“I don’t understand you, Jonathan—”

“Nor I you! That man—Montgomery—he obviously has some sort of proprietorial claim on you—”

“He’s my manager, if you really want to know!” Tory glared straight back up at Jonathan as he towered over her.

“Really?” he parried.

“Yes—really!”

“And it’s obvious in what way he ‘manages’ you!”

“Why, you—!” Tory stood up, striding furiously around the table, her arm raised, ready to swing.

Jonathan easily caught hold of it. He pushed her arm back down to her side, long fingers moving down to become entwined with her own, bringing her body up close to his in the process.

His face was very close to hers as they glared at each other. “Looking at you now, your eyes flashing, face flushed—albeit with anger—I could easily give in to the temptation to manage you myself!”

CAROLE MORTIMER says, “I was born in England, the youngest of three children—I have two older brothers. I started writing in 1978, and have now written over 100 books for Mills & Boon. I have four sons—Matthew, Joshua, Timothy and Peter—and a bearded collie called Merlyn. I’m married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live on the Isle of Man.”

Some of the characters from The Secret Virgin featured in an earlier story by Carole Mortimer, Bound by Contract (#2130).

The Secret Virgin
Carole Mortimer

My husband, Peter

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘JONATHAN MCGUIRE! Would Mr Jonathan McGuire, recently arrived from Heathrow, please come to the information desk?’ The message rang out clearly over the airport tannoy system.

Tory stood frowningly beside the desk as the receptionist gave out the message, waiting to see if Jonathan McGuire would respond to it.

She had stood at the door to the baggage reclaim area a few minutes ago, as it opened and closed to allow the people from the Heathrow flight to the Isle of Man to leave once they had collected their cases, a small board held up in front of her with the name of ‘Mr J McGuire’ clearly written on it. But the last passenger from that flight had gone now, with no sign of Jonathan McGuire.

Maybe he had missed the flight?

Or maybe—

‘I’m Jonathan McGuire.’

Tory blinked, and not just at the sound of that huskily attractive American drawl. This was Jonathan McGuire?

This man had been one of the first to leave the baggage reclaim area. Tory had noticed him because he was so tall, easily a foot taller than her own five feet two inches in her bare feet, and also because as he’d looked at her, and then through her, with flinty grey eyes, she hadn’t been able to help noticing he was one of the most arrogantly attractive men she had ever set eyes on!

His face was ruggedly tanned, and there were those flinty grey eyes, a straight nose, and an unsmiling mouth above a square jaw. The dark grey jacket and white shirt, teamed with the faded blue denims that he wore, emphasised the width of his shoulders, the narrow waist and long, muscular legs. She guessed his age to be somewhere around low-to-mid-thirties. Which was another surprise. Somehow she had had the impression he was Madison’s younger, not older, brother.

In fact, he looked nothing like Tory had expected blonde-haired, green-eyed Madison’s brother to look!

Which was probably the reason why she had missed him earlier.

But that didn’t explain why he hadn’t approached her; his name was written very clearly on the board she had held up…

Tory stepped forward before the receptionist could respond. ‘I was asked to meet you, Mr McGuire,’ she told him lightly, smiling welcomingly.

Those flinty grey eyes were turned on her piercingly, no answering smile on those harshly chiselled features. ‘By whom?’ he prompted guardedly.

She frowned as his reply, her smile fading; she really hadn’t thought, when she’d made the offer to come to the airport this morning, that giving Jonathan McGuire a lift to his sister’s home was going to be as difficult as it was turning out to be.

‘By your sister,’ she murmured, deciding that devastating good-looks didn’t go any further than skin deep on this man.

Which was a shame. She had always found Madison one of the easiest people to get along with, had expected her brother to be the same. But he not only didn’t look like his sister, he had none of her warm charm, either!

‘Madison?’ he repeated irritatedly. ‘And exactly what is your connection to my sister?’ He looked at her critically.

