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‘I doubt you would be interested.’ She shook her head again, beginning to look decidedly embarrassed now.
‘Try me,’ Logan prompted huskily.
Darcy shrugged again. ‘It’s just that— No, I really can’t,’ she decided firmly. ‘Da—Chef Simon,’ she corrected awkwardly, ‘wouldn’t appreciate it if he knew I had been discussing his personal life with one of his customers,’ she admitted.
Chef Simon? Daniel Simon…? For surely this young woman had been going to call the renowned chef by his first name? And if her tears were anything to go by, it was a liberty that implied a much more intimate relationship between them than just that of employer and employee.
Daniel Simon and this girl, Darcy?
Logan couldn’t hide his surprise. This girl looked no older than her early twenties at most, whereas from what Logan knew of Daniel Simon he was a man in his early fifties. Spring and Autumn. Not that it was an unusual arrangement, Logan acknowledged, he had just never thought of the other man in that particular light. In fact, he couldn’t say he had given a single thought to Daniel Simon’s private life!
As he didn’t want to think about it now, either! ‘You’re probably right.’ Logan nodded tersely. ‘I’ll send Karen through with the plaster,’ he added dismissively before turning to leave.
‘Mr McKenzie…?’
He turned reluctantly. ‘Yes, Darcy?’ he replied warily.
‘Thank you,’ she told him huskily, smiling at him for the second time today.
Once again causing that numbing jolt in his chest!
The quicker he got out of here, Logan decided grimly, the better! ‘You’re welcome,’ he bit out harshly, making good his escape to the adjoining office this time.
Escape? he questioned himself once he was seated back behind his desk. From the woman Darcy? Ridiculous. He had just had enough of a woman’s tears for one day—especially as she had probably completely ruined his silk shirt with those tears and the blood from her cut finger!
What must Logan McKenzie think of her? Darcy groaned inwardly.
She had tried so hard to keep her worrying thoughts at bay this morning, concentrating on serving lunch to the client and his guests. But she just hadn’t been able to control her chaotic thoughts once she’d started to clear away, and dropping the two glasses had seemed like the final straw on a day when she’d already felt as if the bottom were dropping out of her world.
But even so, she really shouldn’t have cried all over Logan McKenzie’s pristine white silk shirt. She very much doubted he would be able to remove those bloodstains!
She still had his sodden handkerchief, she realised as she looked down with dismay at the screwed-up item in her hand. Not that she could have given it back to him in this condition; she would have to launder it first and send it back to him. Not that she thought Logan McKenzie would miss one white handkerchief; it was just a matter of principle.
She—
‘Here we are,’ announced a bright female voice as Karen Hill, Logan McKenzie’s private secretary, came into the room, laden down with disinfectant cream and plasters. ‘Logan says you’ve had an accident.’ She looked at Darcy enquiringly.
Logan—Darcy was sure—thought she was one big accident! She cringed with embarrassment now as she remembered the way she had sobbed all over the poor man.
‘It’s nothing,’ she dismissed. ‘Just a plaster will be fine,’ she accepted lightly, the cut no longer bleeding, although it stung slightly.
But not as much as remembering her complete breakdown in front of Logan McKenzie a few minutes ago! The sooner she got away from here, the better.
‘Thanks.’ She accepted the offered plaster. ‘Er—do you have any idea of Logan’s—Mr McKenzie’s,’ she corrected awkwardly, ‘shirt size?’
Karen’s blonde brows shot up in obvious surprise. ‘Logan’s shirt size…?’ she repeated speculatively.
Mistake, Darcy, she admonished herself. If she intended replacing Logan McKenzie’s ruined silk shirt she would just have to find another way of finding out what size to purchase.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told the other woman brightly, avoiding Karen’s questioning gaze as she put the plaster on her finger. ‘I’ll just finish clearing away here and be on my way,’ she added.
‘Fine,’ the other woman answered distractedly, obviously still puzzled by Darcy’s earlier question.
Well, she would have to remain puzzled, Darcy decided irritably; she had already embarrassed herself enough for one day!
