The Secret Virgin. Carole Mortimer

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.