Tory tried to see herself through his eyes: a little over five feet tall, boyishly slender, her almost black hair cut in deliberate ragged layers to fall silkily onto her shoulders, her elfin features bare of make-up; she had dark blue eyes, an upturned freckle-covered nose, a wide mouth and a determined chin. The only thing she had in common with the tall, glamorously beautiful Madison McGuire at the moment was her age; they were both twenty-four!

Her frown deepened as she sensed Jonathan McGuire’s criticism of her looks. She liked Madison, was quite happy to do a favour for the other woman, but her brother was turning out to be quite another proposition!

Her second smile wasn’t as openly friendly as the first. ‘My parents own the farm next to Madison and Gideon’s house, keep an eye on things for them while they’re away.’

‘And?’

Tory was very aware of the avidly listening receptionist. Not that she could blame her. Anyone would think Tory was trying to rob the man instead of offering him a lift!

‘Madison telephoned last night and asked me to—’

He scowled. ‘Damn it, I asked Gideon not to tell anyone where I was going!’

‘Madison is his wife…’ Tory pointed out ruefully.

The other couple had fallen in love while filming together on the island a couple of years previously. Madison had been the leading lady, Gideon the director of the film, a film that had won them both Oscars the following year. Consequently the two of them had great affection for the Isle of Man and had bought a home here, which they visited often with their now six-month-old daughter, Keilly.

‘She may be,’ Jonathan McGuire grated harshly. ‘But I specifically asked Gideon—’

‘Look,’ Tory cut in quietly, aware they were still being overheard, ‘I suggest we go across to my car and continue this conversation there?’ She raised dark brows.

He shot the receptionist an irritated look before turning on his heel without another word and walking over to the trolley that contained his luggage, which he had left parked at the bottom of some stairs.

Tory gave the receptionist a rueful shrug of her shoulders before following him, noting as she did so that as well as a suitcase there was a guitar case on the trolley Jonathan McGuire now pushed towards the automatically opening exit doors.

‘Do you play?’ she asked interestedly, falling into step at his side as they walked towards the car park. It was just as well that she had always walked fast herself; it took two of her strides to one of his much longer ones to keep up with him!

He looked at her blankly. ‘Sorry?’

Tory somehow doubted that he was sorry at all, thought he was probably very rarely sorry for anything he did. But obviously someone had at least taught him some manners. ‘I couldn’t help noticing the guitar case.’ She nodded towards it.

He continued to look at her with those expressionless grey eyes. ‘So?’

Tory drew in a deep breath. ‘Look, Mr McGuire, I suggest that the two of us start again.’ She came to an abrupt halt on the pavement. ‘My name is Tory Buchanan.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to welcome you to the Isle of Man.’

Jonathan McGuire still looked blankly at the slenderness of her hand for several long seconds, and then he slowly raised his own hand to grip hers. ‘I’ve been to the island before,’ he bit out economically, having released her hand after only the briefest of touches.

He had? Of course, she spent a lot of time away from the island herself, so it wasn’t so surprising that she might have missed his visit. But, nevertheless, she had gained the impression on the telephone last night, as she’d spoken to Madison, that Jonathan McGuire wasn’t familiar with the island, or the location of Madison and Gideon’s house. In fact, that was the main reason Madison had asked if someone would be able to go to the airport to meet him.

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘It was a very brief visit,’ he drawled.

One he had no intention of talking about, his slightly challenging tone implied.

Well, that was okay; Tory had already decided that, good-looking as Jonathan McGuire might be, her favour towards Madison ended the moment she had dropped her brother off at the house! He was darkly cold and arrogant, when she had imagined him to be a golden-haired fun person, like Madison was herself. As far as Tory was concerned, Jonathan McGuire could keep his cold arrogance to himself!

‘My car is parked over here.’ She indicated they should turn to the left as they entered the car park. ‘Actually, it’s my father’s,’ she explained as she unlocked the back of the Land Rover, slightly muddy from where her father drove it around the fields that made up his farm. ‘My mother and father have taken the car today to attend a wedding this morning,’ she somehow felt she had to add. Although why she should feel that way she had no idea; this man’s ungrateful attitude meant she owed him no explanations.