Once on her own she cleared away in double-quick fashion, stacking everything into the baskets she had brought up with her, even the broken glass was swept up and wrapped in newspaper for her to take away with her.
It was just her luck to find Logan McKenzie waiting for the ascending lift when she struggled down the corridor with the two laden baskets!
He turned to glance at her, doing a double take as he obviously recognised her, a frown instantly darkening his brow.
Not surprising really, Darcy acknowledged with an inward wince; the poor man was probably wondering whether it would be safe to get into the lift with her, or if there was a chance it would break down the moment the doors closed behind the two of them!
‘Hello,’ she greeted inanely.
‘Darcy.’ He nodded tersely, glancing impatiently at the lights indicating the slow ascent of the lift.
Couldn’t wait to get away from her, Darcy realised self-derisively, knowing he would probably make a point of asking Daniel Simon for her not to wait on one of his business lunches ever again! Well, he needn’t worry on that score; she was only here today because they were short-staffed.
The restaurant, Chef Simon, opened in London by Daniel Simon five years ago, had become such a success that the customers often asked him if he was able to cater for dinner and luncheon parties in their own homes. The outside catering company of Chef Simon was a direct result of those requests. With numerous pre-bookings, already six months ahead in some cases, this secondary business was obviously doing very nicely, thank you!
Unfortunately several of the staff were off with flu at the moment, which was the reason Darcy had been roped in to help today. After the last disastrous half-hour, she wished she could have claimed a previous engagement!
‘Here, let me.’ An impatient Logan McKenzie reached out and relieved her of one of the heavy baskets.
Darcy blinked her surprise, having been taken unawares, lost in thought as she was. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured dazedly. ‘But there’s really no need,’ she added awkwardly, moving to take the basket back out of his grasp.
Something he obviously had no intention of letting her do as his long, tapered fingers tightened about the wicker handle. ‘Leave it,’ he snapped impatiently as the lift finally arrived, standing back to allow her to enter first.
Darcy looked at him beneath lowered lashes as he pressed the lift button for the ground floor. Aged about thirty-five, he was incredibly good-looking—in an arrogantly austere way, she decided slowly. His short dark hair was straight and silky, blue eyes the colour of the clear Mediterranean Sea, his nose slightly long, sculptured mouth unsmiling now, although Darcy had witnessed several charming smiles during the serving of lunch, his chin squarely firm. Tall and ruggedly muscular, he looked as if he would be more at home on a farm, than in an office wearing tailored suits and silk shirts.
Silk shirts…she remembered with an inward groan, the marks of her crying earlier clearly showing on the now-dried material. She really doubted that the traces of blood on the white silk would come off during dry-cleaning, either.
Darcy was relieved when the lift reached the ground floor, having found the silence between them uncomfortable, to say the least. ‘Thanks.’ She reached to take the basket from him, making no effort to follow him out of the lift.
Logan McKenzie stood in the doorway to stop the doors closing behind him, frowning again. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To the basement,’ she told him lightly. ‘I have the van parked down there.’
‘In that case…’ He stepped back into the lift, the doors instantly closing behind him as he pressed the button marked ‘basement’.
‘There’s really no need,’ she told him once again, completely flustered at having the owner of this world-renowned company helping her in this way.
‘There’s every need,’ he rasped grimly. ‘A little thing like you shouldn’t be carrying these heavy baskets. And correct me if I’m mistaken, but was there only you dealing with the preparation and serving of lunch today?’ Logan continued firmly, completely ignoring the fact that she had been about to protest at being called a ‘little thing’, blue eyes narrowed questioningly.
‘Yes.’ Darcy shifted the heavy basket to her other hand. ‘We’re short-staffed today, you see and—’
‘No, I don’t see,’ Logan interrupted shortly, stepping out into the darkened basement that acted as a car park for the office staff of McKenzie Industries. ‘Short-staffed or not, you shouldn’t have been expected to deal with it all alone. A fact I will be passing on to Daniel Simon at the earliest opportunity,’ he added grimly.
‘Oh, don’t do that!’ Darcy turned from loading the van to protest, two wings of embarrassed colour in her cheeks. ‘I managed just fine. You had no complaints about lunch, did you?’ she pressed determinedly as Logan McKenzie still looked grim.
