The Secret Virgin. Carole Mortimer

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