She didn’t offer to help as he lifted his luggage into the back, getting in behind the wheel as she waited for him to stroll round and get into the passenger seat beside her before starting the engine. Ten years old, the engine roared protestingly for a few seconds before settling down to its normal erratic clonking noise, and she accelerated the vehicle towards the exit.

‘Weren’t you invited?’

‘Invited where?’ Tory turned briefly from feeding her ticket into the machine at the exit, the barrier instantly lifting to allow them to drive out; as she had only arrived at the airport half an hour ago she hadn’t had to pay a parking fee.

‘To the wedding,’ Jonathan McGuire continued, perfectly relaxed in the seat next to her.

So he had been listening, after all! ‘I was,’ she returned.

‘But…?’

‘But a friend asked me to do her a favour instead,’ Tory said quickly, deliberately not looking at him as she concentrated on her driving.

She sensed him looking at her through narrowed lids, nonetheless. Well, let him look. She had been invited to the wedding, but when Madison had asked if someone could meet her brother at the airport and take him to the house, Tory had been only too happy to offer to be the one to do it. After all, it was Tory’s mother’s niece who was getting married. Admittedly, the bride was Tory’s cousin too, but she could still go to the reception later this afternoon.

‘I play.’

Tory gave him a brief, puzzled glance. She seemed to have missed something somewhere!

‘The guitar,’ he explained. ‘You asked if I play. I do.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded her understanding. ‘What sort of music do you play?’ she continued interestedly.

There was a brief silence, causing Tory to glance at him once again. His closed expression told her she had—once more!—ventured into forbidden territory. The problem with this man was that every subject seemed to have the potential of an unexplored minefield!

‘Usually whatever I feel like playing,’ he rasped dismissively.

Tory sighed at the deliberate snub, turning her attention back to her driving. She had only been trying to make polite conversation, for goodness’ sake. Obviously a nicety wasted on Jonathan McGuire.

Only another half an hour or so and she could deposit him at his sister’s home—and hopefully not see him again for the remainder of his visit. She just hoped he made it another brief one!

She tried to remember the little Madison had said about her brother during their call the previous evening. Madison had called him ‘Jonny’ she remembered that. Tory couldn’t ever imagine calling this remotely cold man by such an intimately friendly name!

But she could see that he looked wealthy enough; his clothes were obviously of good quality, and she could tell at a glance that his case and the guitar case were the best that money could buy. And, as Madison’s brother, he must also be son of Susan Delaney—a woman had become an acting legend in her own lifetime, and a woman Tory had met several times and liked immensely, when she’d visited Madison and Gideon on the island. Perhaps Jonathan McGuire took after his father—because he was certainly nothing like his charming sister and mother!

Tory decided to forget about her less-than-gracious passenger and enjoy the drive instead. It was a lovely day, the early June weather warm and sunny, wild garlic, blue-and whitebells still in flower along the roadside, the vivid yellow-orange of the gorse so bright against fresh green foliage that it almost hurt the eyes to look at it.

Not even the taciturn Jonathan McGuire could spoil her enjoyment of a beautiful day like today!

As they approached the end of the long stretch of road, with the leaves of the trees either side of the road meeting overhead like a green arch, she automatically raised her hand.

‘Hi, fairies,’ the man at her side murmured softly.

Tory turned to look at him, blue eyes wide with surprise. He had been here before.

They had just driven over the Fairy Bridge, marked by a white wall either side of the road. It was considered bad luck not to show the ‘little people’ who lived under the bridge due respect by saying hello to them.

Perhaps Jonathan McGuire felt in need of good luck…?

Damn it, she was starting to feel intrigued by the man, in spite of herself. He was American, for one thing; what did a single American male, of only thirty-two or thirty-three, want from a small community like the Isle of Man? Beautiful as the island was, almost crime-free too, with a population of less than eighty thousand, it certainly couldn’t be considered a fashionable holiday spot for single thirty-odd-year-old males!

She knew the same could be said of a young woman of only twenty-four as well, but it was completely different in her own case. She had been born here; her family were all here. Whereas Jonathan McGuire seemed to be getting away from his own family!

