A Rogue And A Pirate. Carole Mortimer

       CHAPTER ONE

      ‘MIND if I join you?’

      Caitlin blinked up at the man who stood next to her, eyes the colour of sapphires flashing as brilliantly as the stone they resembled.

      She had seen the man enter the lounge of this exclusive hotel; who hadn’t noticed him as he hesitated in the doorway, surveying the occupants of the room with an arrogance that bordered on insolence, startlingly green eyes narrowed as he glanced around for somewhere to sit, all the seats at the bar being occupied?

      She had absently acknowledged his attraction, the swathe of dark hair that fell rakishly across his forehead, brows the same colour jutting over eyes of luminous green, a long straight nose, and a hard slash of a mouth, its cynical twist softened by the fullness of the lower lip, his jaw firm and uncompromising. But it was his sheer size that had instantly drawn her attention, easily six foot four, maybe even slightly taller than that, his shoulders wide and powerful, tapering to narrow hips and thighs, his legs long and muscular in the fitted black denims he wore with such ease. It may even have been that casualness of appearance that had drawn her gaze in a room full of people dressed for dinner, the black shirt unbuttoned at the throat and the tight denims standing out noticeably among the formal elegance.

      After that initial dismissive perusal she had turned away. She hadn’t expected him to choose her table as the one he wanted to sit at! But as she and the blonde woman sitting at the bar were the only unaccompanied females here, the latter having a man sitting either side of her, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that this man had chosen this table after all!

      Caitlin gave an agreeable inclination of her head, the silky curtain of her flaming-red hair falling forward to touch her breasts as she did so. ‘I was just about to leave anyway.’ She picked up her clutch-bag.

      Lean fingers encircled her wrist, the grip light but steely. ‘Don’t let me drive you away,’ he urged, his accent on closer inspection definitely from across the Atlantic.

      And he was close, surprisingly so, had chosen to sit in the chair next to hers rather than across from her. From a distance, his body lithe and lean, he had looked to be in his early thirties, but close to, the lines of cynicism were etched beside his eyes and mouth, putting him a little older than that, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six. There was an air of bored calculation about him, as if her answer was never in doubt, her reluctance only perfunctory.

      Caitlin pointedly removed her arm from his grip. ‘As I said, I was about to leave,’ she bit out coldly.

      Green eyes warmed at her icy manner, relaxing back in his chair, his long legs spread wide to accommodate their length beneath the low table. ‘And leave a visiting American all alone?’ he drawled mockingly.

      Her brows rose coolly. ‘I’m sure it doesn’t have to be that way,’ she dismissed uninterestedly.

      ‘That was exactly what I thought when I saw you sitting here all alone,’ he taunted, not at all ruffled by her haughty reply.

      She drew in an angry breath. ‘I did happen to be alone through choice,’ she snapped.

      ‘ “Misery loves company” ’ he shrugged.

      ‘I am not miserable, Mr——?’ She quirked dark brows enquiringly.

      ‘McCord—Rogan McCord,’ he supplied lightly, his mouth still twisted into that patronising smile.

      ‘Mr McCord,’ she repeated abruptly. Rogan? What an unusual name! But somehow it suited him. ‘I am perfectly happy, Mr McCord,’ she bit out. ‘Ecstatic, in fact,’ she added tautly.

      ‘Then why are you sitting all alone in a bar drinking?’ he derided.

      Caitlin sighed, wishing she had followed her first instinct and left while she had the chance. She should never have allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with this infuriating man! ‘Because drinking is what you do in bars,’ she told him caustically.

      Rogan McCord shook his head. ‘Not women on their own. And especially not women like you.’

      She couldn’t help herself, she rose to the bait he had deliberately set. ‘A woman like me?’

      He looked her over consideringly. ‘Rich—I can tell that by your designer-label gown,’ he drawled mockingly, the warmth of his gaze telling her he approved of the shimmering petrol-blue gown, and the way it clung lovingly to her slender curves. ‘And, of course, your public-school accent,’ he added derisively. ‘And you’re uncomfortable being here, I could tell that by the way you kept looking around you.’

      ‘How observant of you!’ Her eyes flashed.

      He shrugged. ‘Was I right?’

      ‘But

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