The Secret Virgin. Кэрол Мортимер

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