Tall, Dark & Gorgeous: To Marry McKenzie

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 con-firmed. ‘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.