To Marry Mckenzie

‘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.

Logan tightly gripped the receiver; he was angry at Darcy’s actions, but there was no point in losing his temper with someone else over it! ‘I would like to speak to Darcy, please,’ he answered smoothly, realising that he hadn’t even bothered to learn the girl’s surname.

‘Darcy?’ came back the puzzled reply. ‘I’m not sure if we have a customer in by that name, sir, but I’ll check for you. If you—’

‘She isn’t a customer, she works there,’ he cut in, his resolve to remain polite rapidly evaporating.

‘I’m not sure… Just a moment, sir.’ The receiver was put down, although Logan could hear a murmur of voices in the background.

Logan drummed his fingers impatiently on his desktop as he waited, a glance at the box containing the silk shirt only succeeding in firing his feelings of annoyance.

‘Sorry about that, sir,’ the cheerful voice came back on the other end of the line. ‘It seems that Darcy will be at the restaurant this evening.’

‘At what time?’ he rasped.

‘We usually arrive about seven o’clock—’

‘Book me a table for eight o’clock,’ Logan interrupted shortly. ‘McKenzie. For one,’ he added grimly.

‘Certainly, sir. Shall I tell Darcy—?’

‘No!’ Logan interrupted harshly. ‘I—I would like to surprise her,’ he bit out through gritted teeth. Surprise wasn’t all he would like to do to Darcy!

‘Certainly, sir,’ the woman accepted. ‘That’s a table for this evening, for one, in the name of McKenzie,’ she confirmed. ‘We look forward to seeing you then,’ she added brightly before ringing off.

Logan sat back in his chair, his expression set in grim lines. He very much doubted Darcy would share that sentiment if she were aware he was to be at the restaurant this evening—not when his greatest urge was to wring her slender neck for her!

This evening already promised to be a sight more interesting than yesterday’s had turned out to be!

In fact, as he showered and dressed at his apartment later that evening in preparation of leaving for the restaurant, he actually found himself humming tunelessly to himself as he tied his bow-tie.

Because he was going to see Darcy again? he questioned himself incredulously.

Hardly, he admitted ruefully—not unless you counted—

He turned as the telephone on the bedside table began to ring. It was already seven-thirty, and if he was going to make the restaurant for eight o’clock he should be leaving in the next few minutes. But instead of the caller ringing off when he didn’t answer, the telephone just kept on ringing. Persistent, or what?

Logan grabbed up the receiver. ‘Yes?’ he rasped his impatience.

‘And a good evening to you too, cuz,’ Fergus returned.

‘Where are you?’ Logan demanded. ‘I have some contracts I need you to look at. You’re never around when I—’

‘Logan, as you are well aware, I am no longer a full-time lawyer. I only continue to act for the family as a favour to all of you,’ Fergus cut in smoothly. ‘Grandfather needed me in Scotland to discuss a few things with me. But I’m back in London now, so—’

‘What sort of things?’ Logan questioned warily; his grandfather had a habit of changing his will every month or so, depending on who was in favour at the time. Not that this bothered Logan on a personal level; he was wealthy enough not to be concerned with the McDonald millions. But his mother, as one of old Hugh’s three daughters, was likely to be furious if she was cut out of the will yet again. Which meant Logan was sure to get dragged into the situation!

‘That’s what I rang to talk to you about,’ Fergus answered evenly.

‘I’m just on my way out, Fergus,’ Logan told his cousin after a glance at his wrist-watch. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

‘It can,’ Fergus answered slowly.

‘But…?’ Logan heard that hesitation in the other man’s voice. It was that will again!

‘But, I really would rather talk to you tonight.’ His cousin confirmed there had been a hesitation.

‘Okay, Fergus,’ Logan sighed wearily, sure this had to be about his grandfather’s will. ‘I have a table booked at the Chef Simon restaurant for eight o’clock. Meet me there.’ He was sure there would be no problem setting the table for two instead of one.

‘The Chef Simon?’ Fergus echoed sharply. ‘But—’

‘Do you have a problem with that?’ Logan prompted, unsure whether or not his cousin was involved with anyone at the moment.

The three cousins, Fergus, Brice, and Logan, had been known as the Three Horrors by their family during their growing-up years in Scotland; the Three Macs when they had all gone off to Oxford University together at eighteen; now, in their mid-thirties, all of them having remained unmarried, they had become known in social circles as the Elusive Three.

