Virgin Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  VIRGIN

  A second chance romance

  Georgia Le Carre

  Georgia Le Carre

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  Virgin

  Copyright © 2017 by Georgia Le Carre

  The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published.

  You can discover more information about Georgia Le Carre and future releases here.

  https://www.facebook.com/georgia.lecarre

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  978-1-910575-74-1

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  1. Tyson

  2. Izzy

  3. Tyson

  4. Izzy

  5. Izzy

  6. Izzy

  7. Tyson

  8. Izzy

  9. Tyson

  10. Izzy

  11. Tyson

  12. Izzy

  13. Tyson

  14. Izzy

  15. Izzy

  16. Tyson

  17. Izzy

  18. Tyson

  19. Tyson

  20. Tyson

  21. Izzy

  22. Izzy

  23. Tyson

  24. Tyson

  25. Tyson

  26. Izzy

  27. Izzy

  28. Izzy

  29. Izzy

  30. Tyson

  31. Tyson

  32. Tyson

  33. Tyson

  34. Jake Eden

  35. Tyson

  36. Tyson

  37. Tyson

  38. Tyson

  39. Tyson

  40. Tyson

  Epilogue

  Liliana Eden

  EXTRA STORY

  IRISH TALE

  One

  TWO

  QUOTE

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  QUOTE

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  QUOTE

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  QUOTE

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  QUOTE

  THIRTY-TWO

  Epilogue

  CRYSTAL JAKE

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  Prologue

  Quote

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  QUOTE

  TWENTY-TWO

  Coming soon…

  Talk To Me

  Author’s Note

  My regular readers will know that I often insert characters who have appeared in previous stories into my new books. I have done so in Virgin too. :-)

  Though this book can be read as a standalone your reading pleasure may be enhanced by reading the Crystal Jake series.

  For all those readers who are not familiar with the Eden family, I've Included book one of this series so you can get acquainted with that bad boy. I've also included an additional story, Sexy Beast which follows on from Crystal Jake, and is book 1 of the Bad Boys of London Collection.

  I hope you'll love these characters as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

  Many thanks to:

  Editors: Caryl Milton, Elizabeth Burns

  Contributors: IS Creations

  Proofreader: http:// http://nicolarheadediting.com/

  French Translation: Gribouille Inconnue

  Last minute proofing : Brittany Urbaniak & Tracy Gray

  Prologue

  Tyson

  (Eight Years Old)

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWRsgZuwf_8

  Demons

  “Oh! My God. Your face. What happened?” my mother screams as she rushes towards me.

  “Nothing,” I mutter, taking a step back.

  She grasps my chin roughly in her hand and turns my face left then right while her eyes examine my face. It’s afternoon and I can already smell the reek of alcohol on her breath. “Who did this to you?” she demands.

  I shrug. Even having her hand on my face is painful, but I don’t allow myself to flinch.

  “Tell me,” she commands, her eyes flashing with fury.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tyson Friedman, if you don’t tell me right now, I swear, I’m going to ground you for a whole week.”

  I stare into her eyes rebelliously. Let her. I don’t care if she does.

  “Please, Ty, tell me,” she begs. She knows I can never resist her when she pleads for something.

  “Johnny Matteson called you a whore, and said I was the son of a gyppo. I punched him and his gang jumped on me.”

  She blinks in shock then draws a sharp breath. I see her throat work as she swallows hard. Releasing my chin, she straightens. Her eyes flick away from me as she sways unsteadily inside her dressing gown
. On TV the music for Countdown starts. It is one of her favorite shows. My mother is clever and often she has the answers before the clock stops ticking. Her hands shake as she flicks a lock of hair from her forehead.

  “Mary Mayweather must have started that rumor. I’ll go to the school tomorrow and talk to the headmaster,” she says vaguely. We both know she’ll do no such thing. By tonight she’ll be so drunk she’ll have forgotten the entire incident.

  I touch her arm. “Is it true? Is my father a gyppo?”

  She drops to her knees, her eyes suddenly fierce. She still loves him. Desperately. “He’s not a … gyppo. He’s a traveler. A wild and beautiful gypsy.”

  I stare at her face curiously. How transformed it is when she speaks of him. “Where is he now?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s not important.”

  “Tell me about my father, Mom. Please.” I look at her with begging eyes.

  “When you grow up I’ll tell you.”

  I shake my head in frustration. “Why should Mary Mayweather know more about my father than me? If you don’t tell me I’ll never be able to protect myself against the lies of Johnny Matteson and the other kids.”

  For a long time she says nothing. Then she nods. “Come,” she says, and takes me to her room. It smells in mom’s room of stale sweat and alcohol. She sits on the bed and pats the place next to her. I position myself beside her. Taking a deep breath, she opens her drawer and pulls out an old Bible. From between the pages she pulls out a polaroid strip. One of those you get from photo booths. She strokes the length of it lovingly before she hands it to me. “That’s your father.”

  I take it in my hand and stare at the picture. I cannot believe that young laughing girl who looks so full of life and vitality is my mom. She is unrecognizable. I stare at the man, drinking in his features. He has the same coloring as me, straight dark hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Does he know about me?”

  “He knew I was pregnant.”

