Читать книгу The Secret Virgin - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 8

HER mood wasn’t particularly improved when she got back to the farm to find that Rupert had left a message on the answer-machine!

The machine itself had been her gift to her parents the previous summer, mainly so that she could leave messages on it herself, no matter where she was or what time zone she might be in, ensuring that her parents would always know she was okay.

But Tory had it switched on most of the time when she was at home, enabling her to pick and choose which calls she wanted to take.

She most certainly would not have taken this one from Rupert!

She had specifically told him she did not want him to call her while she was here. But in his usual high-handed fashion he had taken absolutely no notice of her.

‘Hello, darling,’ his charming, educated voice greeted smoothly, enabling Tory to actually visualise him as he sat back in his brown leather chair, leather-shod feet up on the desk, looking immaculate in his designer-label suit and tailored shirt, silk tie knotted perfectly. ‘Just wanted to see if you’re ready to come home yet. We all miss you.’

Tory turned off the machine with a definitive click. Damn him, she was home. And as for missing her—!

Her mouth tightened. No doubt they were missing her, but Rupert especially; she had helped put those leather shoes on his feet, the designer-label suit and tailored shirt on his back. In fact, she was his main meal ticket.

Oh, hell!

She dropped down into one of the kitchen chairs, elbows on the oak table as she rested her chin on her hands. The last thing she wanted was to become bitter and twisted. But what was she going to do?

That was what she had come here a week ago to find out. She was nearer the answer, she realised, she knew what she wanted to do. But if she did it all hell was going to break loose. She—

‘Give us a hand, would you, love?’ her father puffed as he pushed open the kitchen door, arm around her mother’s waist as he helped her badly limping form into the room.

Tory jumped concernedly to her feet, rushing over to her mother’s other side so the two of them could guide her over to one of the kitchen chairs. Her mother’s left ankle was tightly bandaged; a pained expression was on her face.

‘What on earth happened?’ Tory gasped once they had her mother safely settled in the chair.

‘I fell over coming out of the church.’ Her mother was the one to answer, self-disgustedly, looking very summery in her floral pink and white suit with matching pink hat.

‘And not a drop had passed her lips!’ Tory’s father, barely five feet six in height, his face ruddily weathered by the sun and wind, grinned his relief at having got back home without further mishap.

‘Vanity, that’s what did it. I should never have worn these high-heeled shoes,’ her mother said heavily, giving the offending white shoes a glare—the one still on her foot and the other held in her hand—obviously very annoyed with herself for having fallen over in the first place. ‘I don’t remember when I last wore shoes like this. We’ve been stuck at the hospital the last half-hour while they X-rayed my ankle. Nothing’s broken, thank goodness, but it’s a nasty sprain.’

‘I’ll get you both a cup of tea,’ Tory offered concernedly, Rupert’s call forgotten in the face of this family crisis.

No matter how much her father might be smiling with affection at her mother’s clumsiness, it was a crisis. Her mother was as much an essential part of running the farm as her father was, and now that she was no longer mobile…

‘Good idea, love,’ her father replied, also sitting down at the kitchen table now.

The whole family spent a lot of time in this room. All of their meals were eaten around this table, and they often lingered here, after they had cleared away in the evenings, to just sit and chat.

‘How did the wedding go?’ Tory moved swiftly around the room making the tea.

Her mother’s expression instantly softened, her face as weathered by the elements as her husband’s, but rounder, as was her plump body. ‘Beautiful.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘I do love a good wedding.’

‘Denise looked well enough,’ her father added less enthusiastically, obviously uncomfortable in the shirt and suit he had been persuaded into wearing for the occasion. ‘Although I still can’t say I’m too keen on that young man she’s married.’

‘Wait until it’s your turn, Tory.’ Her mother gave her a knowing look. ‘No man is going to be good enough for you, either!’

‘You have that about right, Thelma,’ Tory’s father agreed gruffly. ‘Because no man is good enough for our Tory!’

Tory gave them both an affectionate smile as she handed them their cups of tea. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that too much if I were you; I don’t intend marrying for years yet.’ If ever!

Not that she had always felt that way. Until a short time ago she had had the same hopes and dreams as other women her age: a husband, children, a warm family home like the one she had grown up in.

But that had all changed now.

As had Rupert. But too late—fortunately! After years of saying marriage wasn’t for him, Rupert had suddenly done an about-face a few weeks ago, and now urged her to marry him every opportunity he had.