Yes, she was intrigued!

That was the last thing she wanted at the moment. She had come back home to do some thinking herself, to make some decisions of her own. She certainly didn’t need a man like the remote Jonathan McGuire in that already complicated equation.

‘I see you’re aware of some of the quainter island traditions,’ she remarked conversationally.

‘I did tell you I had been here before,’ he bit out, staring uninterestedly out of the 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, I’m not,’ she assured him ruefully. ‘Casinos hold no appeal for me, I’m afraid,’ she added slightly apologetically. After all, it was his family business.

‘Me neither,’ he rejoined, that brief show of humour completely gone.

Tory waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t she decided that had to be the end of that subject, too.

In the circumstances, it had been rather an odd thing to say. But then Jonathan McGuire, she was quickly coming to realise, was an enigma.

‘Here we are,’ she said with a certain amount of relief a few minutes later as she turned the Land Rover down the Tarmacked driveway that led to the Byrne house.

Even though she had lived in the adjoining farm most of her life, Tory could still appreciate the beauty of this particular spot, high up in the hills, completely away from everything and everyone, though the village of Laxey, with its huge black and red waterwheel, was still visible down in the valley.

The Byrne home had been the original farmhouse once—it and the adjoining acre of land having been purchased from Tory’s parents a year ago. The house was now completely refurbished, looking splendidly grand in the sunlight, its pale lemon and white paint gleaming brightly.

Tory parked the vehicle in front of the house before getting down onto the Tarmac to go round and drop the tailboard, relieved the journey was over at last. With any luck she wouldn’t have to see Jonathan McGuire again.

He put his bag and the guitar case down before turning to look at her. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been very good company,’ he told her gruffly. ‘My only excuse is that I wasn’t expecting anyone at the airport to meet me.’

Which was no excuse. Madison had taken the trouble to call them the evening before, obviously concerned as to her brother’s comfort. Tory’s mother had been shopping for him this morning. And Tory herself had taken time out to go and collect him.

‘Do you have a key?’ she prompted briskly, reaching into her denims’ pocket for the spare Madison and Gideon always left with her parents when they were away.

Jonathan McGuire reached into his own denims’ pocket and pulled out a duplicate silver key. ‘Compliments of Gideon,’ he offered lazily.

‘Fine.’ She put her own key back in her pocket. ‘If there’s anything else you need, I’m sure my parents would be only too pleased to help.’ She gestured across the neighbouring field to the white farmhouse and accompanying barns and sheds that could be seen in the distance.

He reached out and grasped her arm as she would have turned away and got back into the Land Rover. ‘But not you?’ He demanded.

Tory was very aware of that hand on the bareness of her arm, the skin warm and firm to the touch. She looked up at him with dark blue eyes, shaking her head, her shaggy dark mane of hair moving softly against her shoulders. ‘I may not be here. Like you, I’m only visiting.’

He frowned. ‘But I thought you said—’

‘You’ll find food in the fridge, and bread in the bin.’ She knew that because, although her mother had done the shopping, Tory had actually brought it over to the house and unpacked it. ‘There’s also one of my mother’s apple pies in the cupboard.’ She pulled out of his grasp, stepping lightly back into the Land Rover, anxious to be on her way now. ‘The car is parked in the garage round the back of the house; the keys are hanging up next to the fridge. Oh, and Madison always leaves a list of relevant telephone numbers next to the phone.’ She turned on the ignition, reaching out to close the door behind her.

Jonathan McGuire also reached out to grasp the door, preventing it from closing. ‘Is yours there?’ he asked softly. Now he decided to start being charming! Well, charm she had had, in plenty—and she certainly didn’t want or need it from this man!

Her pointed chin rose challengingly. ‘My parents’ number is there, if you should need it.’

His head tilted to one side as he gave her a considering look. ‘I haven’t been very polite to you, have I…?’

Tory met his gaze unblinkingly for several seconds. ‘No,’ she finally replied.

Jonathan McGuire did blink, and when he raised his lids again that earlier humour was gleaming there once more. ‘Tell me, do you get on well with my sister Madison?’

