The Secret Virgin. Carole Mortimer

window at his side.

      She really didn’t know why she was bothering. She—

      ‘What the hell was that?’ Jonathan McGuire gave a shocked gasp as a streak of red shot noisily past the Land Rover.

      Tory smiled, completely unperturbed. ‘Obviously you aren’t aware of all the island traditions,’ she drawled mockingly as another blaze of colour shot past them, blue this time, and if anything noisier than the red one. ‘Ever heard of the TT Races? The Tourist Trophy?’ she enlarged dryly.

      She had been starting to wonder, despite his rather jaded behaviour, if perhaps the races could be the reason he was here, his completely unreadable expression told her that it wasn’t.

      Jonathan McGuire was frowning darkly. ‘I take it those—motorbikes have something to do with that?’

      ‘They certainly do.’ Tory couldn’t hold back her smile any longer. ‘And I’m afraid you’ve chosen to visit the island at the beginning of Race Week.’

      ‘I know I’m going to regret this,’ he admitted with obvious reluctance, ‘but what is Race Week? In fact, what is the Tourist Trophy?’

      ‘Motorbike racing. The main races are next week,’ she told him happily, completely unconcerned as several more motorbikes overtook them at blurringly fast speeds.

      TT Fortnight, as the practice week and race week were generally known, had been taking place on the island for almost a hundred years, and while a lot of inhabitants still found it intrusive on their usual peace and quiet, Tory actually loved the atmosphere of those two weeks, when forty to fifty thousand people, usually accompanied by at least twenty-five thousand motorbikes, literally invaded the island, all intent on having fun and enjoying the racing.

      ‘Not today?’ Jonathan McGuire said.

      ‘Oh, they haven’t started racing yet today,’ Tory assured him.

      ‘You could have fooled me!’ he muttered disgustedly.

      She smiled. ‘They close the roads off when the races are actually taking place.’

      ‘They race on the roads?’ He was obviously amazed at the idea.

      Tory grinned. ‘Not over the whole island, obviously—’

      ‘Oh, obviously,’ Jonathan responded. ‘Madison didn’t tell me about this.’ He scowled once more.

      ‘Madison isn’t supposed to know you’re here—remember?’ Tory couldn’t help returning wryly.

      There was a brief silence. ‘Touché, Miss Buchanan,’ he finally drawled admiringly.

      ‘Tory,’ she instantly came back, surprised he had actually remembered her name; he had given the impression of being completely uninterested in anything outside himself. But perhaps she was being unfair to him… ‘As we’re going to be neighbours for a while…’

      Those already flinty grey eyes iced over. ‘I have no intention of socialising during my stay here,’ he grated.

      Tory drew in a sharp breath at his rudeness, instantly regretting her impulse to be friendly. ‘I don’t think I said I intended inviting you to a party—Mr McGuire,’ she snapped coldly. Or, indeed, to anything else!

      Another twenty minutes or so and she could say goodbye to this—this arrogant bastard. It couldn’t pass soon enough for her!

      She had intended taking him the scenic route through Douglas, along the promenade, where the horse trams travelled backwards and forwards every few minutes, and where the electric tram began its journey up to the north of the island to its final destination, Snaefell, the only mountain the island boasted.

      But after the last few seconds’ conversation he could jolly well take the less attractive route, past the Grandstand, along through Onchan, and then out towards Laxey! She was in no mood herself to play the gracious hostess and point out the places of interest.

      She hadn’t particularly wanted to go to her cousin Denise’s wedding, had welcomed this excuse not to have to actually attend the service. But if she had known how uncommunicative—in fact positively rude!—the alternative was going to be, then she would have opted for attending the wedding!

      ‘I’ve never seen so many bikes in one place,’ Jonathan McGuire remarked incredulously as they drove past the Grandstand, with row upon row of the powerful machines parked there as the race fans gathered just to soak in the atmosphere before the race this afternoon.

      ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ Tory told him abruptly. ‘Madison and Gideon’s house is well away from any of the roads, and my mother went shopping this morning, so you should have enough food that you won’t need to go out again for some time if you don’t want to.’ And, after what he had said, she was sure he wouldn’t want to!

      Again there was a brief silence before Jonathan McGuire answered her. ‘That was very kind of your mother.’

      Tory’s mouth tightened at his surprise at such a gesture from a complete stranger. ‘She’s a very kind woman. Besides,’ she continued levelly, ‘we’re all very fond of Madison and Gideon. And Keilly is adorable,’ she added affectionately.

      ‘Yes, she is, isn’t she?’ he agreed huskily.

      It was the first time during their acquaintance—very brief acquaintance!—that Tory had heard anything like softness in his tone. But then, how could anyone, least of all her uncle, not be enchanted by the beautiful golden-haired Keilly?

      ‘Not far to go now,’ she realised with satisfaction, leaving Onchan behind them and driving out into the countryside once again.

      She always felt refreshed, renewed, when she spent time on the island; there was a feeling of having time stand still. At the moment, with important decisions in front of her, that was something she desperately needed.

      Unlike the arrogantly rude Jonathan McGuire, who was definitely something she didn’t need!

      ‘This is a very beautiful island.’

      Tory was becoming used to his sudden, seemingly unconnected statements, and didn’t even bother to look at him this time. ‘It is,’ she agreed.

      ‘What work do you do here?’

      She stiffened slightly. For a man who obviously didn’t like personal questions himself, he was becoming a little too curious about her own life.

      She shrugged. ‘Running a farm is a full-time family concern,’ she answered evasively.

      Dressed as she was, in a light blue tee shirt and faded denims, the latter mud-spattered from where it had rained the day before, her face bare of make-up, she definitely had the look of someone straight off the farm.

      The fact that farming wasn’t what she did was none of this man’s business.

      ‘I suppose it is,’ he responded, before once again turning to look out of the window.

      It seemed that pleasantries were over for the day!

      ‘What work do you do, Mr McGuire?’ she prompted lightly.

      ‘My family is in casinos in Reno.’

      That was about as helpful as her own remark about farming being a full-time family concern—it actually told her precisely nothing!

      ‘We have a casino on the island,’ she said in friendly reply. ‘Perhaps you would like to see it while you’re here?’ Although she couldn’t imagine why; it was a completely soulless place, and the people who went there seemed to be either curious tourists or hardened gamblers—neither of which particularly interested Tory.

      ‘Are you asking me out after all, Tory?’ He raised mocking dark brows.

      She gave him a startled glance, relaxing slightly as she saw the laughter lurking in dark grey eyes. So the man did have a sense of humour, after all!

      ‘No,