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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 f
amiliarity 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.