Maybe if he had felt that way a few years ago Tory would have accepted, she acknowledged. But not any more. Rupert was no longer a golden-haired god to her. In fact, as she now knew only too well, he had feet of clay. She just thanked goodness he hadn’t asked her to marry him a couple of years ago; then she would have made the biggest mistake of her life by accepting him!

‘Well, I’m glad the wedding went well.’ She smiled. ‘Although it’s a shame about your ankle, Mum.’

‘My own fault,’ her mother dismissed. ‘How did you get on with Madison’s brother Jonny?’ she asked interestedly.

Tory grimaced as she sat down at the table with her own cup of tea. ‘If I tell you I still called him Mr McGuire when I dropped him off at the house—’ and dropping him off a cliff might have been a better idea! ‘—perhaps that will tell you how well I got on with him!’

‘Oh, dear,’ her mother responded worriedly. ‘And the Byrnes are such a nice couple.’

International film star and director they might be, Oscar winners at that, and Madison’s mother the world-renowned actress Susan Delaney and Gideon’s late father the English actor, John Byrne—having been as famous himself before his early death thirty or so years ago—but to Tory’s parents, Madison and Gideon were just ‘the Byrnes’.

The island was home to several actors, a well-known television chef, several famous musicians and singers, as well as a handful of successful writers, amongst several lesser known millionaires. The islanders just took it in their stride if they happened to find themselves standing next to one of them in the till queue at the supermarket! After all, they all had to eat, too.

‘I didn’t—’ She broke off abruptly as the telephone began to ring.

Damn—she had forgotten to switch the answer-machine back on after listening to Rupert’s message earlier. And it didn’t need two guesses to know that it would be Rupert calling again.

Damn, damn, damn!

‘Would you like me to get that?’ her father offered gently as he saw the displeased look on her face.

Coming back here to give herself room to think was one thing. Letting her father fight her battles for her was something else entirely.

‘It’s okay.’ She stood up, snatching up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ she snapped uncompromisingly.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, before, ‘How did you know it was me?’

Not Rupert! ‘I didn’t,’ she answered Jonathan McGuire in a slightly sheepish voice, turning away from the curious glances of her parents in the hope that they wouldn’t see her uncomfortable blush.

‘Who else has upset you today?’ he mused mockingly, that American drawl even more distinct over a telephone line.

‘No one in particular,’ she said brightly. What did he want? He had left her in no doubt when she parted from him an hour ago that he wanted to be left alone.

‘You’re very good at that, aren’t you?’ he said admiringly.

Tory hesitated. ‘At what?’

‘The evasive answer,’ he came back instantly.

She gave a startled laugh. ‘And that coming from the expert at evasive answers!’ She knew less about Jonathan McGuire after spending almost forty minutes in his company than she had before she met him!

A throaty chuckle resounded down the telephone line. ‘Okay, so you aren’t going to tell me who else has upset you today,’ he accepted. ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he added more briskly, ‘I know you must be anxious to go to your cousin’s wedding. I—that’s actually the reason I’m phoning.’

Tory blinked. ‘You aren’t suggesting you would like to come with me?’ she said disbelievingly.

She could just imagine the family speculation if she arrived at her cousin Denise’s wedding reception with a tall, dark American in tow! Not that she intended going at all now that her mother and father weren’t going to be there, but surely Jonathan McGuire couldn’t be—

‘Hell, no!’ he instantly disabused her of that illusion. ‘I—having had time to—think about things—I realise I owe you an apology for my behaviour earlier—’

‘I thought you had already made one,’ Tory said guardedly.

‘For not thanking you for taking time out of your day to pick me up at the airport,’ he completed determinedly. ‘I—thank you.’

Ouch, she bet that hurt.

‘You’re welcome,’ she returned lightly.

There was a deep sigh at the other end of the line. ‘I’m not usually as rude as I was today—’

‘Don’t tell me—you’re usually ruder!’ she teased.

‘You aren’t making this easy for me, are you,’ he responded irritably.

Well, she wasn’t sure what ‘this’ was…! He had apologised, she had accepted that apology, so what was he still doing on the line?

‘Do you think I should?’ she returned warily.

After all, everything he had said was true; she had taken time out of her day, missed her cousin’s wedding, just so that she could go to the airport and pick him up. Only to be faced with his rude uncooperativeness. The fact that she had been glad of the excuse not to go to the wedding was irrelevant.

‘Probably not,’ he accepted with resignation. ‘When you see your mother could you also thank her for the pie? I was hungry when I got here, so I’ve already eaten a piece; it’s delicious.’

