Loping up the stairs Angelo found Ally smiling at his neighbour, who was leaning towards her through a gap in the thick planting. She seemed rapt in what he was saying.
‘Here he is now,’ she said as Angelo stopped behind her. ‘You can ask him yourself.’
But Oliver Branston, Angelo’s new American neighbour, didn’t instantly look at Angelo. Instead his gaze rested on Ally as if he too found her mesmerising.
Angelo bristled, the skin drawing tight between his shoulder blades. ‘Hi.’ He pasted on a smile. ‘Is there something I can help with?’
Branston had only bought the property a month ago and had so far kept to himself.
‘I’m having a housewarming party.’ He raised a hand as if fending off objections. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a noisy Hollywood blow-out with strobe lights and circling helicopters. I’m just inviting some neighbours over for a barbecue. To get to know you all and maybe allay fears people might have about me being here.’
Angelo smiled, liking the guy’s self-awareness. Some of the locals had worried about having their cherished peace and privacy disturbed by a man as well-known for his partying as his impressive film-making.
‘Thanks. I’ll look forward to it.’
It would be a good opportunity to take the man’s measure.
‘Excellent. The day after tomorrow, wander over any time in the evening.’ Branston nodded and shifted his attention to Ally. ‘You too, Miss Ally. I expect to see you there.’
With a wave he was gone, leaving Angelo to ponder the way he’d looked at Ally with obvious approval. Maybe he looked at every woman that way. If Rosetta were to be believed, the man had been romantically linked with dozens of the world’s top actresses.
It didn’t matter. Ally would be resting at the villa, not going to a party.
The thought settled the edginess that had stirred in Angelo’s gut when he’d discovered Ally smiling up at a Hollywood heart-throb. Oliver Branston might be a director, not an actor, but with his golden good looks and movie mogul power he drew women like bees to nectar.
Angelo and Ally walked together the rest of the way, chatting about their swim and the view, and that too settled his ruffled senses.
In the old days she’d have been beside herself with excitement after meeting Branston, given her dream of moving from modelling to acting. But Ally showed no excitement over meeting their famous neighbour.
More and more Angelo found himself liking this new version of the woman he’d known.
‘There you are, Ally. A gorgeous drink for a gorgeous woman.’
Ally looked from Oliver’s dancing blue eyes to the extraordinary drink he held out to her. It was outrageously decorated with four sorts of fruit, a paper umbrella and a fizzing sparkler.
A laugh bubbled in her throat at his over-the-top comment. ‘You’re wasted in the movies. You should be a full-time barman.’
It was the second mocktail he’d made her tonight. The doctor hadn’t specifically banned alcohol but Ally didn’t want anything to hinder her brain’s recovery.
Yet for some reason she’d felt shy, requesting a soft drink when all around were glamorous people quaffing fine wine and cocktails.
Maybe she felt on edge because Angelo hadn’t wanted her to attend the party. First he’d warned that she needed rest, though she felt fine. Then he’d insisted the doctor wouldn’t approve. Thankfully the doctor had agreed that the stimulation of company might be good for her.
Ally had been growing quietly desperate with the need for something to take her mind off Angelo. Since their truce, it grew harder to rein in her attraction. A night spent with other people was a heaven-sent opportunity.
Oliver grinned. ‘It’s good to know I’ve got another career option if my next film flops.’
‘As if! I looked you up. Even if it did, you’d still have backers. You’ve made so many great movies.’
‘You had to look me up?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘I knew you weren’t a groupie out to get a part in one of my films, but I’d sort of hoped my name was familiar.’
Ally hesitated. Her medical condition wasn’t something she’d mentioned. She didn’t want to seem more of an outsider than she already felt, surrounded by all these wealthy, privileged people. Some had been friendly but they’d preferred talking to people they already knew than making small talk with a stranger.
‘The fact is, Oliver, I have a slight problem. My memory...’
As she briefly told him of her accident he moved closer, concern and interest on his face.
‘For real? Sorry. Of course it’s for real. You wouldn’t joke about anything like that.’ He peered down at her, exuding a sympathy that warmed her. ‘You’re one gutsy woman. Coming here, acting as if everything’s normal when it must be as scary as hell.’