Jill Elizabeth - Shake Down

Not by a long shot. He’d hoped against hope no one would bother to put in an appearance until his business at the cottage was done, but he’d been prepared for worse to come to worst. Depending on who showed up at the property, he’d considered everything from becoming some crotchety battle-ax’s right-hand man to the role of indispensable island guide to a pasty-faced office drone. That he might be confronted with a model-stunning woman around his own age hadn’t featured in his imagination.

Would he have to stoop to romancing a Moran? Bile rose in his throat.

Maybe this chance to act the hero would prove a blessing in disguise...as long as his own disguise remained intact. Shane’s teeth clenched. Getting close to the heir was his last shot at unearthing the records that would restore his family’s honor. Of course, under normal circumstances he’d help any injured soul without a second thought—was trained to do so. A Moran, however, he’d be tempted to let rot.

The woman groaned and his heart jerked. She was coming around.

Shane yanked his cell phone from his belt pouch to request emergency services, but naturally found no signal. Despite the best efforts of a variety of cellular companies, dead areas were prevalent on the island.

Expelling hot air through his nose, Shane holstered his phone and rose to his feet. He scanned the area for the woman’s mode of transportation. If she’d driven out here on one of those tourist-popular rental motorbikes, he’d have to go all the way back to his leased cabin a quarter mile away to get his Jeep.

But the bumper of a compact car jutted from the side of the cottage. What were the chances she’d left the keys in the vehicle, along with the handbag she wasn’t carrying?

Shane took a step toward the car and his foot trod on a chunk of the roof tile that had fallen. The tile bore his weight without crumbling, not a sign consistent with frail material. Wearing a frown, he bent and picked up the slice of thick red slate. The piece looked considerably newer than the building, though minor pitting indicated enough age to have been on the roof for a couple of decades. No cracks or faults marred the surface or the broken edge.

In his uneducated opinion, the break should have appeared smooth, though not necessarily straight. Instead, regular striations along three-quarters of the broken edge suggested some kind of tool. A small saw?

Every muscle tensed as he gazed across the unfenced pastureland, but he spotted no lurker. What did he expect? A saboteur standing around gawking at the results of his handiwork?

Shane returned his attention to the evidence of tampering. Apparently someone else had a vendetta against the Morans. Given the family history, that hardly came as a surprise.

Or maybe the sabotage was directly connected to Shane’s search. Could his enemies be privy to the information that had sent him here incognito? A chill seeped through him. Was this falling roof tile intended for him and not the injured woman at his feet? Was she innocent of complicity?

Shane snorted. An innocent Moran? The phrase was an oxymoron.

And why mask deliberate mayhem in the guise of an accident? The approach didn’t fit the modus operandi of a crime family that thought nothing of snuffing out the life of anyone who crossed them. Twice now, a hit man’s bullet had nearly added Shane to the dead list, prompting him to change his name, alter his appearance and acquire a dog—a pet his true self would never have possessed. Shane glanced at the Italian Griffin sniffing delicately at the woman on the ground.

She was truly lovely. Too bad she was neck deep in intrigue she might not know existed. His pulse stumbled through several beats then his jaw hardened to granite. God, You don’t play fair! Now, not only must he keep himself among the living, but he was forced to protect a Moran long enough to uncover the truth.

TWO

Fetid breath fanned Janice’s cheeks. Someone needed a date with a toothbrush. She opened her eyes and a bewhiskered face with enormous brown eyes filled her vision. A long red tongue flicked out and swiped the tip of her nose.

With a gasp, Janice sat up and scuttled backward. Pain swooped through her skull and jabbed her injured wrist. The dog with the uncannily human face yelped and scurried over to his master who stood examining one of the roof tiles that must have crashed down on her head.

How many “accidents” did Moran Cottage have in store for her? Were they accidents? Surely they must be. But the intruder— She shook her head and winced at the responding throb. Her brain was too fuzzy to sort this out right now.

“Take it easy, ma’am,” said the man. “Atlas won’t hurt you.”

What had this guy said his name was? Shane—that was it. If she wasn’t experiencing so much as a millisecond of memory loss from the head blow, maybe she wasn’t in as bad shape as she felt.

“I’m not scared of the dog, Shane. I like animals. He just startled me. I’m Janice Swenson, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Janice Swenson. I wish the circumstances were better.” Shane knelt on one knee in front of her. Sea-blue eyes dissected her. “Where are you injured—other than your head?”

“My arm.” She clutched the throbbing limb to her chest. “I fell down the cellar stairs.”

“Ouch!” His wince breathed sympathy. “May I see?”

Something about his air of competence drew obedience from Janice, and she trapped a moan behind clenched teeth as she extended her arm.

Gently, he tugged back the sleeves of her windbreaker and sweatshirt then let out a soft hum. “I don’t see any bones poking up under the skin. From the swelling and the start of some beautiful bruising, my money’s on a sprain or a strain or maybe both.”

Janice’s lips drooped. “Kind of what I thought.”

“I could be wrong, but either way, we need to get you to the hospital. You might need a stitch or two in that head wound also.”

“Could you drive?” Every molecule of her independent streak protested the request, but what choice did she have?

“Happy to do it. Can you stand up?”

Janice nodded. Shane took her right elbow and helped support her weight as she struggled to her feet. A lifeline for a drowning person could scarcely have felt more welcome than his solid presence.

“Dizzy?” he asked.

“A little. My car is parked around the corner of the cottage. Here are the keys.” Grimacing, she fished in her jeans’ pocket and handed the ring to her rescuer.

“Let’s go,” he said. “But no faster than you’re able.”

Mild shivers coursed through Janice as Shane settled her into the passenger seat of the compact Ford. She reached for her seat belt, but he took the clip from her and leaned inside to snap the buckle into place. As his clean-cut profile paused near her face, a faint scent of lime and bay rum wafted to her nostrils.

Good taste in aftershave made another tick in the positive column for this new acquaintance. Janice closed her eyes as he withdrew and shut the car door. Too bad “acquaintance” was the most she could allow. She meant to keep her distance from anything and everything about this place. Completing her project here would sever the last link to her soiled family heritage.

The rear driver’s-side door opened and soft snuffles announced Atlas jumping onto the seat. Then, of all things, the slide and click of the seat belt informed Janice that Shane had buckled in the dog. She glanced over her shoulder and solemn canine eyes met her gaze. The animal perched on his haunches, shoulder belt across his broad chest. The whiskery muzzle pulled back in a silent grin as if to say, “What’s the matter, lady? Haven’t you seen a dog in a seat belt before?”