‘No…’ he answered slowly.
‘Then there’s no problem, is there?’ she assured him brightly.
He looked at her consideringly. ‘You know, Darcy,’ he began slowly, ‘you might find Daniel Simon less of a—bully, if you weren’t so eager to please.’
Darcy looked up at him, but the subdued lighting in the car park made it impossible to read his expression clearly. Which was a pity—because she had no idea what he was talking about!
‘It was only a lunch,’ she responded, ready to leave now, the van loaded, the keys in her hand.
‘I wasn’t particularly alluding to lunch,’ he rasped.
Then what was he talking about? Admittedly, she could have handled the latter part of this booking with a bit more detachment—in fact, a lot more!—but there really had been nothing wrong with the lunch this man and his guests had been served before her tearful outburst.
Logan McKenzie scowled at her slightly bewildered expression. ‘I’m merely offering you some advice from a male point of view, Darcy,’ he replied. ‘It’s up to you whether or not you choose to take it,’ he ended abruptly, obviously impatient to be gone now.
‘I— Thank you,’ Darcy mumbled, having no idea what advice she had just been given!
It wasn’t a question of being eager to please where Daniel Simon was concerned; she hadn’t really been given too much of an opportunity to do anything else where this lunch today was concerned. She was upset, yes, in fact she was more than upset, but it would have been churlish to refuse to help out when they were short-staffed. Business was business, after all, she acknowledged slightly bitterly.
Logan McKenzie nodded tersely before turning quickly on his heel and striding back to the still-waiting lift, stepping inside, his expression still grim as the doors closed.
What a strange man, Darcy decided as she got into the van and drove out of the car park. Kind one minute, impatient the next, then offering fatherly advice—although anyone less like a father-figure, she couldn’t imagine!
Oh, well, she decided lightly as she drove confidently through the early-afternoon London traffic. Logan McKenzie was the least of her problems at the moment. A frown marred the creaminess of her brow as she thought of what was her biggest problem.
Daniel Simon. Chef Simon.
And the fact that this morning he had calmly informed her that he intended marrying a woman he had only met for the first time three weeks ago!
CHAPTER TWO
‘THIS has just been delivered for you,’ Logan’s secretary informed him, before placing a large square parcel on top of his desk, his name and the office address clearly printed in black ink on the brown wrapping paper.
Logan looked up with a frown, his thoughts still on the contract he had been studying; the legalese in these things became more complicated by the day. His legal team could obviously deal with it, but he would have liked his cousin Fergus’s opinion too before anything was signed.
But his cousin’s housekeeper had informed Logan that Fergus had gone to Scotland, to the home of their shared maternal grandfather. No doubt Hugh McDonald had a good reason for appropriating the services of the family lawyer, but, at this precise moment, Logan had little patience for those reasons!
He laid down the gold pen he had been using to mark his way down the pages, running one of his hands over the tiredness of his brow. Yesterday evening, spent with the blonde from Saturday night, had not been the success he had hoped it would be.
In fact, after only half an hour spent alone in the beautiful Andrea’s company, he had already discovered that she giggled like a schoolgirl, talked incessantly, mostly about her modelling career, ate almost nothing, because of her figure—whatever that might mean!—and drank even less, for the same reason.
The evening had dragged on interminably for Logan, and he had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d finally been able to drop Andrea off at her apartment shortly before midnight. Without asking to see her again!
‘What is it?’ he prompted Karen now, glancing uninterestedly at the parcel she had put on his desk.
‘I have no idea,’ his competent secretary told him truthfully. ‘I haven’t opened it; it’s marked “Private and Personal”,’ she pointed out, with a speculative rise of blonde brows.
Logan’s mouth twisted wryly as he surveyed the paper-wrapped parcel. ‘Have you checked it isn’t a bomb? Or worse,’ he drawled dryly, Gloria’s shouted threats of ‘you’ll regret this’ still ringing in his ears even after the passing of over two weeks.
