The Secret Virgin. Кэрол Мортимер

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