His Scandalous Mistress. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
the dark frown on his brow.
That frown darkened to a scowl. ‘Such as?’ Rogan scorned. ‘There is nothing else to do here!’ He impatiently answered his own question. ‘How the hell did I stand living here as a kid?’
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘It was your family home—’
‘This was never a family home!’ Rogan denied coldly. ‘My mother’s home, yes. My home, too, for the five years I lived here. But my father was never here; he lived in London most of the time. We were never a family together here. And after my mother died I didn’t want to be here either—’ He broke off abruptly, the flare of anger in those dark eyes as he glared across at Elizabeth telling her how much Rogan instantly regretted the revealing outburst.
And Elizabeth wondered at the reason for it…
Rogan thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘You said your own father is still alive?’
Elizabeth’s expression instantly became wary. ‘Yes… ’
Rogan’s mouth twisted derisively. ‘Take my advice, Elizabeth, and put that particular ghost to rest before he dies and you’re the one who’s left with all the unresolved issues!’
Her brow cleared as she realised this was the reason for Rogan’s anger. ‘I don’t have any unresolved issues where my own father is concerned,’ she assured him coolly.
‘No?’
‘No,’ she said flatly.
Rogan didn’t believe that for a moment—was sure that behind her cool façade Elizabeth had plenty she could say to her father. But that reticence about her, that reserve, said that she never would.
Unlike Rogan, who had plenty he would have liked to say to his own father, and now never could…
‘Fine.’ He gave an uninterested shrug. ‘I do have a few calls I need to return this morning, if you’re sure you’ll be okay dealing with the rest of this on your own… ?’
‘It’s what I do best,’ she told him dryly.
What she preferred, Rogan easily guessed. No doubt she believed that if she didn’t rely on other people for anything then they wouldn’t—couldn’t—let her down. Rogan should understand that philosophy; apart from those few close friends, he followed the same credo.
He nodded. ‘Fine. We’ll contact the police again once you’ve definitely established whether or not those first editions are missing.’
Elizabeth chewed on her bottom lip. ‘Do you really think they’ve been stolen?’
‘Don’t you?’
Well… yes, Elizabeth did think it a distinct possibility, considering they hadn’t found any of them yet and the library seemed to be the only room in the house that had been vandalised in this way. But when could a burglar have got in? How had they got in?
‘Let’s hope not, for your sake,’ she said.
‘My sake?’ Rogan echoed guardedly.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘I realise how anxious you must be to get back to your life in NewYork after your father’s funeral.’
Rogan gave a humourless smile. ‘I assure you, the disappearance of a few books—even first editions—isn’t going to alter those plans in the slightest,’he said, his strides long as he crossed the room. ‘And, Elizabeth… ?’ He paused at the door.
She looked across at him warily. ‘Yes?’
He gave a humourless grin. ‘I no longer live in NewYork.’
Elizabeth felt a jolt in her chest. ‘You don’t?’
‘Nope.’
‘But I… ’ She gave a puzzled shake of her head. ‘I wrote to you there.’
‘And your letter was duly forwarded on to me, which is why I was a little late in responding.’ He raised challenging brows. ‘Are you even more convinced now that I must be involved in something illegal?’ came his parting shot, before he let himself out of the library and closed the door quietly behind him.
Elizabeth didn’t know what to believe about Rogan Sullivan any more. The man was a puzzle within an enigma.
He was also the only man to so completely breach—however briefly—the barrier Elizabeth chose to keep about herself and her emotions…
‘THANK you, Mrs Baines.’ Rogan smiled up at the housekeeper later that evening as she put a plate of roast beef in front of him, after placing the vegetable dishes on the middle of the table. ‘This smells delicious.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sullivan.’The housekeeper was still very pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed, as if from crying. ‘It was your father’s favourite,’ she added huskily.
‘How’s Brian nowadays?’Rogan deliberately changed the subject to the housekeeper’s son, having no intention of getting involved in any sort of conversation that might involve his having to be polite about his father. Besides, he was genuinely interested. Brian was a few years older than Rogan, but the two of them had always been quite friendly towards each other during the five years they’d both lived at Sullivan House.
Mrs Baines’s expression brightened slightly. ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Sullivan. He lives up in Scotland now, with his wife and young baby.’
Rogan grimaced. ‘That must make it difficult for you to see them as often as you would like.’
‘He has his own life to lead,’ the housekeeper accepted with a resigned shrug.
Rogan nodded. ‘Tell him I said hello when you next speak to him.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Mrs Baines nodded before quietly taking her leave.
‘I suppose Mrs Baines will have to find new employment once you’ve sold Sullivan House?’ Elizabeth commented as the two of them helped themselves to vegetables.
‘The implication being you expect me to just throw her out into the street?’ Rogan said curtly.
‘It’s none of my business—’
‘No, it isn’t!’ he rasped.
Elizabeth raised reproving brows. ‘She was very upset when your father died.’
Rogan’s mouth twisted ruefully. ‘More so than me, I guess.’ He cut into the delicious-looking beef.
‘That wouldn’t have been difficult,’ she said pointedly.
‘Elizabeth, if you’re trying to kill my appetite again you’re going about it in exactly the right way,’ he warned.
But Elizabeth was too exhausted to be deliberately provocative, after hours of checking and double-checking both the books that had been on the floor and then those still on the shelves.
She was so tired that she hadn’t even bothered to change before joining Rogan for dinner.
Although even in her tired and therefore vulnerable state, she was very aware that Rogan had once again changed for dinner. The long length of his dark hair was brushed back and resting silkily on his shoulders, and tailored black trousers and a black silk shirt once again made him appear like those dark predators in the books she read…
She sighed. ‘I was only attempting to make conversation.’
‘Take my advice: attempt to make it about something else!’ His mouth was set in a grim line as he resumed eating his meal.
‘As far as I can tell, the Darwin, the Dickens and the Chaucer are all missing,’ she came back tartly.