The Master's Mistress. Carole Mortimer
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?