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Portia gulped. Alessandro had died two years ago. He and Nico had been cousins, but Alessandro was an only child, meaning Nico was now the heir to the throne.
‘That must have been hard.’
Javier met her gaze with his grey eyes. ‘Yes, it was. We weren’t as close as we’d been as children. Alessandro was quiet. He didn’t like the spotlight. The bright lights of Hollywood didn’t suit him. But he visited a few times.’
Portia nodded as the water in the pot started to bubble. She got up to make the coffee. ‘That’s quite a difference in childhood. One part with glamorous Sofia and the Princes, and one part handyman with your Uncle Vinnie.’ Javier Russo would be a biographer’s dream. Why hadn’t he done that yet?
He made a strangled kind of noise. ‘Don’t kid yourself. Small boys aren’t glamorous—we spent most of our time conjuring up trouble. And Uncle Vinnie? He was probably my blessing in disguise. He kept me on the straight and narrow. He taught me discipline.’ He gave her a cheeky smile. ‘Let’s face it, there are a number of my co-stars who could probably benefit from some Uncle-Vinnie-style hard work.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it.’ She spooned the coffee into the cups and poured the boiling water on top, taking care not to spill it.
‘So what about you?’ he asked as she pushed the cup towards him.
‘What about me?’
She was surprised. Again he was catching her unawares. It was clear that part of the conversation had come to an end. Javier Russo was good at hinting without giving too much away. She was almost sure she could name each of the co-stars he’d been referring to when he talked. And the part about his mother? She’d just tucked it away somewhere. Probably alongside the older male film star who hadn’t come out, and the depressed female film star. Already it felt too personal, too deep. The kind of stories she’d spent the last year pretending she hadn’t heard.
‘How many sisters do you have?’
She mopped up some of her egg with the bread. Sisters. The easiest topic in the world for her. She could talk about her sisters for hours. ‘There are four of us. I’m the oldest, then there’s the twins, Imogen and Miranda—she’s the one that just got married—and then there’s Posy—real name Rosalind—she’s the ballerina.’
He paused for a second. ‘The names—they’re all Shakespeare characters. Were your mother and father fans?’
She nodded. ‘They met at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford watching Romeo and Juliet. My mother said it was fate. They took us there a few times as kids.’ She shook her head and laughed. ‘Posy tried to get up on the stage and dance at one point.’
‘And she’s the one that inherited the house?’
Portia nodded. ‘Sofia was Posy’s godmother. My godmother wasn’t quite so exotic. She was my aunt, my dad’s sister, and lived about two minutes away from us.’ She gave him a smile. ‘Sofia was always much more exciting.’
He nodded. ‘Oh, I know she was. I saw some of the parties.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Your sister must be very disciplined if she’s a ballerina. It’s every bit as cut-throat as Hollywood.’
Portia pressed her lips together. ‘To be honest, I think it could be worse. I’m not sure how happy Posy is. She’s been in the corps de ballet for a while now.’ Portia put her hand on her chest. ‘Now, personally, I think Posy is the best dancer they have. But I might be a little biased.’
‘Really?’ Javier was sipping his coffee. He looked amused. ‘What about the others?’
‘Well, Miranda’s a pilot. Cleve, her new husband, is a pilot too. Their wedding was just perfect. When they stood in the garden and said their vows it was gorgeous. I can honestly say I’ve never seen my sister so happy. It almost made me believe that true love might actually exist.’ There was a little pang in her chest. She hated to feel envy. But the love and connection between Andie and Cleve had been crystal clear. ‘And Imogen...’ Portia paused for a second, trying to find the right words. ‘She works at my dad’s company, Marlowe Aviation. She’s planning on getting married soon too.’
Javier looked at her curiously. ‘Why did you say it that way?’
Portia sucked in a breath. ‘What way?’
Javier put down his cup. ‘You don’t want her to get married.’ He was looking at her curiously. Had she really been so obvious?
Portia thumped her own cup down on the countertop with a little more venom than she meant to. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Really?’ He smiled as he picked up the plates and carried them to the sink. He completely ignored her outburst.
He kept talking. ‘What I’m not sure about is whether you think you should have got married first, or if you don’t like the guy that Imogen is marrying.’
Portia was shocked. And Javier still had that look on his face—the one the world had fallen in love with, half joking, half serious. The expression that had drawn women in all over the world. But right now Portia wanted to dump her coffee over his head.
‘That’s a terrible thing to say. How dare you?’ She tossed her coffee cup in the sink, trying to ignore the loud crack. Oops.
‘Well, which one is it?’
Darn this man. He wasn’t going to let it go. The words stuck somewhere in her throat. The truth was she’d never liked Immi’s intended. She never had. She never would. There was just something about him she couldn’t put her finger on.
But she’d also already had horrible irrational thoughts about being left on the shelf and pictured herself with grey hair—a sad old spinster, sitting on a rocking chair like the one on the terrace, watching her sisters’ families playing all around her.
Irrational. She knew it. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
Anger surged through her. ‘None of your business.’
Javier gave a little jerk backwards at her words. His amused, playful glance left his face.
She turned and strode out to the terrace. By the time the cool sea breeze started blowing her hair across her face she could feel a little wave of panic.
She was supposed to try and keep Javier sweet. She was supposed to be looking for some insider gossip that could help her keep her job.
But already things weren’t sitting comfortably with her. What was it about sharing a house with a Hollywood heartthrob to make you feel like the only reject in town?
She was trying to be cool. She was trying to be professional.
She was trying to be underhand.
Ugh.
Her interview style had always been forthright, if occasionally flirtatious. Trouble was, just being around Javier was unsettling.
Maybe it was those grey eyes, sincere one moment as if the world were on his shoulders, and smouldering the next, as if any second now he would just push her up against a wall and kiss her as he had done his co-star in the last movie she’d watched.
She was pretty sure that had been rated the hottest scene on film that year.
And now she was living it—if only in her head.
Pathetic really.
She sensed him walk up beside her, shoulder to shoulder.
She was watching the azure-blue sea—perfect on a sunny day with waves rising in little white peaks of froth and crashing onto the rocks below.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get personal.’
She licked her lips and begged her brain to find some nice, rational thoughts.
‘I didn’t mean to get shirty.’
He turned towards her, his brow furrowed. ‘Shirty?’
The joys of language. ‘Snappy. Impatient.’ She waved her hand as his brow started to unfurl. ‘Generally just a bit badly behaved.’
He smiled and nodded. ‘Ah, well, maybe we’re both a bit badly behaved.’
He was trying to be nice—she knew it—but, boy, did this guy speak in double entendres.
He stretched his hands out towards the perfect sea. ‘How about I finish some of the more delicate plasterwork and we have a picnic on the beach in a few hours? I miss swimming in the sea around here. I haven’t done it in years. It would be nice to bring back some memories.’