It certainly was, her mother was one of the best pastry-makers on the island. Luckily Tory seemed to have a metabolism that could handle her mother’s wonderful cooking, which didn’t just stop at pastry, otherwise she might have ended up a very chubby child and an even fatter adult!

‘Why don’t you tell her yourself?’ Tory declared, suddenly seeing a way of ending this conversation without appearing rude herself. ‘She’s sitting right here.’ She held the receiver out to her mother before Jonathan McGuire could make any response—positive or negative—to her suggestion.

Tory moved to kiss her father lightly on the cheek. ‘I’m just popping over to the studio for a while,’ she told him softly. ‘Give me a yell if you need me for anything,’ she added with a glance towards her mother, the pleased flush to her mother’s cheeks as she listened to Jonathan McGuire telling Tory that he must be repeating his praise of her mother’s pastry.

Tory gave a smile as she left the farmhouse. The way to a man’s heart might be through his stomach, but the way to her mother’s was to show appreciation for her cooking. It looked as if Jonathan McGuire was succeeding in charming one member of the Buchanan family at least.

Her smiled faded as she crossed the yard and entered the outhouse that her father had allowed her to convert into a studio. She stopped just inside the door, looking around her, feeling— What…? Everywhere she looked there was evidence of her success. And once that had been all she wanted. She had left the island six years ago in search of that dream. But after five years at the top she had realised it wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

She had taken a risk six years ago, put all her hopes in her own ability, and she had been successful. Did she now have the courage, while still at the top, to take a sideways step in that career?

Rupert thought she was mad even to consider taking the step that had consumed her thoughts over the last few months. But then Rupert had his own reasons for keeping her exactly where she was, doing what she was doing. It suited his own agenda.

But did it still suit hers?

If she knew the answer to that then she wouldn’t still be here on the island.

She wouldn’t have had to meet the rudely taciturn Jonathan McGuire today either!

‘Arrogant. Self-interested. Inconsiderate!’ Tory muttered to herself as she checked the contents of the saucepans bubbling away on top of the Aga.

‘Bad sign that, love,’ her father observed as he came into the kitchen from outside, back in his comfortable work clothes today, looking much more at ease. ‘Talking to yourself,’ he explained at Tory’s questioning look.

She made a face. ‘Lunch should be ready in fifteen minutes.’

That was the reason she was talking to herself. Oh, not because, as her mother was incapacitated, she was the one actually cooking the Sunday lunch; she had always been happy to do her share of work about the farm, easily fell back into doing that when she was home.

No, cooking lunch wasn’t the problem—it was the fact that Jonathan McGuire was invited to eat it that was irritating her!

He had given her every indication yesterday that he was doing a Greta Garbo—wanted to be alone—and yet before he had finished talking to her mother on the telephone the previous day he had accepted an invitation to come to Sunday lunch.

Tory had been all for eating in the kitchen as they usually did, but her mother had insisted that they open up the rarely used dining room at the back of the house in honour of their guest.

Honour!

Tory didn’t feel in the least honoured. Sunday lunch was always an especially enjoyable family occasion, with the afternoon spent relaxing in front of the television or reading the newspapers. If eating in the dining room was an example of how this Sunday was going to go, then her father could forget about his television and Tory her newspapers; neither was allowed when they had guests. Their only hope was that this guest wouldn’t linger long after lunch!

She couldn’t even begin to imagine what had made Jonathan McGuire accept the invitation in the first place. So much for his claim that he didn’t intend socialising while he was here!

She gave an impatient glance at her wristwatch. ‘If our guest doesn’t arrive soon, he’s going to miss lunch altogether,’ she muttered irritably.

‘I’m sure—’ Her father broke off what he had been about to say as the sound of a vehicle arriving outside in the yard could clearly be heard. ‘Talk of the devil.’ He grinned. ‘I had better go up and get some clean clothes on, at least.’ He looked down ruefully at his muddy working overalls. ‘Or your mother won’t be too happy with me!’ He was whistling as he left the room to go upstairs.

With her mother lying down in the sitting room, resting her ankle until lunch was ready, and her father upstairs changing, it was left to Tory to go in answer to the ringing of the front doorbell. A rarely used front doorbell! It was much more friendly in this island community to use the side or back door.

It took Tory several minutes to pull back the heavy bolts at the top and bottom of the door, before using the key to unlock it, and the hinges creaked from lack of use when she finally managed to open it.

‘You don’t have the Fort Knox gold in there, do you?’ Jonathan McGuire drawled, obviously having heard the grating of the bolts and unlocking of the door.

