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