A Girl Called Tegi Read Free

grubby hand. ‘Wash those dirty paws first and what have you been eating, for goodness’ sake? Your mouth is all brown !’
    Gary went to the sink and reached for the soap as his mother put away the scone tray, then took off her apron.
    ‘I’m slipping out for something from the shops. Look after your father and make another pot of tea. Use the willow one.’
    Tegi obediently took down the teapot from a shelf and warmed it. Her mother was right about Tony Mastroni; he could certainly take her places and teach her a thing or two.
    Gary was splashing water anywhere but on his hands and face. She whipped up a towel and going to him grabbed his thick mop of brown hair gently and with the towel under her arm lathered his face.
    ‘Grubby little imp!’ she scolded fondly. ‘I bet you’ve spent all the money Dorothy gave you.’
    Gary was uttering something unintelligibly as she smothered his face in the towel.
    ‘For an eight-year-old you’re as helpless as a baby,’ she went on. ‘And don’t you dare move until I’ve combed your hair!’
    Taking a comb from a drawer, she parted the mop of hair into a neat side parting and kissed his glowing face.
    ‘Thanks, Tegi,’ he said politely. ‘There’s a smashing car outside our house. It’s a Jag, a white one .’
    ‘Really?’ She watched him reach for a scone and munch it excitedly. ‘You’re not to touch it, you understand?’
    He gazed up at her with angelic, wide brown eyes. ‘I bet he’s filthy rich. I’d love to have a ride in it.’
    ‘I suppose you would, but you aren’t to go into the lounge until the visitors have gone.’
    ‘May we have some more tea, please?’
    Tegi swung round with a startled gasp to see Tony Mastroni strolling into the kitchen. The lightweight summer suit he was wearing was well tailored and his slacks had a knife-edge crease in them.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ she murmured, surprised that she could articulate at all above the beating of her heart.
    ‘Nice kitchen,’ he observed, looking around with unabashed curiosity before coming to perch himself on a corner of the kitchen table. ‘The appetising smell of baking reminds me of home.’
    ‘Is that your car outside?’ asked the irrepressible Gary, working his way through a second scone. ‘The white Jag, I mean?’
    ‘Gary !’ Tegi cut in wa rn ingly, trying to keep her head by not being swamped by the wild leaping of her blood. There was something special about Tony, a kind of sheer masculine attraction which made a mundane kitchen seem suddenly to be a special place. He was too alive, too vital.
    Tony grinned, showing white teeth, and his eyes twinkled.
    ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
    ‘It’s great. I...’
    Tegi cut in hastily, ‘My brother Gary. He’s safe when he’s eating !’
    Tony laughed and reached out a lazy hand to ruffle the boy’s thick hair.
    ‘Which is what a boy should be, alive and full of mischief,’ he said.
    Tegi was looking round for the tray on which to place the tea pot and he was there putting it on the table for her. It was a purely domestic scene, she thought, one in which Tony would have no part. Not him! He liked his fun without responsibility. He was not husband material. Tuscany was his haven.
    A small sound distracted her, and she looked up from making the tea to see Dorothy standing in the doorway. She was wearing a stunning housecoat in cyclamen silk, evidently put on for the occasion.
    Tegi was transfixed, pushed back her long hair, blinked thick lashes, and gazed at her sister as if she, was going round the bend.
    ‘My ... er ... my sister Dorothy,’ she managed. ‘Tony Mastroni.’
    Dorothy lifted a cigarette between crimson-tipped fingers.
    ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I came down for a light—I seemed to have mislaid my lighter.’
    Gary exclaimed, ‘Gosh !’ as Dorothy drifted for w ard showing a shapely leg through the opening in her housecoat. Then Tony was there, bestowing a warm calculating smile on the red head as