‘You might ask,’ Logan gave an abrupt inclination of his head.
‘Well?’ Fergus pushed further.
Logan took his time answering, sipping his wine appreciatively, all the time his gaze remaining locked with his cousin’s. ‘What makes you think there is one?’ he finally answered evasively.
Fergus’s mouth twisted. ‘She was sitting at the table with you when I arrived, the two of you were obviously deep in conversation about something.’ He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I don’t think that is the behaviour of complete strangers.’
‘Or even perfect ones,’ Logan returned dryly, lifting up a dismissive hand as Fergus seemed about to snap a reply at what he perceived as Logan’s facetiousness.
Maybe it was, but the remark had reminded him too much of his conversations with Darcy for him not to have made that connection…
‘She works for the outside catering company of Chef Simon,’ he answered his cousin economically. ‘We met yesterday when she catered for a luncheon at my office.’
‘That’s all there is to it?’ Fergus pressed.
‘Yes, that’s all there is to it!’ Logan echoed impatiently. ‘But even if it weren’t—since when have you been my keeper, Fergus?’ he charged.
Fergus seemed about to bite out a reply himself, but then thought better of it, drawing in a controlling breath instead. ‘When did you last see Aunt Meg? Your mother,’ he added softly.
Logan’s mouth quirked. ‘I know who she is, Fergus,’ he replied caustically.
‘Well?’
He sighed. ‘Fergus, I am not someone standing in the witness box suffering your own particular brand of cross-questioning!’
‘I don’t do that for a living any more, Logan, and you know it,’ his cousin dismissed.
‘Then you’re giving a good impression of it,’ Logan barked.
‘I can assure you, I have my reasons for asking,’ Fergus returned calmly. ‘Have you seen anything of Aunt Meg during the last three weeks or so?’
Logan shifted impatiently. ‘My mother is in her midfifties, and I am in my mid-thirties; neither of us feels the need to report back to the other on a regular basis!’
‘Logan, I’m not criticising your actions as regards your mother—’
‘I should hope not,’ he rasped, eyes narrowed. ‘Because if you were I would feel compelled to ask when you last saw Aunt Cate. Your own mother,’ he added pointedly.
Fergus was prevented from answering immediately as the waitress arrived with their starters.
The fish Logan thought he had ordered turned out to be Chef Simon’s pâté!
He was losing it, he decided, if he couldn’t even remember what food he had ordered. And all because of a young girl who reminded him of one of the deer on his grandfather’s estate; extremely nervy, they had glossy red coats and huge limpid eyes, too.
‘Do you want to get to the point, Fergus?’ he asked his cousin more amiably after tasting the pâté and finding it was delicious.
‘The point is, you haven’t spoken to your mother recently?’ Fergus also seemed more relaxed after tasting the deep-fried Brie that was his own starter.
Logan shrugged. ‘Not for several weeks, no,’ he con-firmed.
‘Then your being here this evening is just a coincidence?’ His cousin grimaced.
‘I’ve already said so, haven’t—? What do you mean, coincidence?’ Logan said. ‘What does my mother have to do with Chef Simon?’ He felt sure he wasn’t going to like the answer to that particular question!
Fergus drew in a deep breath. ‘Well, as you know, I’ve been to see Grandfather—Oh, no!’ he groaned, glancing towards the door. ‘That’s all we need!’
Logan had turned too, aware that something momentous seemed to be taking place at the entrance to the restaurant. A short silence amongst the other diners was quickly replaced by the babble of excited voices as they easily recognised the woman who had just swept into the room.
The actress, Margaret Fraser.
At the very same moment, Logan easily recognised the woman who had just entered the restaurant, and also became aware of Darcy finally bursting out of the kitchen—perhaps he had been premature in his assumption the couple in the kitchen were kissing and making up…? Her eyes were glittering with unshed tears, her face was fiery-red—whether from anger or those unshed tears, he wasn’t sure.
Darcy glanced to neither left nor right as she strode purposefully towards the doorway, although she stopped in her tracks as she too recognised the woman standing there looking so regally beautiful.
‘You!’ Darcy burst out with audible disgust, grey eyes definitely gleaming with anger now. ‘Well, I hope you’re satisfied,’ she continued. ‘You have 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