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

‘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 several burglaries in the area recently, and if we had been expecting you I wouldn’t have attacked you!’ she added, slightly accusingly.

Elizabeth Brown was 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 relation-ship 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.