‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Darcy,’ she said miserably.
‘Well, Miss Darcy—’
‘Darcy is my first name,’ she corrected, even as she sniffed inelegantly.
Oh, no, she was going to cry again! And wasn’t Darcy a boy’s name…?
‘Your father wanted a son, hmm?’ Logan murmured mockingly.
Those grey eyes flashed angrily. ‘What he wanted, and what he got, are two entirely different things,’ she clipped.
‘It usually is where women are concerned,’ Logan drawled derisively.
Darcy looked up at him beneath those long, dark lashes. ‘Are you married, Mr McKenzie?’
Logan’s surprised brows shot up beneath the dark hair that fell lightly over his brow. What did his married state have to do with anything?
‘As it happens—no,’ he answered slowly.
She nodded—as if she had already guessed as much. ‘Women, I’ve invariably found, often respond in character to the men they are involved with. For example—’
‘Darcy, I believe you were here to serve a meal and then depart, not to psychoanalyse the client!’ Logan cut in scathingly, his jaw tightly clenched.
Until a few minutes ago he had been quietly pleased with his day; lunch had been a success, contracts were being drawn up even as he spoke to this young lady, and he had been looking forward to having dinner this evening with a beautiful blonde he had met at a dinner party on Saturday. That sense of well-being had now been lost in an increasing desire to strangle this young woman!
Darcy looked slightly flustered. ‘I’m so sorry. I—It’s just—I—I’m really not myself today!’ she choked before burying her face in her hands as the tears began to fall once more.
Logan shook his head dazedly, once again feeling totally out of his depth in the face of the renewed tears. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ he muttered before reaching out and taking her into his arms.
She felt so tiny as he cradled her against the hardness of his chest, that red hair feeling like silk against his fingers as he absently caressed it, her shoulder-blades so fragile to his touch she was like a little bird—
What on earth was he doing? This was the waitress who had come to serve lunch, for heaven’s sake! More to the point, anyone could walk in on them and completely misconstrue the situation!
He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Er—Darcy…?’
Her only answer to his tentative query was to bury her face even further into his shirt-front, the dampness of the material clinging to his chest now.
Logan felt totally out of his depth, beginning to wish that someone would come in and interrupt them—whatever construction was put on his actions!
‘Here,’ he prompted gruffly, handing her the snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket, relieved when she moved away from him slightly to give her nose a good blow.
No wonder not too many women cried in his presence, he decided ruefully, if Darcy’s unattractive appearance was anything to go by—she looked like a startled fawn: all eyes and blotchy cheeks!
‘I really am so sorry,’ she said miserably. ‘It’s just that I had some—rather disturbing news, earlier, before coming out. I don’t usually cry all over perfect strangers, I can assure you.’ She gave a watery smile.
Logan gave the ghost of a smile in return. ‘That’s okay—I’m far from perfect!’ he attempted to tease, won-dering exactly what sort of news this young woman could have received to reduce her to this state. ‘Is it anything I can help you with?’ he heard himself offer—and then frowned at this uncharacteristic interest in a stranger’s—perfect or otherwise!—predicament.
Having originated from a large, Scottish-based family—consisting of his aged grandfather, his mother, a couple of aunts and numerous cousins—Logan usually found it all too easy to distance himself from the upsets that seemed to constantly plague his family. If he didn’t he would spend most of his time caught up in one intrigue or another, and he preferred a much quieter life than that. Which was why he spent the majority of his time at his London apartment!
Why he should be showing this interest in the problems of a complete stranger he had no idea—especially one who had cried all over him and left bloodstains on his shirt!
Darcy’s smile was slightly bitter. ‘I doubt it.’ She shook her head. ‘But thank you for asking.’
He felt irritated because she wouldn’t tell him what was bothering her! What on earth was wrong with him?
‘A problem shared is a problem halved, so they say,’ he encouraged cajolingly.
‘I doubt you would be interested.’ She shook her head again, beginning to look decidedly embarrassed now.
‘Try me,’ Logan prompted huskily.
Darcy shrugged again. ‘It’s just that—No, I really can’t,’ she decided firmly. ‘Da—Chef Simon,’ she corrected awkwardly, ‘wouldn’t appreciate it if he knew I had been discussing his personal life with one of his customers,’ she admitted.
Chef Simon? Daniel Simon…? For surely this young woman had been going to call the renowned chef by his first name? And if her tears were anything to go by, it was a liberty that implied a much more intimate relationship between them than just that of employer and employee.
Daniel Simon and this girl, Darcy?
Logan couldn’t hide his surprise. This girl looked no older than her early twenties at most, whereas from what Logan knew of Daniel Simon he was a man in his early fifties. Spring and Autumn. Not that it was an unusual arrangement, Logan acknowledged, he had just never thought of the other man in that particular light. In fact, he couldn’t say he had given a single thought to Daniel Simon’s private life!
As he didn’t want to think about it now, either! ‘You’re probably right.’ Logan nodded tersely. ‘I’ll send Karen through with the plaster,’ he added dismissively before turning to leave.
‘Mr McKenzie…?’
He turned reluctantly. ‘Yes, Darcy?’ he replied warily.
‘Thank you,’ she told him huskily, smiling at him for the second time today.
Once again causing that numbing jolt in his chest!
The quicker he got out of here, Logan decided grimly, the better! ‘You’re welcome,’ he bit out harshly, making good his escape to the adjoining office this time.
Escape? he questioned himself once he was seated back behind his desk. From the woman Darcy? Ridiculous. He had just had enough of a woman’s tears for one day—especially as she had probably completely ruined his silk shirt with those tears and the blood from her cut finger!
What must Logan McKenzie think of her? Darcy groaned inwardly.
She had tried so hard to keep her worrying thoughts at bay this morning, concentrating on serving lunch to the client and his guests. But she just hadn’t been able to control her chaotic thoughts once she’d started to clear away, and dropping the two glasses had seemed like the final straw on a day when she’d already felt as if the bottom were dropping out of her world.
But even so, she really shouldn’t have cried all over Logan McKenzie’s pristine white silk shirt. She very much doubted he would be able to remove those bloodstains!
She still had his sodden handkerchief, she realised as she looked down with dismay at the screwed-up item in her hand. Not that she could have given it back to him in this condition; she would have to launder it first and send it back to him. Not that she thought Logan McKenzie would miss one white handkerchief; it was just a