The Master's Mistress. Carole Mortimer
by using the key from under the third flowerpot to the left on the windowsill outside,’ he explained.
What key under the third flowerpot to the left on the windowsill outside? More to the point, how had this man known there was a key under that particular flowerpot in the first place?
‘Have you been watching the house?’ she gasped accusingly.
‘Casing the joint, you mean?’ he said scathingly.
‘Yes!’ Elizabeth glared at him indignantly, hating even the thought of someone—this man!—watching the recent daily comings and goings of the members of the household before attempting to break in.
‘Interesting thought.’ He nodded. ‘This house is certainly remote enough; there isn’t another house for miles. The spare key was conveniently left under a plant pot outside. No dog to bark at unusual noises in the night. In fact, no real security to talk of. At least none that’s actually active at the moment.’
‘How do you know that?’ Elizabeth screeched. Not even the movement-sensor alarm in the house had been put on at night since Brad Sullivan had been rushed to hospital a week ago, as neither Mrs Baines nor Elizabeth knew how to set it.
‘No flashing red light on the sensor.’ He gave a pointed look at the monitor near the ceiling in the corner of the sitting room. ‘Burglars have to be a bit more high-tech these days.’ He shrugged dismissive shoulders beneath a thin black sweater.
Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. ‘Are you going to leave quietly and empty handed? Or do you intend to wait until the police arrive? I called them before coming downstairs,’ she added defiantly as he raised dark, questioning brows.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes!’
She was a plucky little thing; Rogan would give her that. She showed a lot of courage in the face of adversity. Although he very much doubted that a real burglar would have stopped to chat like this, let alone bothered to carry a woman to the sitting room after she had fainted!
He gave her a considering look. ‘Did you know that when you lie you tend to bunch your left hand into a fist?’
‘I do no—’ She broke off her protest to stare down at her clenched fist, carefully unclenching it before adding, ‘I did call the police, and they will be arriving any minute!’
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