To Marry McKenzie

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 Darnel 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—'

'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