The Master's Mistress. Carole Mortimer
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 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