But the fact that none of them had married did not preclude female involvement in Fergus’s life…

‘No, no problem,’ Fergus answered thoughtfully. ‘In fact, it’s probably a good idea. A very good idea.’ He was obviously warming to the suggestion. ‘I have to change first, but I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

Logan slowly replaced his own receiver, frowning deeply. It would be good to see Fergus on a social level; it happened all too infrequently nowadays. Although in the circumstances, it was also a little inconvenient, he realised belatedly…

Never mind, with any luck he would have a few minutes before Fergus arrived to deal with the situation concerning Darcy and the silk shirt.

His mouth tightened grimly as he thought of the meeting ahead. Time for Darcy’s surprise!

‘The man on table eleven would like to have a word with you, Darcy,’ a slightly breathless Katy informed her as she brought some dirty starter plates into the kitchen for washing.

Darcy looked up from what she was doing. ‘Me?’ She frowned. ‘Are you sure he meant me?’

‘Darcy. That’s what he said.’ Katy shrugged, picking up two plates of prawns nestling in an avocado nest before bustling back out into the main restaurant with them.

Darcy felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. A customer asking to speak to Darcy. She didn’t like the sound of that. Not one little bit!

‘Better go and see what he wants,’ Daniel Simon advised dryly, busy making a sauce for a steak he also had cooking.

Darcy gave him a scathing glance even as she took off her apron and smoothed the black skirt down over her hips, her cream blouse tucked in neatly at her slender waist. ‘Keep the customers happy at all costs, is that it?’ she returned with barely veiled sarcasm.

He shrugged. ‘Well… I draw the line at you selling your body for profit, but other than that…yes!’ he answered teasingly.

Darcy’s scowl deepened. ‘Very funny!’ she retorted. ‘Can you manage without me for a few minutes?’

He smiled across at her, blue eyes crinkling with humour. ‘I think I can cope,’ he drawled. ‘And, Darcy…’ he called softly as she turned abruptly on her heel and flounced over to the doors that led into the restaurant.

She turned at the door. ‘Yes?’ she replied tautly, chin raised defiantly.

Things had been very strained between them since his announcement yesterday morning, mainly on Darcy’s side, she had to admit. But she didn’t intend letting him off the hook with a few teasing remarks. Not this time.

‘Smile,’ Daniel Simon advised ruefully. ‘The customers prefer it!’

She only just managed to hold back her biting retort to that particular remark, instead shooting him another scathing glance before going out the swing doors that led directly into the restaurant.

Her footsteps became halting as she instantly recognised the man seated at table eleven. Logan McKenzie!

She had half guessed, because of the parcel she had sent him earlier today, and from the request to speak to ‘Darcy’, that it might be him—after all, he didn’t know her surname. But actually to see him sitting there, looking ruggedly attractive in his black dinner suit and snowy white evening shirt, briefly took her breath away.

Pull yourself together, Darcy, she instructed herself firmly. He might be one of the handsomest men she had ever set eyes on, but she probably wasn’t in the minority in that opinion. Besides, she doubted he had come here just to see her. In fact, as she saw the table he sat at was set for two, she was sure he hadn’t!

He was looking out the window as she approached, obviously waiting for his dinner guest to join him. Good; that meant their own conversation could be kept to a minimum.

‘Mr McKenzie,’ she greeted huskily as she stood beside his table.

He turned sharply at the sound of her voice, those blue eyes narrowed as he looked up at her. ‘Darcy,’ he greeted smoothly, standing up. ‘Join me for a few minutes.’ He indicated the chair opposite his at the table. ‘Unless you would prefer the embarrassment of my handing back your gift in full view of everyone?’ He looked pointedly around the already crowded restaurant, his brows raised mockingly as he glanced down at the box that rested out of general view against the leg of his chair.

Darcy sat. Abruptly. Inelegantly. Oh, not because of his threat to embarrass her. It was the latter part of his statement that stunned her. ‘Return it?’ she confirmed.

‘Return it,’ he repeated harshly. ‘Just what did you think—? I don’t like your hair pulled back like that.’ He broke off to frown across at her critically. ‘It dulls that bright copper colour to a muddy brown,’ he opined disapprovingly.

Darcy gave a ghost of a smile. ‘That bright copper colour was the bane of my life as I was growing up. I was called Carrots at school,’ she explained at his quizzical expression.

‘Kids can be the cruellest creatures in the world,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sure the male population, at least, has been more appreciative of the colour since you reached adulthood.’

Not that she had noticed!

‘Maybe,’ she conceded dully. ‘Mr McKenzie—’

‘Logan,’ he corrected sternly. ‘You can hardly be so formal with a man you’re on intimate enough terms with to present with an expensive silk shirt. In the right size, too,’ he observed harshly.