At least, Tory assumed it was him; most of him seemed to be hidden behind a large bunch of yellow chrysanthemums wrapped in tissue paper, only his long denim-clad legs revealed beneath them.

‘Very funny,’ Tory snapped, stepping back to let him inside. ‘But for future reference, could you use the back door?’ she added with pointed sarcasm as she went through the drawn-out process of replacing the bolts and turning the lock.

The chrysanthemums were slowly lowered to reveal Jonathan McGuire’s handsome face. ‘Sorry,’ he grimaced.

He didn’t look either as tired, or grim, as he had yesterday. In fact, he looked dangerously attractive, Tory decided, the darkness of his hair still damp from a recent shower and inclined to curl, those grey eyes warm, the sculptured mouth smiling.

Tory didn’t give him an answering smile. ‘This way,’ she told him abruptly, leading the way down the hallway back to the kitchen.

They might be going to eat in the dining room soon, but for the moment he would have to put up with the informality of the kitchen; she couldn’t play hostess to him and cook the meal any other way!

‘You really shouldn’t have bothered, Mr McGuire.’ She nodded in the direction of the flowers he still held; he must have called in to the shop in the village this morning.

‘Er—I’m afraid they aren’t for you,’ he admitted. ‘They’re for your mother; my own mother told me to always take flowers to give to my hostess.’

How to feel small in one easy lesson!

‘I’m sure my mother will be thrilled,’ Tory replied, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment now. That would teach her not to try to be clever!

‘These are for you.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a box of chocolates. ‘Flowers for the hostess, chocolates for the daughter.’ He gave a rueful shrug at this second lesson in good manners obviously taught to him by his mother.

As peace offerings went, it was a very small box of chocolates. But it had the advantage of being her favourite brand.

‘Thank you,’ Tory accepted, their fingers lightly touching as she took the box from him.

Ouch!

Something like an electric shock made her hand tingle, before it travelled up her arm, the feeling slowly defusing but leaving her feeling slightly breathless.

What was that?

She shook her head before turning to put the chocolates down on the side. ‘Can I offer you a drink before lunch, Mr McGuire?’ she enquired, still slightly dizzied by her reaction to just the briefest touch of his fingers against hers.

He gave no indication of being so affected himself, putting the flowers down on the table to reveal he once again wore a jacket and shirt with his denims, the jacket black this time, the shirt light blue.

‘If you’re having a drink then I’ll join you,’ he said. ‘On the condition you stop calling me Mr McGuire—Tory.’

‘Jonathan,’ she bit out, accompanied by a terse nod of her head. There was no way she could call him Jonny! ‘We have sherry, or there’s a bottle of white wine cooling in the fridge. I hope you like chicken.’

For all she knew he could be a vegetarian—although it would be singularly stupid on his part not to have mentioned that fact to her mother on the telephone the previous day.

‘Love it.’ He had opened the fridge door and taken out the bottle of white wine. ‘Do you have a corkscrew for this?’

‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’ Tory mumbled to herself as she searched through the drawer for the corkscrew, turning to check the vegetables again as he opened the bottle and poured some wine into two of the glasses sitting on the side.

‘Mr McGuire,’ her father greeted him a few seconds later as he came into the kitchen, holding out his hand. ‘Dan Buchanan. Come through to the sitting room and meet my wife. Everything okay with you, Tory?’ He quirked questioning brows.

Fine—now that he had come down to take over entertaining their guest! ‘I’ll give you a shout when I’ve served the meal,’ she said.

Jonathan gave her a quick glance. ‘I hope I haven’t put you to too much trouble on my behalf…?’

‘Not in the least,’ Tory assured him airily. ‘We were having a roast lunch anyway,’ she told him, knowing by the narrowing of those silver-grey eyes that Jonathan McGuire, at least, hadn’t missed the intended slight.

‘I’m afraid my wife fell over yesterday and sprained her ankle,’ her father told their guest. ‘But Tory cooks almost as well as her mother.’

‘Almost?’ Tory deliberately rose to her father’s teasing; it was part of what she most enjoyed about being at home. Her parents were such genuine down-to-earth people. Unlike the crowd she was surrounded by in London!

‘The proof will be in the eating.’ Her father gave Jonathan a conspiratorial wink. ‘Let’s go through, Jonathan, and say hello to Thelma; she’s been looking forward to meeting you.’

Which put her mother in the minority as far as Tory was concerned. Gifts of flowers and chocolates did not alter the fact that the man was incredibly rude.

