To Marry McKenzie

what you want; he's all yours!' And with that she continued on her relentless

way out of the restaurant, the door slamming behind her.

Logan turned dazedly to Fergus. 'What on earth—?'

'Go after Darcy, Logan,' his cousin told him economically.

'But—'

'For once in your life, will you just do what you're asked without argument,

Logan?' Fergus told him sternly, standing up. 'While you do that, I'll try and

deal with the situation here,' he offered grimly, looking pointedly across the

room to where Margaret Fraser was continuing her entrance into the room.

Although the older woman had obviously been initially shaken by Darcy's

verbal attack, she had quickly recovered her equilibrium, smiling graciously

at the other diners as she strolled confidently through the restaurant, the

three friends she had arrived with trailing behind her.

Of the two prospects, that of following Darcy, or coming face to face with

the volatile actress, Logan had to admit he preferred going after Darcy; he

would just also prefer to have a clue what was going on before he did so!

'Logan—darling!'

He cringed as, having finally spotted him standing at the back of the

restaurant, Margaret Fraser swept across the room to envelop him in one of

her theatrical greetings, her perfume overwhelming as she kissed him on

both cheeks.

'And Fergus, too,' she recognised warmly, bestowing a similar greeting on

him.

Logan watched her dispassionately as she kissed Fergus. Delicately tiny,

her shoulder-length hair gleaming like ebony, her hourglass figure shown to

perfection in a little black dress—that Logan knew would have cost a small

fortune!—the beauty of her face completely unlined, deep blue eyes fringed

by thick dark lashes.

There was no doubt that Margaret Fraser was a stunningly beautiful woman.

Or, that she was the last person Logan wished to see here this evening!

'Darcy, Logan,' Fergus reminded him, once he'd surfaced from the actress's

embrace.

Margaret Fraser gave them both a quizzical frown. 'Darcy...?' she echoed

lightly.

Logan's mouth twisted. 'The young woman who insulted you as you came

in,' he reminded her dryly.

'Oh, that Darcy.' She nodded vaguely.

'Will you just go, Logan?' Fergus urged in measured tones.

Gladly, Logan decided, nodding dismissively before striding out of the

restaurant in search of Darcy.

It didn't take him too long; she hadn't gone very far. She was leaning against

the wall outside, her slender body convulsed by desolate sobs.

After her earlier outburst, Logan had no doubt that Margaret Fraser was

somehow involved in the desolation of those tears...!

The question was—how?

How could he? How could he! And with that awful woman too.

Oh, there was no doubting Margaret Fraser was beautiful enough. But the

woman had been married twice already, had announced engagements to

other men as many times. How could he even be thinking of marrying—?

'Darcy...?'

She froze at the sound of Logan's voice behind her. She had been so upset

when she'd stormed out of the restaurant that she hadn't even noticed him.

She doubted the same could be said for her own dramatic exit!

She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks before turning to face him. 'Mr

McKenzie,' she greeted shakily, unable to meet that piercingly probing gaze.

His mouth quirked humourlessly. 'This doesn't seem to be your night, does

it?' he sympathised.

He could have no idea! She had thought the disagreement with him in the

restaurant was bad enough, but the conversation in the kitchen that had

followed had been even worse. And, then, to come face to face with that

woman as she'd stormed out—!

'Here,' Logan encouraged gently, holding out a snowy white handkerchief

to her.

She gave a watery smile. 'I've only just returned the last one you lent me,'

she reminded self-derisively, making no effort to take the handkerchief.

'Which I've just left in the restaurant,' Logan realised. 'Never mind, my

cousin will probably return it to me later,' he mused.

So the other man had been his cousin, Darcy noted, which obviously

accounted for that strong resemblance between them.

'Take it, Darcy.' Logan continued to hold the handkerchief out to her. 'Your

mascara has run,' he observed.

Darcy took the handkerchief with muttered thanks, mopping

self-consciously at her eyes—before she remembered that she wasn't

wearing mascara, that she hadn't worn any make-up this evening; the heat in

the kitchen tended to make it cake! 'Very funny,' she replied, her smile

rueful.

'That's better.' Logan nodded his approval of her half- smile. ^I'm

sure—whatever it is—that it can't be that bad...?' He bent his head to smile

back at her teasingly.

Darcy's own humour faded. 'Worse!' she said with feeling, giving an