Not that she’d felt any better when she’d woken at nine o’clock this morning, knowing by the sound of the radio downstairs that her father had already been up. Margaret Fraser was sure to have told him of her own parting shot as she’d left the restaurant the evening before.
She had been right about that; her father was absolutely furious that Darcy had caused a scene in the restaurant of all places. Her reply, that scenes were what Margaret Fraser enjoyed the most, had not gone down too well, and the argument that had followed had been far from pretty. With the end result that Darcy had told her father exactly what he could do with his holiday job, and that she would be looking for a flat of her own later today.
Darcy still cringed when she thought of that argument; until the last couple of days she could never remember being at odds with her father about anything. As far as she was concerned, it was all Margaret Fraser’s fault!
But it was partly because of that argument with her father that she had been late changing into her figurefitting navy-blue dress in readiness for joining Logan for lunch. Partly…
Logan hadn’t left the restaurant!
She could easily see him as she entered the room, sitting at a window table. Very much as he had done last night. Except a lot had happened since she’d spoken to him at Chef Simon yesterday evening!
Logan was looking as arrogantly handsome as ever in a grey suit, and—unless she was mistaken—the white silk shirt she had sent to him yesterday…
He stood up as she was shown to the table, Darcy noting several female heads turning in their direction as he did so. No doubt those women had been wondering—as she had last night—who would be joining this attractive man for lunch; she doubted any of them had expected him to be interested in a mousy little thing like her!
Ordinarily they would be right…
‘Darcy!’ Logan greeted warmly now, indicating for the wine waiter to pour her some of the white wine he had obviously ordered while he’d waited for her to arrive. ‘Unless you have to work this afternoon?’ He quirked dark brows across the table at Darcy.
‘I am, at the moment, what I believe is known in acting circles as “resting”,’ Darcy answered brittlely.
Logan gave her a sharp look. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said dismissively.
‘Neither does my father,’ she scorned. ‘But I have a feeling, when he marries Margaret Fraser, that he will very quickly find out!’
‘Shouldn’t that be if he marries her?’ Logan replied hardly.
‘Not according to my father,’ Darcy muttered with remembered bitterness.
‘Presumably, by your earlier remark, you’re no longer working for him?’ Logan queried.
‘We’ve decided that a parting of the ways—in all areas of our lives—is probably for the best. Nice shirt,’ she added dryly, looking at the snowy white garment.
‘Damn the shirt,’ Logan came back. ‘No, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,’ he continued a little less fiercely. ‘It’s a beautiful shirt. And I don’t think I ever thanked you for it,’ he admitted awkwardly.
Perhaps he wasn’t a man who was used to accepting presents. Probably more used to giving them, Darcy decided.
‘You’re welcome.’ She nodded. ‘What made you change your mind about keeping it?’ she enquired as she picked up the menu and began looking down the food on offer.
‘The fact that you had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to get it for me,’ he said quietly.
‘I see.’
‘Darcy—’
‘Have you tried the lasagne here?’ She looked over the top of the menu at him. ‘I believe it’s supposed to be delicious.’
‘Darcy, I’m trying to talk to you,’ Logan said wearily.
She raised auburn brows. ‘I thought you invited me out to lunch?’
‘I did,’ he returned sharply. ‘Because we need to talk.’
‘And not eat,’ she replied understandingly, closing her menu and putting it down on the table-top. ‘Talk away,’ she invited.
Logan paused. ‘You seem different today somehow,’ he said eventually.
‘Do I?’ she returned in that same brittle voice. ‘Perhaps we should put that down to the fact that I’m a little—upset, that my father and I are no longer even speaking to each other because of his decision to marry a woman I can’t even begin to like!’
Her voice broke slightly over the last. To her inner annoyance. She was rather tired of appearing immature and emotional in front of this man. In fact, she was more than tired of it!
‘It will all sort itself out, Darcy,’ Logan told her gently, reaching out to put his hand over one of hers.
She looked across at him with cool grey eyes. ‘You seem very sure of that?’
‘I am.’
‘How can you be?’
His hand squeezed hers slightly. ‘Because I—’
‘May I take your order now, sir? Madam?’ The waiter stood expectantly beside their table.
‘No, you—’ Logan broke off his angry retort, drawing in a deep, controlling breath, before turning to Darcy. ‘Are you ready to order?’
She smiled up at the waiter to make up for Logan’s previous terseness. ‘Lasagne and a green salad, please,’ she ordered—but wasn’t absolutely sure she would be around long enough to eat it!
‘I’ll have the same,’ Logan announced.
‘Would you like any water with your meal—?’
‘No, we wouldn’t,’ Logan interrupted the man gratingly, glaring up at him with icy blue eyes.
‘Thank you.’ Darcy smiled up at the young man again, receiving a grateful grin in return before he left in the direction of the kitchen.
Logan removed his hand abruptly from covering hers. ‘I realise that until a few hours ago you were a waitress yourself,’ he said harshly. ‘But do you have to be so friendly with the staff?’
Hurt flared in her eyes at the unwarranted rebuke, making them appear almost silver. ‘Good manners cost you nothing, Logan,’ she returned briskly. ‘Besides, why should I ruin his day, just because mine isn’t turning out to be so brilliant?’
‘Thanks,’ Logan said sarcastically.
Darcy sighed. Why was she even bothering to go through with this? Because she was still angry? Or because she wanted to see just how far Logan was willing to go in this charade? The latter, probably, she acknowledged heavily. But this whole situation was grating on her already frayed emotions.
‘Logan, exactly what is it you want from me?’ she demanded suddenly, giving up all pretence now of this being a pleasant lunch together. Not that it had ever been that in the first place—on either side!
Logan looked startled by the question, eyeing her warily. ‘What do you mean?’
She pursed her lips, her expression scathing. ‘Stop treating me like an idiot, Logan,’ she bit out disgustedly. ‘I mean, what do you, Margaret Fraser’s son, want from me?’ she challenged, her eyes gleaming silver once again.
She hadn’t been able to believe it this morning when, in the heat of their argument, her father had told her exactly who and what Logan McKenzie was, demanding to know what the two of them were plotting together.
At