The Secret Virgin

CHAPTER TWO

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?’