Although there was no sign of that rudeness as the four of them sat down to lunch, her mother helped into the dining room by Jonathan McGuire’s solicitous hand under her elbow.

Probably another lesson in manners taught him by his mother, Tory decided disgruntledly.

Now who was being rude and uncooperative?

So she was. But she just couldn’t get past the man she had met yesterday. Even if Jonathan’s next words did make it seem that he was determined to wipe out that image today…

‘This is delicious,’ he told her after tasting the succulent chicken and accompanying vegetables. He was seated next to Tory at the table, her parents facing them. ‘School Sunday lunches were never as good as this!’ he commented. ‘I grew up believing English cooking had to be the worst in the world!’

Tory’s brows rose over surprised blue eyes. ‘You went to school in England?’ How strange, when his parents were both American.

He met her gaze steadily for several long seconds. ‘English education, paradoxically, is the best in the world,’ he finally answered.

‘And your parents obviously wanted the best for you,’ she acknowledged sardonically.

His eyes narrowed speculatively for several seconds before he turned to her mother. ‘I had no idea when I accepted your invitation yesterday, Thelma, that you had hurt your ankle, that it would be Tory I was making extra work for,’ he said.

If he was trying to make her feel guilty, then he was succeeding!

Though if she were truthful with herself, it wasn’t really Jonathan she was annoyed with today. Rupert had telephoned again this morning, shortly before the other man arrived, annoying her intensely with his certainty that she would be back in London soon, ready to begin another round of work and mindless parties.

‘It really was no trouble,’ she assured Jonathan awkwardly; after all, he was her parents’ guest, and she really wasn’t being very welcoming. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it. There’s one of Mum’s cherry pies for dessert,’ she added.

‘If I’m not careful I shall be putting on weight while I’m here,’ he came back satirically.

Tory doubted that very much. Jonathan had the build of an athlete, without looking muscle-bound—something she found most unattractive in a man.

Not that she wanted to find Jonathan McGuire attractive! She was having enough trouble trying to sort her own life out, without complicating it with an attraction that was going nowhere. Not that Jonathan had given any indication that he found her in the least attractive anyway!

Could she possibly be a bit irritated with him because of that, too?

Maybe, she conceded. Although she never made anything of her looks when she was at home, always wore denims and tee shirts for convenience’s sake—she never knew when her father was going to ask her to go and help him on the farm. And she never bothered with make-up when she was here, either; it was a relief not to always have to look perfect.

But, even so, Jonathan McGuire hadn’t given any indication that he had even noticed she was female, let alone an attractive one!

‘How are Madison and Gideon?’ her mother asked interestedly. ‘And the adorable Keilly, of course,’ she added indulgently.

‘I can see my niece has been breaking hearts this side of the Atlantic, too,’ Jonathan recognised. ‘Maddie and Gideon are fine. They’re visiting Maddie’s godfather and his wife at the moment; Edgar and Claire have a four-month-old son. Actually, I believe Claire is Manx,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘Her name was Christian before she married Edgar,’ he explained helpfully.

‘A good Manx name,’ Tory’s father said approvingly.

‘So I believe,’ Jonathan replied. ‘It’s the name they’ve given the baby.’

‘I can’t say we know a Claire Christian…do we, Thelma?’ Tory’s father said.

‘Sorry.’ Her mother smiled apologetically. ‘I expect your parents are thrilled about little Keilly, aren’t they? Is it their first grandchild?’

‘They are. And it is. So far…’ Jonathan confirmed dryly.

Tory gave him a thoughtful glance. Her own parents might not think any man was good enough to marry her, but that didn’t stop them wanting grandchildren of their own. Could Jonathan’s parents, now that they had one grandchild, possibly be putting the same emotional pressure on him? Probably, she decided. It seemed to be the way with parents that they wanted to see their children happily settled.

Although if Jonathan had reached the age of thirty-two or thirty-three without succumbing to matrimony, and he had come alone on his visit to the island, it didn’t look as if it was a possibility in the near future!

‘And Gideon’s parents?’ her mother continued happily. ‘I expect they’re thrilled, too?’

Jonathan’s expression didn’t change, and yet Tory felt other, subtle changes in him as he sat next to her, his body tense now, a certain wariness in his eyes.

Because her mother had mentioned Gideon’s parents? Or because she had mentioned Gideon himself? Did the two men not get on?

She found the latter hard to believe. The two men were very alike. Gideon was also forceful, very self-possessed—like this man, to the point of arrogance. Or perhaps Jonathan just didn’t think Gideon was good enough for Madison? Tory believed older brothers could be like that, too.

