The Master's Mistress (2 page)

Rogan relaxed back in his chair to place the ankle of one booted foot on top of his other black-denim-covered knee with a distinct lack of concern. ‘That’s going to be rather embarrassing for you,’ he drawled ruefully.

Her eyes widened. ‘For me?’ she said. ‘You’re the one who broke in—’

‘I used a key, remember?’

‘Only because you knew it was under the plant pot!’ she accused.

Rogan chuckled softly at her obvious indignation. ‘Perhaps you ought to consider another reason than my having “cased the joint” to explain how I knew the key was there? It might also be an idea, when you go to bed at night, to read something a little less…’ he picked up the book and read the first paragraph ‘…graphic, is probably the most polite description I can come up with!’ He read the next paragraph. And the next. ‘I had no idea that books about vampires could be so—’

‘Give me that!’ The fiery little redhead almost flew across the room to snatch the book out of his hand and thrust it behind her back, before glaring down at him. ‘Are you going to leave now or not?’

Rogan mildly returned that fierce gaze. ‘Not.’

She frowned her consternation at his reply. ‘Surely you don’t want to be arrested?’

He gave another shrug. ‘That isn’t going to happen any time soon.’

‘When the police get here—’

‘
If
the police get here,’ he corrected pointedly, before continuing softly, ‘I assure you they aren’t going to arrest me.’

Elizabeth stared down at him in frustration, totally at a loss to know what to do or say next now that this man—no, this
burglar
!—actually refused to leave the house before the police got here. The fact that she’d had no telephone upstairs with which to call the police was irrelevant; he should have made good his escape long ago!

For the first time she noticed the blood-soaked paper towel wrapped about the palm of one long hard hand. ‘How did you cut your hand if you didn’t break a window to get in?’ she pounced triumphantly.

He glanced down at his hand before looking back up at her. ‘I dropped the damned milk bottle when I was getting it out of the fridge.’ He scowled darkly. ‘A piece of the glass pierced my hand when I got down on the floor to mop up the mess.’

That 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!

‘T
EA
…?’ 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 related to Brad Sullivan. That he was, in fact, Brad Sullivan’s son…

‘Don’t look for any physical resemblance between Brad and me,’ Rogan Sullivan rasped harshly, the bitterness of his tone unmistakable. ‘Or any other resemblance, for that matter. There isn’t one, thank God!’

‘I was just thinking what a pity it was that you had to learn of your father’s death from a hospital official,’ she said defensively.

He grimaced. ‘I haven’t been to the hospital. I did call, but they refused to give out any information on Brad’s condition over the telephone. Luckily his lawyer was more forthcoming,’ he added. ‘About Brad’s death
and
the instructions he gave him to arrange the funeral.’

Elizabeth gave a pained wince at this reminder that the funeral was arranged for three days’ time. ‘I’m really sorry your father died before you were able to get here.’

‘Are you?’

‘Of course.’ She frowned at his sceptical tone.

‘From what I can gather from his lawyer, Brad knew exactly how ill he was, and had been living on borrowed time for some years,’ Rogan Sullivan revealed.

Borrowed time that Brad Sullivan had obviously chosen not to inform his only son about…

An only son who, Elizabeth now realised, was looking at her with far too much familiarity. That warm chocolate gaze moved slowly over her pyjama-clad body, pausing on the firm thrust of her breasts against the thin cotton material.

Elizabeth moved uncomfortably as she felt that gaze like a lick of heat across her skin. ‘Would you excuse me for a
few moments? If we’re going to continue this conversation I would like to go upstairs and collect a robe,’ she added pointedly, as Rogan Sullivan raised questioning brows.

‘Oh, we’re going to continue it,’ he confirmed. ‘And isn’t it a little late for modesty?’

Elizabeth’s cheeks coloured warmly as she stood up, thinking of being carried in this man’s strong arms wearing nothing more than a pair of thin cotton pyjamas…‘Nevertheless, I believe I would feel more comfortable in my robe,’ she said firmly.

‘Fine,’ Rogan accepted uninterestedly and he turned away, pretty sure that the good doctor was going upstairs in order to regroup as much as anything else.

She certainly looked more comfortable when she returned a few minutes later, wearing a serviceable blue and white striped robe tied neatly at the waist over those cotton pyjamas. Obviously Dr E. Brown was an altogether no-nonsense sort of woman. Not his father’s type, he would have thought…

Rogan placed two fresh mugs of tea down forcefully onto the breakfast bar, before sitting on the stool opposite Elizabeth Brown’s to regard her with narrowed, assessing eyes.

