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 matter of principle.
She—
‘Here we are,’ announced a bright female voice as Karen Hill, Logan McKenzie’s private secretary, came into the room, laden down with disinfectant cream and plasters. ‘Logan says you’ve had an accident.’ She looked at Darcy enquiringly.
Logan—Darcy was sure—thought she was one big accident! She cringed with embarrassment now as she remembered the way she had sobbed all over the poor man.
‘It’s nothing,’ she dismissed. ‘Just a plaster will be fine,’ she accepted lightly, the cut no longer bleeding, although it stung slightly.
But not as much as remembering her complete breakdown in front of Logan McKenzie a few minutes ago! The sooner she got away from here, the better.
‘Thanks.’ She accepted the offered plaster. ‘Er—do you have any idea of Logan’s—Mr McKenzie’s,’ she corrected awkwardly, ‘shirt size?’
Karen’s blonde brows shot up in obvious surprise. ‘Logan’s shirt size…?’ she repeated speculatively.
Mistake, Darcy, she admonished herself. If she intended replacing Logan McKenzie’s ruined silk shirt she would just have to find another way of finding out what size to purchase.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told the other woman brightly, avoiding Karen’s questioning gaze as she put the plaster on her finger. ‘I’ll just finish clearing away here and be on my way,’ she added.
‘Fine,’ the other woman answered distractedly, obviously still puzzled by Darcy’s earlier question.
Well, she would have to remain puzzled, Darcy decided irritably; she had already embarrassed herself enough for one day!
Once on her own she cleared away in double-quick fashion, stacking everything into the baskets she had brought up with her, even the broken glass was swept up and wrapped in newspaper for her to take away with her.
It was just her luck to find Logan McKenzie waiting for the ascending lift when she struggled down the corridor with the two laden baskets!
He turned to glance at her, doing a double take as he obviously recognised her, a frown instantly darkening his brow.
Not surprising really, Darcy acknowledged with an inward wince; the poor man was probably wondering whether it would be safe to get into the lift with her, or if there was a chance it would break down the moment the doors closed behind the two of them!
‘Hello,’ she greeted inanely.
‘Darcy.’ He nodded tersely, glancing impatiently at the lights indicating the slow ascent of the lift.
Couldn’t wait to get away from her, Darcy realised self-derisively, knowing he would probably make a point of asking Daniel Simon for her not to wait on one of his business lunches ever again! Well, he needn’t worry on that score; she was only here today because they were short-staffed.
The restaurant, Chef Simon, opened in London by Daniel Simon five years ago, had become such a success that the customers often asked him if he was able to cater for dinner and luncheon parties in their own homes. The outside catering company of Chef Simon was a direct result of those requests. With numerous pre-bookings, already six months ahead in some cases, this secondary business was obviously doing very nicely, thank you!
Unfortunately several of the staff were off with flu at the moment, which was the reason Darcy had been roped in to help today. After the last disastrous half-hour, she wished she could have claimed a previous engagement!
‘Here, let me.’ An impatient Logan McKenzie reached out and relieved her of one of the heavy baskets.
Darcy blinked her surprise, having been taken unawares, lost in thought as she was. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured dazedly. ‘But there’s really no need,’ she added awkwardly, moving to take the basket back out of his grasp.
Something he obviously had no intention of letting her do as his long, tapered fingers tightened about the wicker handle. ‘Leave it,’ he snapped impatiently as the lift finally arrived, standing back to allow her to enter first.
Darcy looked at him beneath lowered lashes as he pressed the lift button for the ground floor. Aged about thirty-five, he was incredibly good-looking—in an arrogantly austere way, she decided slowly. His short dark hair was straight and silky, blue eyes the colour of the clear Mediterranean Sea, his nose slightly long, sculptured mouth unsmiling now, although Darcy had witnessed several charming smiles during the serving of lunch, his chin squarely firm. Tall and ruggedly muscular, he looked as if he would be more at home on a farm, than in an office wearing tailored suits and silk shirts.
Silk shirts…she remembered with an inward groan, the marks of her crying earlier clearly showing on the now-dried material. She really doubted that the traces of blood on the white silk would come off during dry-cleaning, either.
Darcy was relieved when the lift reached the ground floor, having found the silence between them uncomfortable, to say the least. ‘Thanks.’ She reached to take the basket from him, making no effort to follow him out of the lift.
Logan