Not that Tory had any siblings of her own, older or younger, but she could imagine Jonathan being quite protective of his ‘little sister’…

‘Gideon’s parents are both dead,’ Jonathan finally answered harshly, putting his knife and fork down on his almost empty plate. ‘And now I really think I should be going; I’ve interrupted your Sunday afternoon for long enough,’ he added, with what seemed to Tory a deliberately forced softening of his tone.

Her mother looked surprised. ‘But we haven’t had dessert yet,’ she protested with light rebuke.

Tory knew only too well, no one was allowed to leave without eating her mother’s desserts!

She stood up. ‘Would you like to help me clear the plates, Jonathan?’ she suggested. ‘Then you can sample Mum’s cherry pie and tell her which one you prefer—the apple or the cherry.’ She smiled at her blushing mother.

Perhaps it wasn’t quite the thing to do to ask the guest to help clear away, but it had seemed to Tory that Jonathan needed a brief respite from a conversation that seemed to be getting a little too personal for his liking. Or comfort!

Not that she could say what could possibly make him feel uncomfortable talking about his sister and her husband; she just knew that it was.

Unless it was just that he had had enough of their provincial company for one day. After all, being based in Reno, involved in the running of casinos, he would obviously be used to a much more sophisticated form of entertainment. And company!

‘Thank you for that,’ he said quietly once they reached the kitchen, putting the plates he carried down on the side.

Tory looked at the muscled width of his back as he stood turned away from her, once again wondering why a man like him had decided to bury himself on the Isle of Man for an indefinite period, and once again coming up with no answer!

Or perhaps, like her, he just needed some time and space to be able to think…?

Also, like her, he wasn’t about to discuss what he was thinking about with a third party…

He turned sharply, as if sensing her puzzled gaze on him, his expression immediately guarded. ‘I meant, of course, for helping me avoid insulting your mother by missing out on dessert,’ he explained.

Oh, sure he did! ‘Of course,’ she repeated dryly, still not absolutely sure of his reason for saying he was leaving a few minutes ago. If it was because she and her parents simply bored him, then he was rude! But, then, she had already known that, hadn’t she?

He gave her a piercingly searching look, a look Tory withstood with calm indifference. He was wasting his time trying to disconcert her in that particular way; she was more than used to being in the spotlight.

Jonathan was the first one to break away from their locked gazes. ‘Would you like me to carry anything through for you?’ he offered distantly.

‘The cream.’ She opened the fridge and took the jug of cream out. ‘Unless you would prefer ice-cream? I believe Americans prefer it with their dessert?’

During the last five years she had been to America at least a dozen times herself, and had always noticed this preference with pie. Although Jonathan McGuire probably thought she had just watched a lot of American programmes on the television!

He gave a slight inclination of his head. ‘You believe correctly,’ he drawled.

She took the ice-cream from the freezer, carrying through that and the pie while Jonathan carried all the other things.

Her father turned to smile at them both as they came into the room. ‘I was just saying to your mother, Tory; perhaps Jonathan would like you to take him out for a ride this afternoon?’

Tory gave her father an irritated frown. She did not want to spend any more time in Jonathan McGuire’s company than she had to. Besides, he was their guest, not hers.

She wasn’t daft; she knew exactly what her father was up to. There was a good war film on the television this afternoon, and her father didn’t want to miss it! If he could manage to persuade Jonathan to go out with Tory, then he would be able to watch it.

Jonathan looked puzzled. ‘But I thought you told me it was best to stay in this afternoon?’ he reminded Tory. ‘Something to do with the bikes on the TT course?’ he added.

‘Well, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,’ her father told him jovially. ‘Tory hasn’t been round the course herself for a couple of years; I’m sure she would love to take you. Wouldn’t you love?’ he pressed hopefully. ‘It’s an experience everyone should have once in their lifetime!’ he assured Jonathan.

‘You ride a motorbike?’ Jonathan no longer looked puzzled—he looked astounded.

Tory bristled at his disbelieving expression. She had been born on the island, lived here all her life until six years ago, still spent as much time here as work and other commitments would allow, and motorbikes were a fact of the island, whether you liked them or not. Five years ago Tory had bought her own motorbike, on the basis that if you couldn’t beat them, you joined them!

‘Yes, I ride a motorbike,’ she confirmed stiffly. ‘I’ll take you out on it when we’ve finished lunch. If you would like to go?’

If you dare! her tone implied.