  “Where is he now?” I gasp. My voice is awed. All my life I’ve wondered about my father. My mother never wanted to speak of him. Every time I asked she would start crying so I stopped asking, even though the questions burned inside me.

  She smiles sadly. “He lives in Chertsey.”

  “Can we go and see him?”

  Tears start rolling down her eyes. “No.”

  I take her hand in mine. Already mine are almost as big as hers. “Don’t cry, Mom. Please, don’t cry.” I hate to see my mother cry, but I have to know about my father. I want my father to come and save us. I want him to make my mother stop drinking. I want her to go back to being the happy girl in the picture. “Does he not want us?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Because …” her voice trembles, “because … he already has another family.”

  My eyes widen with astonishment. “Another family?” I echo.

  “Yes, he has a wife and children,” she sobs.

  “Children? He has other children.”

  “Yes.” She closes her eyes and tries to compose herself.

  “How many?”

  “Three boys and a girl.”

  “I have three half brothers and a half sister.”

  “Yes,” she admits.

  “Do they know about me?”

  She shakes her head vigorously. “No. No one knows about us. And you must promise never to tell anyone about this.”

  “What’s my father’s name?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Tell me. I must know. I have a right, Mom.”

  “What difference would it make?”

  “I want to know. I deserve to know.”

  She bites her lip.

  “Please, Mom. I’ll never tell.”

  She hesitates.

  “I promise I’ll never tell anyone.”

  “You must never tell anyone,” she cries.

  “I’ll swear I’ll never tell.”

  “Your father’s name is Patrick Eden.”

  (One Week Later)

  “What d’ya want with Patrick Eden?” the man growls. His eyes are black and full of suspicion.

  I look up at him without flinching. “I’m a friend of his son.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Which son?”

  “Jake. Jake Eden.”

  “It’s the house with the blue curtains.” He points a dirty finger down the road.

  “Thanks Mister,” I say and set off down the road. The house is opposite a field and beyond woods. There are caravans at the end of it. I walk past the house and make for the trees bordering the field. It has been raining. I cross the rain soaked grass and lie down on my stomach in a hollow in the ground. The smell of the wet earth fills my nostrils. The scent of the leaves is fresh and good. This is a good part of the world. Not like Kilburn. Where it smells of traffic and smoke and despair. The grass is cold on my bare legs.

  Lying on my belly, I wait.

  The sun comes out and the blue door of the house opens and out runs a little girl. My sister! She is wearing a yellow dress. She stands just inside the gate and jumps up and down with impatience. From inside the house a woman shouts.

  “Shane, go outside and watch your sister.”

  A boy with dark hair emerges He opens the wooden gate and immediately the girl rushes through. She is holding a kite. He is taller than me. I watch them fly the kite. Then an even older boy comes out. There is no doubt that he is my brother. He looks a lot like me. In fact, he just looks like an older version of me.

  “Jake!” the girl screams. “Look at me. Look how high my kite is.”

  He laughs and starts walking towards them. Another boy, he is smaller than Jake, but bigger than Shane and the girl, appears at the doorway.

  “Dom, come and see me,” the girl screams delightedly.

  The oldest boy turns and waits for Dom. As I stare at my half brothers and sister in fascinated astonishment, a car pulls out and my breath catches. A tall man walks out. Instantly, the girl lets go of her kite and it flies off into the clouds. She runs towards him with arms outstretched and screams, “Daddy.”

  My father!

  I see him pick her up and swing her around while she squeals and howls with laughter. I watch the family gather around their father, my father. I watch him open the boot of his car and take out presents for them all. I hear their excited voices. I see the woman that comes out of the house and how she smiles proudly at her happy family.

  I feel a sting of hatred for her. What about my mom?

  I feel the hot tears slide down my cheek. A long time after, they go into their home and close the door. I lie on the cold, damp ground. It’s not fair. They’ve got everything and mom and me have nothing.

  (Nine Years Old)

  I pour the hot coffee into the flask and press the stopper lip on its mouth then screw on the cap. I put it on the breakfast tray next to the buttered toast, pop out two headache tablets into a small plastic cup, and carry the tray to my mother’s bedroom. This is my ritual every day before I go to school. By the time mom wakes up the toast will be cold, but she says she doesn’t mind. The most important things are the two headache tablets and the hot coffee.

  I open her door and set the tray on her bedside table. The smell in my mother’s room is intolerable. Especially now in winter when the windows cannot be opened much and the stench is all pervasive. As a rule I never linger. I turn away, but something catches my attention.

  Mom’s hand.

  Hanging over the edge of the bed. Even in that fleeting glance my brain instinctively notes the stillness, the blue of the fingernails. Slowly, I turn back and look at her face. It is buried in the pillow. I touch her shoulder and jerk back.

  Her body is as cold as ice.

  Terror grips my body. “Mom,” I whisper. My voice is hoarse with fear.

  I stare at the still body.

  “Mom.”

  The body doesn’t move.

  “MOM.”


  Nothing.

  I grasp her shoulders and shake her. Her body is stiff. I turn her around. There is vomit around her mouth and down her chin, neck, clothes. Her eyes are closed. I stare at her dead face for the longest time. Then I put her back on the pillow and go to the living room. I call the police. Calmly, I tell them my mother is dead and give them my address. Then I go back to my mother’s room and open the windows. Cold air rushes in.