She straightened, obviously extremely uncomfortable. ‘I thought that you might have telephoned once you had received my letter…’

He gave a humourless smile. ‘Your very businesslike letter, informing me that “Mr Sullivan has suffered a heart attack”?’ Rogan already regretted the impulse that had made him jump on a plane and fly to England, even though he had already known his father was dead, without having the prim Dr Elizabeth Brown pointing out the futility of his actions!

Had her letter had been businesslike? Elizabeth worried. Perhaps, she acknowledged with an inner grimace. But she hadn’t known Brad Sullivan very well, and knew his son not at all, and, considering the obvious lack of warmth in their relationship, she had found it a very difficult letter to write. She could maybe have signed it with something a little less formal than ‘Dr E. Brown’, though…

Elizabeth had suggested that it might be better if Mrs Baines wrote the letter to Rogan Sullivan, but, faced with the housekeeper’s almost hysterical distress after Brad’s initial collapse, Elizabeth hadn’t liked to press the point.

‘I’m sorry if you found my letter a little—formal.’ She picked up the mug of tea and took a reviving sip, some of the colour returning to her cheeks. ‘Although it may have been more convenient if you had telephoned Mrs Baines to let her know of your imminent arrival. There have been several burglaries in the area recently, and if we had been expecting you I wouldn’t have attacked you!’ she added, slightly accusingly.

Elizabeth Brown was now embarrassed by her earlier behaviour, Rogan guessed easily. Not that she had any reason to be. His decision to come to England, after talking to his father’s lawyer, had been a purely gut reaction. A need to see for himself that his father really was dead.

Consequently, Rogan hadn’t thought to let anyone know of his arrival. Mrs Baines would have recognised him instantly, of course, despite the fact that he hadn’t so much as been back to Sullivan House once for the last fifteen years, but there was no reason why Elizabeth Brown should have done so.

All the same, that embarrassed colour in the good doctor’s cheeks was rather attractive, making her eyes
appear a deeper, more sparkling blue. Embarrassment, no doubt, at having made such a monumental error as to accuse the son of the house of being a burglar!

Well, she needn’t worry on that score. Rogan hadn’t considered himself as the son of the house for years. The ten years he had spent in the American army had given him a new family. One he could depend on a damn sight more than the one he had been born into!

He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Forget it. It isn’t important.’

Maybe not to him, Elizabeth accepted. But if she had known of Rogan’s imminent arrival it might have saved her from embarrassing herself in that ridiculous way. And there was no way she could forget she had attacked him with a book, of all things. The brass ornament dropping on his foot had probably left a bruise too, despite the heavy black boots he was wearing.

Elizabeth looked across at him with new, assessing eyes. Rogan had been right when he’d claimed he bore no resemblance to his father, in looks or nature.

Brad Sullivan’s hair had been blond and thinning, his eyes a steely blue, and although he might once have been as tall and muscular as his son, the older man had been painfully thin and slightly stooped before his death. Not even the facial bone structure was the same: Brad’s face had been more rounded, where Rogan Sullivan’s was all harshly sculptured angles.

All harshly sculptured extremely handsome angles…

Rogan Sullivan really did resemble those darkly dangerous and sexy heroes who so often appeared in the vampire and demon books Elizabeth read for relaxation after spending her days and evenings totally immersed in teaching
history to university students. No excuse, she admitted, but she enjoyed reading those types of books because of their complete escapism. She certainly hadn’t appreciated having this man taunt her about them!

This man who had so far shown remarkably little emotion over his father’s recent death…

Mrs Baines had briefly explained the situation between father and son to her; Brad and Rogan Sullivan had argued after the death of Rogan’s mother, Brad’s wife, Maggie, fifteen years ago, when Rogan had been aged only eighteen. Rogan had apparently left home shortly after that, and the next time his father had heard from him it had been to learn he had returned to his native America and joined the army.

Not that Elizabeth had needed to be told that the relationship was a strained one after learning that Brad’s only way of contacting his only child was through a post office box in New York!

‘Don’t presume to make judgements based on things you can’t possibly understand,’ Rogan advised as he saw the emotions flickering across Elizabeth Brown’s expressive face: curiosity, quickly followed by a faintly disapproving curl of that sensually fuller top lip.

She arched auburn brows. ‘I wasn’t aware I was doing so.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ She frowned her irritation with the challenge.

Rogan gave a humourless smile. ‘You were sitting there thinking that I don’t seem very upset for someone whose father has just died!’

That was
exactly
what Elizabeth had been thinking!

But perhaps she was misjudging Rogan? After all, she had no idea why father and son had argued only months after
the death of Rogan’s mother, followed by long years of estrangement. For all she knew Brad could have been a terrible husband and father.