‘Very,’ she confirmed evenly.

‘I thought you might.’ He grinned suddenly.

It was like looking at a different person, Tory realised with a startled jolt. He looked years younger now he wasn’t scowling grimly, his teeth white and even against his tanned skin, laughter lines crinkling beside his mouth and eyes—eyes that had now taken on a silver sheen rather than that flinty grey.

Tory wrenched her gaze away from his. ‘I really do have to go now, Mr McGuire.’ She pulled pointedly on the door he still held, relieved when, after only the slightest of hesitations, he decided to let go of it, allowing her to slam it shut. She wound the window down beside her. ‘Just one more thing. If you do intend using the car while you’re here, I shouldn’t go out anywhere tomorrow; it’s Mad Sunday.’

‘Mad what?’ he questioned suspiciously.

‘Sunday,’ she repeated.

‘Well, I realise it’s Sunday,’ he said slowly. ‘But what’s mad about it?’

Tory grinned herself now. ‘You remember all those motorbikes you saw at the Grandstand earlier? Well,’ she continued at his confirming nod, ‘those bikes, and about twenty thousand more, will be circling the TT course tomorrow—with only the mountain road being one-way. Mad Sunday!’

She put the vehicle into gear, released the handbrake and accelerated away, her last glimpse of Jonathan McGuire as she glanced in the driving mirror the totally dazed look on his face.

She couldn’t help smiling to herself. If Jonathan McGuire had come to the island for peace and quiet—and she had a definite feeling that he had!—then he had chosen the wrong week to do it.

And in her opinion, after the hard time he had given her, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person!

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?’

‘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. Her own parents might not think any man was good enough to marry her, but that didn’t stop them wanting grandchildren of their own. Could Jonathan’s parents, now that they had one grandchild, possibly be putting the same emotional pressure on him? Probably, she decided. It seemed to be the way with parents that they wanted to see their children happily settled.

Although if Jonathan had reached the age of thirty-two or thirty-three without succumbing to matrimony, and he had come alone on his visit to the island, it didn’t look as if it was a possibility in the near future!

‘And Gideon’s parents?’ her mother continued happily. ‘I expect they’re thrilled, too?’

Jonathan’s expression didn’t change, and yet Tory felt other, subtle changes in him as he sat next to her, his body tense now, a certain wariness in his eyes.

Because her mother had mentioned Gideon’s parents? Or because she had mentioned Gideon himself? Did the two men not get on?

She found the latter hard to believe. The two men were very alike. Gideon was also forceful, very self-possessed—like this man, to the point of arrogance. Or perhaps Jonathan just didn’t think Gideon was good enough for Madison? Tory believed older brothers could be like that, too.

Not that Tory had any siblings of her own, older or younger, but she could imagine Jonathan being quite protective of his ‘little sister’…

‘Gideon’s parents are both dead,’ Jonathan finally answered harshly, putting his knife and fork down on his almost empty plate. ‘And now I really think I should be going; I’ve interrupted your Sunday afternoon for long enough,’ he added, with what seemed to Tory a deliberately forced softening of his tone.

Her mother looked surprised. ‘But we haven’t had dessert yet,’ she protested with light rebuke.

Tory knew only too well, no one was allowed to leave without eating her mother’s desserts!

She stood up. ‘Would you like to help me clear the plates, Jonathan?’ she suggested. ‘Then you can sample Mum’s cherry pie and tell her which one you prefer—the apple or the cherry.’ She smiled at her blushing mother.

Perhaps it wasn’t quite the thing to do to ask the guest to help clear away, but it had seemed to Tory that Jonathan needed a brief respite from a conversation that seemed to be getting a little too personal for his liking. Or comfort!

Not that she could say what could possibly make him feel uncomfortable talking about his sister and her husband; she just knew that it was.

Unless it was just that he had had enough of their provincial company for one day. After all, being based in Reno, involved in the running of casinos, he would obviously be used to a much more sophisticated form of entertainment. And company!