Darcy moistened dry lips. ‘I had a little help with that,’ she admitted huskily, having looked at her father and assessed that he and Logan were about the same physical build. The size of shirt had been easy after that. It had been finding the right shop to buy the shirt that had proved more difficult.

Logan’s gaze was cold. ‘I’m not going to ask from where. Or who!’ he rasped.

Darcy gave him an uncomprehending look. ‘If the shirt is the right size,’ she began slowly, ‘and it’s obviously the right colour, then I don’t understand why you want to return it…?’

‘You don’t understand!’ His expression became grimmer than ever. ‘Darcy, you cannot go around presenting perfect strangers with pure silk shirts,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.

She grinned at that, realising as she did so that it was the first time she had found anything to really smile about for some time.

Logan eyed her suspiciously. ‘And just what is so funny?’ he grated.

‘The fact that you have already informed me that you aren’t a perfect stranger!’ she reminded, her eyes glowing luminously grey.

‘I wish you wouldn’t do that,’ Logan exclaimed, shaking his head.

She raised puzzled brows. ‘Do what?’

‘Smile.’ He looked at her darkly.

It seemed she couldn’t win this evening; Daniel Simon told her to smile, because the customers preferred it. But this customer certainly didn’t!

Darcy had no idea why Logan should prefer her not to smile—and wasn’t sure she wanted to know, either! ‘Chef Simon likes us to be polite and friendly with the customers,’ she explained frigidly.

Logan studied her. ‘And do you always take into account what Chef Simon likes?’

In truth, she was so angry with him at the moment, she really didn’t care what he did or didn’t like!

But Logan McKenzie had been kind to her yesterday, more than kind, and she owed him a debt of gratitude for the way he had helped her—as well as a new white silk shirt!

‘For instance, do you think he would like the fact that you spent what must have amounted to a week’s wages on buying a shirt for a man you’ve only just met?’ Logan persisted, the softness of his voice doing nothing to hide his obvious anger.

She blinked. She hadn’t thought about the buying of the shirt in that context at all—and now that she did, it still made no difference to the fact that she had ruined this man’s shirt, and, as such, had to replace it. Even if it had cost what amounted to a waitress’s weekly wages!

Logan sighed heavily. ‘What I’m trying to say, and obviously failing to do so, is that I had no intention of telling Daniel Simon what happened between us yesterday—’

‘Nothing happened between the two of us yesterday!’ Darcy gasped incredulously, eyes wide. That cuddle had been purely platonic, and she dared him to claim otherwise.

‘I meant the fact that your behaviour was a little less than professional—’

‘It most certainly was not!’ she protested, sitting bolt upright in her chair now, her expression indignant.

‘Darcy, will you stop being so obtuse?’ Logan came back. ‘I’m trying to reassure you that I have no intention of telling your boss that you were upset and crying yesterday. In which case, you had no reason to buy me the shirt. Am I making myself clear now?’ he asked her frustratedly.

‘As a bell,’ Darcy answered. ‘You think I bought you the shirt in an effort to persuade you not to tell my boss that I was crying all over one of his private clients yesterday. Is that right?’ she mused softly—dangerously…!

‘Exactly.’ Logan looked relieved that he had finally got through to her.

The arrogance. The damned arrogance—

‘Sorry I’m late, Logan.’ The man’s voice was slightly breathless as he approached the table. ‘I had trouble finding a taxi,’ he explained as he reached them.

Darcy had glanced up as soon as she’d heard the newcomer speak. She had thought Logan was waiting for a woman to join him, but she had obviously been mistaken. The man who now stood beside their table was most definitely male, tall and dark, physically muscular in his black evening suit and snowy white shirt. Apart from the fact that his eyes were dark coffee-brown, and his dark hair was much longer than Logan’s, the two men were enough alike to almost be twins.

Those dark coffee-brown eyes narrowed now as he realised Logan wasn’t alone, that speculative gaze moving over her assessingly—and clearly coming to the conclusion that, in the black skirt and cream blouse, her hair tied back primly, with no make-up, she wasn’t Logan’s usual type at all!

That was because she wasn’t with Logan!

‘I suppose it should have occurred to me that you weren’t here alone, Logan,’ the newcomer drawled derisively.

‘Oh, but he is.’ Darcy stood up quickly. ‘At least, he was until you arrived,’ she informed the coffee-coloured-eyed man smoothly. ‘Now if you two gentlemen will excuse me,’ she said politely, ‘I’ll get back to the kitchen.’ Where I obviously belong, she could have added, but didn’t.