To Marry McKenzie

By: Carole Mortimer


from?' He frowned. It wasn't a very heavy parcel; in fact it felt so light it

didn't seem as if there was anything inside the box...

'Nope,' Karen answered with a grimace. 'But if you really think it might be a

bomb, do you want me to get Gerard to take it down to the basement and—?'

'No, I don't,' Logan assured her dryly. 'To both suggestions,' he added.

'Well, aren't you going to open it?' Karen prompted after several more long

seconds had passed.



Logan sat back in his chair, the box still held in his hand as he looked across

at her with narrowed blue eyes. 'I bet you were one of those little girls 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 Darnel 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 confirmed. '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