Much like her own…

Except it was all too easy, now that the politely charming Brad was dead, to blame the mocking and seemingly uncaring Rogan Sullivan for the strained relationship that had existed between father and son.

‘So, what are you doing here?’ Those dark eyes were hard as onyx as Rogan Sullivan looked across at her in an uncomfortably assessing manner.

Elizabeth frowned. ‘I believe I already told you. I’m here to catalogue your father’s library.’

‘You said that, yeah…’he drawled. ‘I meant what are you
still
doing here now that he’s dead?’

‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ Elizabeth admitted ruefully.‘Your father engaged my services for six weeks, and…’ She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know what else to do,’ she repeated lamely.

Those chiselled lips curled disdainfully. ‘Do a lot of cataloguing, do you?’

‘During the summer holidays, yes. Exactly what are you implying, Mr Sullivan?’ Elizabeth demanded indignantly, as she saw speculation in those mocking eyes.

He shrugged. ‘That maybe physical over-exertion could be the reason my father had a heart attack a week ago?’

Elizabeth gasped. ‘Are you implying that I had a—a personal relationship with your
father
?’

‘You tell me,’ Rogan taunted; this woman really was very beautiful when she lost her temper!

Her eyes glittered deeply blue, and there was heated
colour in her cheeks. The fullness of her lips was set determinedly, her pointed chin was raised challengingly, and the spiky style of that red hair gave the overall impression of an indignant hedgehog!

‘The library was here when we moved to England twenty years ago and my father bought this house; I don’t recall him even considering having it catalogued before,’ Rogan goaded deliberately.

A nerve pulsed in her stubbornly set jaw. ‘And how would
you
know what your father may or may not have considered doing when the only contact you’ve had with him, for the last five years at least, has been through a PO Box?’

Rogan narrowed his eyes menacingly. ‘I warned you not to speculate about things you don’t understand, Liza.’

That angry colour drained as quickly from her cheeks as it had appeared. ‘I prefer to be called Elizabeth or Dr Brown!’ she bit out stiltedly.

Rogan eyed her consideringly. Obviously he had hit on a raw nerve of some kind by the shortening of her name. ‘Okay, so don’t speculate about things you don’t understand…
Elizabeth
,’ he conceded dryly.

What Elizabeth didn’t understand was why she was responding to this man’s taunts and insinuations at all!

As Dr Brown, highly qualified lecturer in history at one of the most prestigious universities in the country, she was held in deep respect by students and faculty colleagues alike. As Elizabeth Brown, a woman of considerable financial independence, she made a point of avoiding any and all situations that might lead to emotional confrontation of any kind. Especially with a man whose very presence unnerved her!

‘Unlike you, I’m not so hot on formality,’ Rogan said.
‘My friends call me Rogue,’ he explained, and Elizabeth gave a confused frown.

Rogue?

How fitting a name was that for this dangerously disturbing man!

‘How lucky for me, then, that I don’t happen to be one of your friends,’ Elizabeth answered coolly. ‘I would prefer to use Mr Sullivan, or Rogan if you insist on informality.’

‘Oh, I do, Elizabeth, I most certainly do,’ he murmured huskily.

She avoided meeting that warm and mocking dark gaze. ‘Perhaps we should resume this conversation in the morning, Rogan? We don’t seem to be achieving very much tonight.’

‘Except being rude to each other,’ Rogan pointed out.

‘Exactly.’ She nodded briskly. ‘You are obviously tired after your journey—’ She broke off as Rogan gave a chuckle, a disconcerted frown on her brow as she looked across at him questioningly. And she felt the lurch in her chest, the swelling of her breasts and tightening of her nipples, at the way the amusement in his face made him appear even more dangerous…

Appear dangerous? This man
was
dangerous! And he induced an awareness in Elizabeth, a physical arousal, that was totally alien to her.

‘Nice cop-out, Elizabeth,’ Rogan jeered, stretching wearily. ‘But I’m afraid I’m always this outspoken—what’s your excuse?’

It took all of Elizabeth’s will-power to drag her gaze away from the flexing of those muscles in the broadness of Rogan Sullivan’s shoulders. Even so, her nipples actually ached now, and there was an unaccustomed warmth between her thighs…

Her mouth firmed and she straightened suddenly. ‘It’s late, I was terrified out of my wits a short time ago, and I’m tired…’

‘Terrified out of your wits?’ he echoed incredulously, that dark gaze once again compelling. ‘I’d hate to see what your response would be if you weren’t so terrified!’ He touched his temple pointedly, a slight redness of the skin showing where Elizabeth had struck him with her book.