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* * *
By the time they reached the village Javier wasn’t sure he wanted to get back off the bike. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand straight.
Portia drove as if she were being chased by a pack of man-eating zombies. It didn’t matter that the top speed of the scooter wasn’t exactly law-breaking, she zipped around corners and snaked between cars fearlessly. She laughed as she jumped off and took off her helmet. Her cheeks were tinted pink and her brown eyes were gleaming. Her shiny brown hair fell back over her shoulders. He almost sucked in a breath.
Portia was always a pretty girl. But sometimes she just glowed. Like now. He tried not to focus on her lips. Her pink, distinctly kissable lips.
It was easy to forget other things around Portia. Most of the time she was good company and light-hearted. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t have a boyfriend back home—especially with the kind of job she had.
And she could actually eat. In LA that was practically a miracle. Lots of people in TV or film had their own personal trainer and chef and spent the day eating unappetising seeds, drinking green smoothies and timing their next workout.
Portia seemed happy in her own skin. He was intrigued about her writing. Next time they were back at the villa he was going to try and persuade her to let him read her bonkbuster. He had a feeling he might recognise a few of the characters.
She pulled sunglasses from her cross-body bag and put them on. ‘Will we meet back here in an hour?’
‘Sure.’ He glanced around the village. He was pretty sure he knew where he could find a phone. He watched as she strolled off towards the fishmongers, trying not to focus on the swing of her hips or the shape of her bottom in those capri pants.
He felt a huge pang of regret. He could have kissed her the other night. He should have kissed her the other night. But right now it just felt as if his timing was completely off.
He found a phone in the local café and made the calls he needed to. The director was disappointed but not upset. He understood that Javier needed some time. Aldo’s parents spoke briefly. They still sounded vacant and it broke his heart.
It made him more determined. More focused on what he should be doing. The work on the house was therapeutic, but what he actually should be doing was putting words into action. Bipolar disorder. How many people around the world were actually affected? How many families? Would the average person recognise the signs? After all, he’d missed them—or at least he felt he had. There were helplines all across the world. But was there something specific for bipolar disorder? Or was that something that he could do in Aldo’s memory?
It was time to stop being distracted. It didn’t matter how dark those brown eyes were. It didn’t matter how kissable Portia’s lips looked.
The ache and guilt in his heart were still there. It was time to put all his focus on one thing.
* * *
The trouble with trying to stay incognito was that curiosity drove her crazy. She’d been in the village less than half an hour, the groceries in a bag at her side, before she found herself in an Internet café.
She wouldn’t look at her emails. She wouldn’t. She’d maybe just have a five-minute browse of the Web and see what was happening in the world. There was a geriatric TV in Villa Rosa, but the signal was pretty rubbish and, with no phone line or Internet, there was none of the digital services that went along with most modern-day TVs.
So, unless something made it into the relatively conservative Italian newspapers stocked on L’Isola dei Fiori, or into the Italian TV news, she was essentially cut off.
It was a mistake as soon as she sat down. She knew that. She just couldn’t help herself.
She pulled up Entertainment Buzz TV’s website and Holly Payne’s white teeth, blonde hair and size-six figure screamed back at her. She was covering while Portia was gone and it looked as if she was planning on making her mark.
Portia signalled to the waiter for a drink. She couldn’t do this without coffee.
She flicked back over the last week. Holly covering the latest film premiere. Holly interviewing an unknown actor who’d just signed to star in the film of the biggest selling novel last year. Holly covering the death of an old-time movie star.
Portia breathed an audible sigh of relief. There was nothing spectacular there. Nothing that would draw attention to Holly as anything other than another Hollywood reporter.
Just to be sure she put Holly’s name into the search engine on the Web.
It literally exploded.
So much for no attention.
Is Holly Payne about to become Holly Parker? screamed one headline. There were dozens more like it—all from last night. It seemed Entertainment Buzz TV’s website needed updating.
