To Marry Mckenzie. Кэрол Мортимер
in business or his personal life. Besides, the cost of a couple of glasses would hardly bankrupt his multimillion-pound, multifaceted company…
The girl reached up to wipe away the tears staining her face, inadvertently smearing blood over her cheeks instead. ‘Oh, damn,’ she muttered frustratedly as she realised what she had done, searching unsuccessfully in 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!
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, wondering 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