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.
‘Where are you?’ Logan demanded. ‘I have some contracts I need you to look at. You’re never around when I—’
‘Logan, as you are well aware, I am no longer a full-time lawyer. I only continue to act for the family as a favour to all of you,’ Fergus cut in smoothly. ‘Grandfather needed me in Scotland to discuss a few things with me. But I’m back in London now, so—’
‘What sort of things?’ Logan questioned warily; his grandfather had a habit of changing his will every month or so, depending on who was in favour at the time. Not that this bothered Logan on a personal level; he was wealthy enough not to be concerned with the McDonald millions. But his mother, as one of old Hugh’s three daughters, was likely to be furious if she was cut out of the will yet again. Which meant Logan was sure to get dragged into the situation!
‘That’s what I rang to talk to you about,’ Fergus answered evenly.
‘I’m just on my way out, Fergus,’ Logan told his cousin after a glance at his wrist-watch. ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’
‘It
