.

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 real-ised 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.

      ‘Darcy!’ Logan