Karen grinned, well aware, Logan was sure, that the telephone calls from Miss Granger had ceased two weeks ago. And was obviously totally unsympathetic to Logan’s discomfort. Although that wasn’t so surprising, Logan accepted ruefully; Karen had worked for him for almost ten years now, had seen several Glorias come and go in his life—and knew that he had remained unaffected by any of them.
‘It was hand-delivered by a very reputable courier company,’ she assured him teasingly.
He grimaced. ‘That’s no guarantee!’
Karen laughed softly. ‘Go on, Logan, live dangerously for once, and open it.’
He frowned slightly at that ‘for once’ Karen had tacked onto her teasing statement. Perhaps his life did seem rather predictable to someone outside looking in, but that was the way he liked it. The way he deliberately organised it. Basically because he could remember far too many upsets and emotional scenes when he was a child to tolerate them in his own adult life…
He eyed the parcel once again before picking it up and turning it over; no return address written on the back. ‘Did the courier say who the parcel was from?’ He frowned. It wasn’t a very heavy parcel; in fact it felt so light it didn’t seem as if there was anything inside the box…
‘Nope,’ Karen answered with a grimace. ‘But if you really think it might be a bomb, do you want me to get Gerard to take it down to the basement and—?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Logan assured her dryly. ‘To both suggestions,’ he added.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ Karen prompted after several more long seconds had passed.
Logan sat back in his chair, the box still held in his hand as he looked across at her with narrowed blue eyes. ‘I bet you were one of those little girls who crept down in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve and opened all her presents before anyone else had even thought of waking up!’ he taunted softly.
‘And I bet you were one of those infuriating little boys who opened each present slowly, barely ripping the paper, playing with each new toy before moving on to the next parcel!’ Karen obviously felt stung into snapping back.
Logan gave an inclination of his head, smiling slightly. ‘It seems we would both win our bets,’ he said softly. ‘You know, Karen, you aren’t painting a very impulsive picture of me, either in the past or now!’
An embarrassed flush darkened her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Logan.’ She shook her head. ‘I realise it’s your parcel—’
‘And I’m going to open it. Right now.’ He grinned across at her. ‘I was only teasing you, Karen,’ he told her, even as he methodically unwrapped the brown paper from the parcel, opening up the box beneath to fold back the tissue paper. ‘What the—?’ He stared uncomprehendingly at the white handkerchief and white silk shirt that lay in the box.
Karen, looking over his shoulder at the contents, whistled softly between her teeth. ‘So that’s why she wanted to know your shirt size…’ she mused.
Logan glanced up at her sharply. ‘Who wanted to know?’ he rasped.
But he already knew! The white silk shirt, well…with this particular label, that could have been an expensively extravagant present from any woman. But not the laundered white handkerchief. That could only have come from one woman—Darcy!
A quick glance before he folded back the tissue paper and put the lid back on the box showed him there was no accompanying letter inside. But there didn’t need to be one; he was in no doubt whatsoever who had sent him these things. While he accepted that the handkerchief was his, and it was very kind of Darcy to launder it and return it to him, he had no intention of accepting the replacement white silk shirt. The girl was a waitress for goodness’ sake, and he knew exactly how much a silk shirt of that particular label would have cost her.
His expression was grim as he glanced at his wrist-watch: two-thirty. The restaurant would still be open. He glanced up at Karen. ‘Could you get me the Chef Simon restaurant on the telephone, please?’ he requested tautly.
‘Of course.’ Karen nodded, moving towards the door. She paused as she opened it. ‘Be gentle with her, hmm?’ she encouraged. ‘She seemed terribly sweet, and—’
‘Just get me the number, Karen,’ Logan bit out impatiently. The last thing he needed was for his secretary to think Darcy had some sort of crush on him, and to react accordingly.
He knew exactly what this replacement shirt was about, and it had nothing to do with having a crush on him, but was more likely to be because the silly woman had a crush on Daniel Simon, and didn’t want to risk losing her job working for him!
He snatched up the receiver as Karen buzzed through to him.
‘Good afternoon. Chef Simon. How may I help you?’ chanted the cheerful voice on the other end of the line.