‘Thank you for that,’ he said quietly once they reached the kitchen, putting the plates he carried down on the side.

Tory looked at the muscled width of his back as he stood turned away from her, once again wondering why a man like him had decided to bury himself on the Isle of Man for an indefinite period, and once again coming up with no answer!

Or perhaps, like her, he just needed some time and space to be able to think…?

Also, like her, he wasn’t about to discuss what he was thinking about with a third party…

He turned sharply, as if sensing her puzzled gaze on him, his expression immediately guarded. ‘I meant, of course, for helping me avoid insulting your mother by missing out on dessert,’ he explained.

Oh, sure he did! ‘Of course,’ she repeated dryly, still not absolutely sure of his reason for saying he was leaving a few minutes ago. If it was because she and her parents simply bored him, then he was rude! But, then, she had already known that, hadn’t she?

He gave her a piercingly searching look, a look Tory withstood with calm indifference. He was wasting his time trying to disconcert her in that particular way; she was more than used to being in the spotlight.

Jonathan was the first one to break away from their locked gazes. ‘Would you like me to carry anything through for you?’ he offered distantly.

‘The cream.’ She opened the fridge and took the jug of cream out. ‘Unless you would prefer ice-cream? I believe Americans prefer it with their dessert?’

During the last five years she had been to America at least a dozen times herself, and had always noticed this preference with pie. Although Jonathan McGuire probably thought she had just watched a lot of American programmes on the television!

He gave a slight inclination of his head. ‘You believe correctly,’ he drawled.

She took the ice-cream from the freezer, carrying through that and the pie while Jonathan carried all the other things.

Her father turned to smile at them both as they came into the room. ‘I was just saying to your mother, Tory; perhaps Jonathan would like you to take him out for a ride this afternoon?’

Tory gave her father an irritated frown. She did not want to spend any more time in Jonathan McGuire’s company than she had to. Besides, he was their guest, not hers.

She wasn’t daft; she knew exactly what her father was up to. There was a good war film on the television this afternoon, and her father didn’t want to miss it! If he could manage to persuade Jonathan to go out with Tory, then he would be able to watch it.

Jonathan looked puzzled. ‘But I thought you told me it was best to stay in this afternoon?’ he reminded Tory. ‘Something to do with the bikes on the TT course?’ he added.

‘Well, that’s exactly what I’m talking about,’ her father told him jovially. ‘Tory hasn’t been round the course herself for a couple of years; I’m sure she would love to take you. Wouldn’t you love?’ he pressed hopefully. ‘It’s an experience everyone should have once in their lifetime!’ he assured Jonathan.

‘You ride a motorbike?’ Jonathan no longer looked puzzled—he looked astounded.

Tory bristled at his disbelieving expression. She had been born on the island, lived here all her life until six years ago, still spent as much time here as work and other commitments would allow, and motorbikes were a fact of the island, whether you liked them or not. Five years ago Tory had bought her own motorbike, on the basis that if you couldn’t beat them, you joined them!

‘Yes, I ride a motorbike,’ she confirmed stiffly. ‘I’ll take you out on it when we’ve finished lunch. If you would like to go?’

If you dare! her tone implied.

CHAPTER THREE

‘HOW ever did we get ourselves into this?’ Jonathan exclaimed as she handed him the second helmet before leaving the house, the two of them striding across the yard to the shed where Tory kept her bike.

She had been wondering that herself all the time she was in her bedroom putting on her leathers, forgoing dessert herself to leave Jonathan downstairs with her parents to enjoy his.

But she knew exactly why she had behaved in the way that she had; Jonathan’s scornful reaction to hearing she rode a motorbike had clearly indicated he didn’t believe she was big enough to handle a pushbike, let alone a machine powerful enough to take the two of them around the TT course.

‘Don’t you know?’ she derided, already starting to feel hot in the black leathers as the warm sun shone down on them.

Dark brows rose over grey eyes. ‘Do you?’

Tory nodded grimly. ‘You were dared into it—by me! And I was goaded into it—by you!’

