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the pockets of her trousers for a tissue.
'You like that word, don't you?' Logan murmured, his head tilted as he
looked at her properly for the first time.
She was a tiny little thing, barely reaching up to his shoulders, black trousers
and a cream blouse emphasising the slenderness of her body, that
shoulder-length bright red hair framing a face that, at first glance, seemed to
be covered in freckles. On second glance, he saw the freckles only covered
her cheeks and nose; her grey eyes were framed by thick dark lashes, her
mouth wide, although unsmiling at the moment, her chin pointed
determinedly. Not exactly—
Where had that smile come from? Logan wondered dazedly as he found
himself instantly reassessing the opinion he had just formed of this girl's
looks being unremarkable. When she smiled, as she was doing now, those
grey eyes became darkly luminous, dimples appeared in the slightly
rounded cheeks, her teeth shone white and even in a softly alluring mouth.
Logan stared at her uncomprehendingly; he felt as if he had just had all the
breath knocked out of his body!
'It's better than a lot of the alternatives,' she acknowledged. 'And, while I
appreciate your offer concerning the glasses...' the girl continued to smile,
appearing to have no idea of the effect she had just had on him '...as you
said, it's not worth getting upset about,' she dismissed with a shrug.
'Then whatever were you crying about?' Logan rasped, angry with
himself—and her!—for his unprecedented reaction just now.
The smile faded—and so did Logan's confusion. He shook his head. The
girl was plain, for goodness' sake; just a load of freckles and smoky grey
eyes!
'Well?' he snapped impatiently.
She was looking up at him reproachfully with those wide grey eyes now.
'I—I—I've cut myself!' She held up the damaged finger.
Logan scowled down at it. 'It appears to have stopped bleeding.' Which it
had. 'And it doesn't look too serious.' Which it didn't.
And, he decided irritably, he had already wasted enough of his afternoon on
this situation—whatever it might be!
'I'll have my secretary bring through a plaster,' he bit out abruptly. 'In the
meantime, I would suggest you give that finger a wash. And your face,' he
added with an impatient glance at her bloodstained cheek.
She put a hand up self-consciously to her cheek. 'I said I'm sorry for
disturbing you.' She frowned, looking on the verge of tears once again.
She could have no idea how—momentarily!—she had disturbed him!
'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!
