The Master's Mistress. Кэрол Мортимер

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СКАЧАТЬ explained the crash Elizabeth had heard earlier.

      Although not the reason this man had been taking a milk bottle from the fridge in the first place…

      ‘You don’t seriously expect me, or the police, to believe that explanation, do you?’ she scorned.

      Rogan had been travelling for hours. Fraught, tense hours, during which he hadn’t been able to sleep. Consequently he was tired and still thirsty, and, amusing as this woman undoubtedly was, he was tired of answering her questions. Especially when for him there was still the more obvious question to be answered of what she was doing at Sullivan House at all!

      He stood up, his expression becoming impatient as the redhead immediately took a step away from him. ‘I would really rather drink a cup of the tea I was making earlier than your blood!’

      ‘You were in the kitchen making a cup of tea?’ she echoed incredulously.

      Rogan raised dark brows. ‘So?’

      ‘So I don’t—For your information, I read those sort of books purely for escapism!’ she snapped defensively, as his earlier remark about not wanting to drink her blood suddenly registered with her.

      Rogan smiled slightly. ‘From the little I just read, I should think they might give you sexual inspiration, too!’

      Her cheeks coloured bright red at his obvious mockery. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Ah, at last a sensible question,’ he murmured appreciatively, before turning to stroll from the room and return down the hallway to the kitchen, to lift the teapot and pour himself a cup of the dark liquid that was no doubt completely stewed by now.

      So much for his intention of drinking a leisurely cup of tea before going upstairs and grabbing a decent night’s sleep!

      ‘Well?’ The little firebrand had followed him to the kitchen and was now standing challengingly in the doorway.

      Rogan took a sip of the tea before attempting to answer her. As he had suspected, it was slightly bitter. ‘Well, what?’ he snapped as he turned to refill the kettle before switching it on.

      ‘Who are you?’ she repeated forcefully.

      His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Obviously not a burglar!’

      Elizabeth was very quickly coming to appreciate that fact. This man might look like every forbidden fantasy she had ever had, but a burglar wouldn’t have stopped in the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea before stealing all the valuables! Or cleaned up the mess when a bottle of milk fell and smashed on the floor. Neither would he bother lifting a fainting female from that same floor in order to carry her to a comfortable sofa. And he certainly wouldn’t enter into conversation about the book Elizabeth had been reading before she went to sleep…

      How embarrassing was it that this man—a man whose every movement was as smoothly lethal as the predator hero in her book—had discovered her weakness for sexy vampire stories?

      It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was mortifying!

      ‘Are you a relative of Mrs Baines?’ Although what a relative of the housekeeper would be doing in the main house was beyond Elizabeth.

      The intruder obviously thought the same thing, as he gave her a mocking glance before replying, ‘Nope.’

      ‘Are you going to tell me who you are, or—?’

      ‘Or what?’ He leant back against one of the work-units, arms folded across the broad width of that seriously muscled chest, those dark eyes narrowed on her ominously. ‘I think a more interesting question to answer might be who are you?’ he grated. ‘More to the point, what the hell are you doing in Brad Sullivan’s house?’

      Elizabeth, momentarily mesmerised by the ripple of muscle clearly shown beneath the man’s tight black sweater, now recoiled as she heard the anger in his voice. ‘I work here.’

      ‘As what?’

      Elizabeth wasn’t sure she particularly cared for the insult that she detected in his tone. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but my name is Elizabeth Brown, and I’ve been staying at Sullivan House so that I might catalogue Mr Sullivan’s extensive library for him.’

      ‘You’re Dr E. Brown?’ The man straightened, his dark gaze incredulous as it ran over Elizabeth from her head to her toes.

      ‘That’s correct, yes,’ she confirmed guardedly, wondering why her name should mean anything to him. At the same time she felt incredibly warm under the intensity of his dark gaze.

      ‘Dr Elizabeth Brown?’

      She swallowed hard. ‘Well…yes. It’s an academic title rather than a medical one.’ Why was she explaining herself to this man? What was it about him that compelled her to answer him? That made the very air about him seem to crackle with the force of his will?

      ‘And here I was, expecting the good doctor to be a man,’ the burglar-who-wasn’t-a-burglar murmured, with a self-derisive shake of his head. ‘Would that be the same Dr E. Brown who, a week ago, sent a next-day delivery letter to one Rogan Sullivan, at a PO Box in New York, to inform him that his father had suffered a heart attack and was seriously ill in hospital?’

      Elizabeth gaped at him. There was no other word to describe it.

      Dr Elizabeth Brown, respected university lecturer, most definitely gaped!

      Surely the only way that this tall, dark and magnetically handsome man could know about that urgently sent letter would be if he was Rogan Sullivan himself?

      The son of Brad Sullivan, who, as Mrs Baines had informed Elizabeth, hadn’t been back to the family home in Cornwall for over fifteen years!

      Chapter Two

      ‘TEA…?’ Rogan prompted mockingly as Elizabeth Brown—Dr Elizabeth Brown—moved dazedly across the kitchen to sit down on one of the breakfast stools, even while she continued to stare at him with a frown on her face.

      She probably had to sit down before she fell down, Rogan acknowledged ruefully. No doubt it had been unnerving earlier, for this woman to suddenly hear someone banging and crashing about the kitchen and believing it to be a burglar. Only to now discover it was Brad Sullivan’s long-lost son come to visit. A very short visit, if Rogan had his way.

      ‘Tea would be…lovely,’ she accepted. ‘Um…Did you also receive the second letter I sent you?’

      ‘Nope,’ Rogan said shortly.

      ‘Oh.’

      Rogan’s mouth twisted as he took pity on her dismayed expression. ‘I know my father died, Elizabeth.’

      How could Elizabeth have missed the fact that this man talked with an American accent? Probably because she had been too captivated by those deep and melodious tones to notice!

      If she hadn’t been so mesmerised then she might have added two and two together and realised this man was probably СКАЧАТЬ