His Scandalous Mistress: The Master's Mistress / Count Toussaint's Pregnant Mistress / Castellano's Mistress of Revenge

‘Who the hell are you?’

Elizabeth was so shocked to hear the harsh but melodic voice coming from behind her that as she turned the brass ornament slipped from between her fingers.

‘Ow!’

Straight onto the burglar’s foot, she realised, as the man turned his back on her to bend down and grasp the top of his boot, where the heavy ornament had obviously landed, with painful results, before dropping to the tiled floor and rolling well out of Elizabeth’s reach.

She looked around for another weapon to defend herself with, and very quickly realised that the burglar stood between her and that block of sharp knives.

The book she had been reading! Elizabeth had forgotten it was still tucked under her arm, but she grabbed it now and proceeded to hit the man repeatedly over the head with it.

‘What the—!’ The man straightened and turned, before reaching out to grasp both of Elizabeth’s wrists and hold her hands up and away from him, well out of hitting distance. ‘Will you stop attacking me, woman?’ he growled.

Elizabeth became very still, eyes wide as she stared up at him.

It was the man from the book she had been reading!

The same narrowed and glittering black eyes. The same shoulder-length, silky dark hair. The same harshly sculptured face; prominent cheekbones, a hard slash of a nose, chiselled lips set in a grim line, and a square, determined jaw. The same very tall and lithely muscled body, completely dressed in black…

The same predator?

For the first time in her life Elizabeth fainted…

‘Well, that was certainly different!’ Rogan drawled derisively, as the woman he had picked up in his arms and then carried to the sitting-room sofa finally began to stir and regain consciousness.

She was a tiny woman, probably aged in her late twenties, and a whole foot shorter than him at only a couple of inches over five feet. She had short, auburn spiky-styled hair, a creamy, heart-shaped face; delicate cheekbones, a short, straight nose, a full bow of a mouth, and a small pointed chin that could be raised determinedly if she felt so inclined. As it had been earlier, when she’d attacked him—first with a brass ornament and then with a book, of all things!

Her eyes, as they opened, were a deep sky-blue, and surrounded by the thickest, darkest lashes Rogan had ever seen, he discovered as she sat up abruptly on the sofa to look across at him with the apprehension of a startled deer.

‘Why are you still here?’ she breathed warily.

‘Why am I still here?’ he repeated incredulously.

The woman moistened dry lips. ‘You had plenty of time to get away when I—when I… ’

‘Swooned?’ Rogan suggested mockingly.

‘Fainted!’A dark frown appeared between those blue eyes. ‘A perfectly normal reaction to being attacked by a burglar!’

Yes, that chin could definitely be very determined when this woman wished it to be! The bristling stance of that slender body beneath her slightly over-large cotton pyjamas also attested to her indignation.

Rogan had never particularly cared for the idea of women wearing pyjamas, preferring the woman in his bed to wear either nothing at all or something feminine in silk. Except this woman somehow managed to wear unflattering blue cotton pyjamas and still look sexy!

Maybe it was the way the material only hinted at the curves beneath? Or could it be that the pale blue material made her eyes look bigger and bluer? Whatever it was, his little attacker was one very sexy package.

So what she was doing at Sullivan House?

His mouth tightened slightly. ‘Perfectly natural,’ he ac-knowledged. ‘Except for two things. Firstly,’ he bit out harshly as she raised questioning brows, ‘I’m not a burglar. Secondly,’ he continued, when she would have interrupted him, ‘you were the one doing the attacking. As evidenced by my bruised foot and battered head!’

Elizabeth felt the warm colour in her cheeks. She had attacked him. Firstly by dropping the ornament on his foot, and then by hitting him with the book.

The same book that now lay open across one muscled, denim-clad thigh! As if he had been reading it while waiting for Elizabeth to regain consciousness. Oh, good grief… !

Her chin rose defensively. ‘I very much doubt that the police will be too interested in my efforts to defend myself considering that you’re the one who broke in!’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ the man taunted. ‘I’ve seen several cases in the English newspapers recently where the burglar was given compensation for being attacked by the owner of the house he had just broken into.’

Elizabeth had seen the same newspaper reports—and she questioned the sanity of the legal system!

‘There’s also the fact,’ the man continued relentlessly, ‘that I didn’t break in.’

‘You—’

‘I unlocked the door into the kitchen 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.