Heading the article was a smudgy photo—obviously taken on someone’s phone. It wasn’t great. But there was no mistaking the people. Holly had her lips on Corey Parker, the latest pop sensation. He, in turn, was leaning her backwards and kissing her in the middle of an LA club. Portia recognised it immediately.
She let out a laugh. Really? Holly pretended to be twenty-two. But Portia knew exactly how old she was—and that was seven years older than Corey Parker. She was just blessed with a youthful demeanour.
Portia peered at the screen again. Was that even a dress Holly was wearing? It looked more like a handkerchief. But the picture seemed to have caught one of Holly’s best features—her legs—in all their glory.
Speculation was rife. There were hints at how long she’d been secretly dating Corey Parker. Rumours that she’d already met the family. Even more rumours that she and Corey had been seen checking out wedding venues. Really?
She blinked as she noticed something in the corner of her screen. What?
She sucked in a breath and sat back. Holly Payne’s social media followers had just sky-rocketed to three hundred thousand. Oh, no. Oh, no.
Her fingers moved without her brain really engaging, pulling up her email provider and automatically typing in her email address and password.
She hadn’t been in her emails since she’d arrived on the island for her sister’s wedding. She didn’t even glance at the total number. She just pulled up the name she was looking for. There were seventeen from her boss at Entertainment Buzz TV.
She pulled her hands back from the keyboard for a second and picked up the coffee the waiter had delivered, trying to ignore the shake.
This was pathetic. She hadn’t even opened any of them and she wanted to cry.
Her boss had been succinct as she’d left. ‘Don’t come back without a killer story.’
It had played on her mind ever since. And with each passing day the nerves and racing heart seemed to multiply like a killer virus. It was the hint as well. The implication. Almost as if she wanted something sordid. Portia hated that. Her boss was pushing her in a direction that she didn’t want to go.
Ping. She opened the latest email from her boss. What was the point of reading the rest?
Due to recent events our executive director has suggested it might be time to review the arrangements for lead presenter on Entertainment Buzz TV. As per your contract, we are required to give you four weeks’ notice. That is unless, of course, you can bring us a story that generates as much publicity as our current Holly Payne/Corey Parker headline. In those circumstances we would, of course, reconsider.
The breath left her body like a deflated balloon.
She was a has-been.
Was it even worth going home at all? Her stomach twisted. She loved her LA apartment. She loved her friends. Up until a few months ago she’d loved her job. She couldn’t quite work out in her head what had happened. Maybe she’d always known her sell-by date would be coming up soon. Maybe she’d always known that there were some stories that shouldn’t be told.
But how could she pay for her apartment if she wasn’t working? Her salary at the TV station had been good—where else could she get paid like that?
Her skin started to prickle. Maybe she should reconsider the scoops she already knew. The Hollywood actress famous for her smile. She’d always been intensely private about her life. Her young daughter was terminally ill. That was why she was depressed. That was why she’d had to seek help at a private clinic. But was that really something Portia could share with the world?
No. She just couldn’t. If she did something like that she wouldn’t be able to look at her reflection in the mirror.
What about the nearly ninety-year-old Hollywood classic actor—married three times but thoroughly gay? She liked him. She really liked him. He was like one of the last true gents. It all seemed thoroughly unfair.
Then, something else came into her head.
Something so ridiculous she wasn’t quite sure how it got there.
Holly had landed Corey. What if she could land Javier Russo?
Javier was a much bigger star. The highest earner in Hollywood this year. He’d topped every Most Eligible list for the last few years. Being seen on the arm of Javier Russo was much more newsworthy. Being seen in a clinch with Javier Russo could send the Internet into meltdown.
She winced. It was ridiculous. Of course it was ridiculous. He was the most gorgeous man on earth. He wouldn’t be interested in her. He could have kissed her at any point the other night—and he hadn’t. The humiliating part was he probably hadn’t even contemplated it.
And she couldn’t help but wish he had.