Jonathan grimaced. ‘Very commendable!’ he responded mockingly. ‘Just how long is this TT course?’ he asked slowly.

‘Almost thirty-eight miles.’ She unlocked the shed, throwing back the doors.

‘Thirty-eight—! I think maybe I should have forgone that second helping of pie your mother pressed on me!’ he said with feeling.

Tory turned to chuckle softly at his expression. ‘Frightened you might shortly see it again?’

‘God, I hope not,’ he groaned.

Tory went into the shed to get her bike, needing all her strength to push it outside into the yard, sparing Jonathan a brief glance from beneath lowered lashes once she had done so. She wasn’t disappointed; he was staring open-mouthed at the powerful machine.

Bright red, with a 750cc engine, it was an extremely powerful, as well as beautiful, bike.

‘Can you really ride that thing?’ he queried suspiciously.

Her mouth tightened. Had he forgotten that it was exactly this sort of attitude that had got them into this in the first place? Obviously not a man who learnt his lesson the first time around!

She got on the leather seat, putting her helmet on before starting the powerful engine. ‘Get on,’ she told him firmly. ‘We’ll go down to the Grandstand where the races start from. And for goodness’ sake, hold on!’ she ordered warningly.

She held the bike steady as Jonathan got on behind her, tensing slightly as his arms curved about her waist. Well, she was the one who had told him to hold on!

But it wasn’t too difficult once they were on the TT course itself, with the sun beating down, the breeze whistling past them, and with the comradeship of the other bikers, to almost forget she had Jonathan McGuire as a passenger. Only the occasional tightening of his grip about her waist reminded her.

She had forgotten the thrill of this ride too, felt totally exhilarated as the miles passed beneath them.

As they approached the Grandstand after the first lap of the circuit she felt a dig in her ribs, and turned slightly to see what Jonathan wanted, only to find him pointing towards the parking area where thousands of bikers were already gathered.

Disappointed, she throttled down before turning into an empty space and switching off the engine, taking off her helmet to shake her dark hair loose about her shoulders before turning to look at Jonathan.

A very green-looking Jonathan!

‘Are you okay?’ she gasped concernedly as he got off the bike, staggering slightly.

He ripped off his own helmet, taking in huge gulps of air now that he was back on terra firma. ‘Do I look all right?’ he snarled through gritted teeth.

Actually, he looked terrible, Tory decided as she swung off the bike too, putting it on its stand before turning back to him. ‘I—’

‘Tory! Hey, Tory!’

They both turned to the leather-clad figure limping towards them, a grin of pure pleasure splitting the ruggedly hewn features of the newcomer.

‘Terry!’ Tory greeted with equal pleasure before being gathered up into a bear hug.

‘It’s great to see you back on the island.’ Terry moved back slightly to look down at her, still grinning. ‘Back on the bike, too.’ He nodded his approval ‘We missed you here last year,’ he said wistfully.

She grinned. ‘Work commitments.’

Terry grinned back. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Oh, you know—’

‘I hate to interrupt this moving reunion—’ the sarcasm in Jonathan’s tone completely belied his words ‘—but could one of you point me in the direction of a public convenience?’

Terry gave Tory an ‘is he with you?’ look, before answering the other man. ‘Over there, mate.’ He waved in the direction of the Grandstand.

‘Thank you.’ Jonathan gave a terse nod, his face set in grim lines as he strode off in the direction indicated.

‘Friend of yours?’ Terry said meaningfully.

‘Sort of,’ Tory replied, watching Jonathan until he disappeared into the Gents. ‘I don’t think he’s too impressed with our TT course,’ she understated, not sure that Jonathan hadn’t excused himself so that he could be sick! ‘If he isn’t back in ten minutes, perhaps you had better go and see if he’s all right,’ she suggested.

Terry chuckled. ‘He’s American, isn’t he?’

‘Mmm,’ she confirmed vaguely, feeling slightly guilty that she hadn’t realised Jonathan wasn’t enjoying the ride as much as she was. ‘How are Jane and the family?’ She changed the subject as she turned back to Terry.

