His Scandalous Mistress. Кэрол МортимерЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 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 NewYork, 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