trying to get his head around what had happened.
Doubtless Portia had been one of the people he’d been rude to.
He licked his dry lips as his stomach coiled in a way it hadn’t in a long time. He felt like a kid in a headmaster’s office. ‘Did we talk on the red carpet?’
The look she shot him told him just about everything he needed to know. She waved her hand dismissively and walked past him. ‘I don’t think you could call it that.’
He caught her by the shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. ‘Portia, wait. I’m sorry.’
She spun around, fire dancing behind her eyes. ‘Really?’ The word was spoken like a challenge.
‘I wasn’t myself that night.’
She tilted her head. ‘Oh? You weren’t? The arrogant man I met that night wasn’t you?’
He cringed. He should have known. Portia was prickly. It was clear he had offended her. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? For asking me if that was the best I could do?’
She was angry with him. That much was crystal clear. He shook his head. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said. But he did recall feeling exasperated by the never-ending questions that night about the film, his co-star and his suit. It had all seemed so superficial—so unimportant.
She was facing him now and he put his hand back up on her shoulder. He spoke softly. ‘Please. I was upset. I couldn’t concentrate on being at the ceremony.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean? That’s the biggest night in any actor’s career—whether you’re nominated or not.’
She was right. He knew she was right. Connections made on awards ceremony night could lead to great things—if your head was in the game.
He could feel all the barriers he’d put up earlier start to crumble. He knew she was a reporter. He knew he should be cautious. ‘I’d just lost a friend. I’d just come back from the funeral.’ He didn’t add any more. He didn’t want to reveal any more about the situation.
‘I didn’t know that.’ She seemed surprised.
He gave a wry smile. ‘Not everything reaches the gossip columns.’
She met his gaze and leaned towards him a little. ‘And not every story that I hear makes the news.’
She was right under his chin now. The light in the corridor was dim and her pupils had dilated, making her eyes even darker than normal. Her voice was breathy. As she stepped closer her jasmine scent wound its way around him. He could hear one of the old-fashioned clocks ticking in the distance, marking the passing of time.
It was a simple sentence. But he could see a whole host of other things on her face. Conflict. Learning. She was a reporter. This kind of thing was her job. But how many secrets did Portia know that she hadn’t shared? He’d never even contemplated that before.
‘Isn’t it your job just to find the next story?’
They stood in the dim hall for a few seconds. He was conscious of her breathing, of the rise and fall of her chest under the pink shimmering material. His finger itched to reach out and touch her skin.
But he resisted. He couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to start something he couldn’t continue.
It felt as if they stood there for a while. Neither moving. Both of them wondering what could come next.
She met his gaze. ‘That depends on me. I’m not as hungry for a story as I used to be. I won’t let myself be pushed in directions I don’t want to go. Hollywood lost its gloss for me a long time ago. We have a saying in Britain that today’s headlines are tomorrow’s fish and chip paper. It’s Hollywood. There will always be countless affairs and scandals. I don’t worry about revealing cheaters. I don’t worry about breaking news about who has got the next big role in a blockbuster movie. But even I have morals. There are some things I won’t tell. Ever.’
He was kind of taken aback at the declaration. She’d obviously listened when he’d revealed his dislike of reporters earlier. He hadn’t invited Portia for dinner tonight in the hope that something would happen between them. Just the opposite.
He’d hoped that in a formal environment it would be easier to remember wh
o she was. Too bad they hadn’t even reached the restaurant yet. Because she seemed to have turned all that on its head.
He couldn’t help the attraction that was simmering beneath the surface. Right now he wasn’t even sure he wanted to.
Portia licked her lips and took a step to the side. ‘I think that was our taxi.’ She smiled.
‘It was? I didn’t even hear it.’
He stepped back and put a smile on his face, making a sweeping motion with his hand. ‘Ms Marlowe, can I take you to dinner?’
He strode over to the main door and reached for the handle just as she did too.
Their hands brushed together again. Somewhere, in that last romantic movie he’d made, the film director had just cut to include multicoloured fireworks in the distance. He could practically hear them exploding next to his ear.
Portia pulled her hand back. ‘Sorry.’ He could almost see something change in her eyes. There was a glimmer of determination. Where had that come from?