‘All well,’ he responded. ‘We all missed you at the wedding yesterday.’

As her cousin—in fact, Denise’s older brother—of course Terry and his family would also have been at the ceremony. ‘I’m sorry I missed it, too,’ she said, not altogether truthfully. ‘But I had—other commitments.’

That ‘commitment’—she was glad to see!—was making his way back to them through the crowd at this very moment, no longer looking quite as green as he had when Tory had first looked at him after their ride.

‘How is Aunty Thelma today?’ Terry enquired.

‘Hobbling about,’ Tory assured him, happier now that she knew Jonathan wasn’t collapsed in a heap somewhere. ‘You know Mum,’ she opined, ‘you can’t keep her down for long!’

‘That’s true,’ Terry acknowledged affectionately. ‘I have to say,’ he went on thoughtfully as he gave the approaching Jonathan McGuire a glance, ‘he’s a definite improvement on the other one you brought home.’

The ‘other one’, Tory knew, being Rupert! But then Rupert, with his rakish London sophistication, on the one, never to be repeated occasion he had accompanied her to the island, hadn’t set out to win any points for charm. He had been deliberately condescending, to her family and friends alike.

But, by the same token, Jonathan McGuire was not someone she had brought home!

‘So, what do you think of our TT course?’ Terry turned to ask the other man as he rejoined them, giving Tory no opportunity to refute her cousin’s mistaken impression concerning her relationship to Jonathan.

Terry had always had a wicked sense of humour, Tory remembered with an inward groan. Admittedly Jonathan wasn’t green any more, but he was certainly still very white.

‘Jonathan McGuire. Terry Bridson.’ She introduced the two men quickly as she saw that Jonathan’s eyes were once again the flinty grey colour that warned of impending danger to anyone who crossed him, and Terry’s teasing definitely came under that heading!

She watched as the two men shook hands, Terry still grinning, Jonathan managing a grimace of a smile in return.

‘Your TT course is—interesting,’ Jonathan ventured. ‘What other forms of torture do you have for the unsuspecting tourist?’

The latter was added so mildly that the sarcasm underlying the remark didn’t sink in with Tory for several seconds.

Terry, however, roared with laughter, slapping the other man companionably on the back. ‘We call it fun here on the island.’ He grinned.

‘Hmm,’ Jonathan responded non-committally. ‘Are you one of the competitors?’

‘Not any more.’ Terry sobered. ‘I came off a few years ago.’ He slapped his damaged knee, the reason for his pronounced limp. ‘I don’t have the agility to be a competitor any more.’

‘Much to his family’s relief,’ Tory put in firmly.

Terry shrugged. ‘There is that, I suppose.’ But the wistfulness could clearly be heard in his voice. ‘Are you staying on the island long, Jonathan? Or are you just here for TT?’

From the look on his face, Jonathan didn’t care if he never looked at another motorbike in his lifetime!

‘I’m unsure of the length of my stay,’ he answered the other man, that guarded tone back in his voice.

‘If you’re still here next week, maybe you and Tory would like to come out for a quiet drink.’ Terry seemed completely oblivious to the other man’s non-committal answer. ‘This week is out, I’m afraid. For obvious reasons.’ He looked about them, the noise of bike engines, chatter and laughter almost deafening.

So was next week, as far as Tory was concerned. She had no wish to be linked as the other half of a couple with Jonathan McGuire! Especially where her family was concerned.

‘We had better be getting back.’ She touched her cousin’s arm in apology. ‘And we’ll take a raincheck on next week,’ she added as she pulled her helmet back on. ‘Neither of us is sure of our plans at the moment.’

‘Fine,’ Terry said. ‘But give me a ring before you go back to London. Nice to meet you, Jonathan,’ he finished, before limping back to the group of friends he had been talking with when they had arrived.

Tory looked at the still ashen-faced Jonathan. ‘Do you feel up to riding back to the farm on the bike? I promise I’ll go slowly.’

He briefly shut his eyes and then opened them again as he pulled his own helmet back on. ‘This has got to be the maddest thing I’ve ever done in my life,’ he said.

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