HOUSE OF SECRETS

To clear his imprisoned father’s name, Shane Gillum must find evidence hidden in a Martha’s Vineyard cottage. But he arrives to find the “vacant” property being prepped for sale by real estate agent Janice Swenson. Is she tied to the notorious owners? Or is she in over her head as the “accidents” on the property grow increasingly dangerous? And who is the saboteur targeting—Shane with his search, or Janice with her dark, hidden past? With so much at stake, trusting Janice is a huge risk...but keeping silent about the cottage’s mysteries could mire them both in a deadly scheme.

“Look out!” Janice shouted.

At a highway intersection, a midnight-blue SUV ignored a red light and roared toward her side of the lightweight car. Shane’s plunge on the accelerator plastered Janice to her seat.

His face shrouded under the bill of a wide-brimmed hat, the driver of the other vehicle laid on his horn. The blast rang in Janice’s ears as the little Ford whizzed beyond the SUV’s massive bumper.

Sucking a quavering breath into her lungs, Janice stared at Shane’s sober profile. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he kept his gaze locked on the road.

“Did you notice a license plate number?” he asked.

“I was too scared, and it happened so fast.”

She stared warily out the window at passing traffic. This was too weird. Was the whole island warning her away?

She’d left the family name and all such associations behind long ago, but did someone with a vendetta against the Morans know who she was? Unfortunately, the number of people with reason to hate the Morans—any Moran—was legion.

Did that include Shane Gillum?

JILL ELIZABETH NELSON

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children, who have settled nearby.

Shake Down

Jill Elizabeth Nelson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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A good name is more desirable than great riches;

To be esteemed is better than silver or gold.

—Proverbs 22:1

With prayers of compassion for the victims of crime...and for the secondary victims—the innocent families of the guilty.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader,

Extract

ONE

Janice Swenson squatted on her haunches, frowning down into the ink-black hole beneath a hatch in the floor. Dank air wafted into her face and she shivered. It was too easy to imagine this whole property rotting beneath the weight of fetid family secrets.

Disposing of this cottage she’d inherited from a distant relative might prove to be more troublesome than Janice would have anticipated. At any other time in her life, she’d have sold the property, sight-unseen, and called it good riddance. But she had her reasons for coming to Martha’s Vineyard to handle the transaction personally.

If her superstitious days weren’t well behind her, Janice might be tempted to think Moran Cottage was bent on doing her in. At her first step onto the front porch, she had nearly plunged her foot through an eroded board. Then as she’d explored the walk-in kitchen pantry, a shelf let loose, tumbling expired canned goods onto her shoulders. A few aches across her back betrayed bruises forming. Now she’d wrestled open a trap door in the floor of the hallway outside the miniscule bathroom and found the cellar.

At least her decade of experience as a Realtor had prepared her to deal with little issues such as lack of power in a run-down property. Janice swiped a flashlight from her belt-loop clip, clicked it on and pointed the beam into the pit. A set of treacherously steep stairs ended in a packed-earth floor.

She frowned. If she wanted to sell this unexpected—and unwanted—inheritance, besides adding onto the bathroom and completely renovating the kitchen, she might have to invest in pouring cement down here. Those projects would eat up a lot of her budget, making it doubly important that she do as much as she could of the simpler tasks herself—basic cleaning, wall-painting, buffing and refinishing the vintage wood floors and brightening up trim and moldings.

The plank steps appeared thick and sturdy, though the pitch of the descent was almost like a ladder’s. Surely there was another entrance from outside the cottage, probably a set of those nearly flat-to-the-ground cellar doors, but why traipse through the overgrown weeds outside when access lay before her?

Janice hauled in a cleansing breath and squared her shoulders. If snakes or spiders lurked below, she might be startled for a split second, but she could thank God neither arachnophobia nor ophidiophobia numbered among her issues.

With one hand on the adjacent wall, she lowered herself and found the top step solid, though the nails emitted small creaks that echoed faintly through the darkness. She continued her descent until her head dipped below the floor then panned her flashlight around the space that yawned like a man-made cavern. Square, oaken pillars, similar to the ones that held up the porch roof, supported the floor above in strategic places. The area seemed to be as large as the entire cabin and to have no interior walls, but the flashlight beam didn’t penetrate far enough to tell.

Could she turn this space into another living area? She’d have to find a better light source to make that decision. There must be an overhead lightbulb with a string, or even a light switch, down here. It would be nice to know where it was for when the power company turned on the electricity later today—provided its staff kept their promise.

Peering intently into the shadows, hunting for that elusive bulb or light switch, Janice lowered herself onto the next step.

Crack!

The board collapsed beneath her foot, pitching her forward. A scream rent her throat and her flashlight flew away as her hands thrust out instinctively to catch her fall. She hadn’t far to go, but far enough for impact with the hard-as-cement earthen floor to rattle every bone in her body. Bright pain speared up her left arm.

Janice lay flat on her stomach, fighting breath into her lungs and groping for a coherent thought. Stupid! She’d become distracted and forgot to pay attention to the conditions in an unfamiliar environment.

Tears filled her eyes and she whimpered as she gingerly gathered herself into a sitting position. Heat banded her left wrist and she hugged the arm to her chest. Great! Now she was injured—whether a sprain or a break had yet to be determined. Either condition could incapacitate her for weeks, and she’d allowed herself only the summer to finish the work, sell the place and shake off the muck of family legacy. This time forever.

Janice collected her flashlight and hooked it to her belt loop. Then she struggled to her knees, and from there, to her feet. One knee stung, but at least no other body part seemed to have suffered more than minor abrasions and bruises. Biting her lower lip between her teeth, she cautiously started up the steep stairs. The third from the bottom step had given way where it would have been fastened to the side panels. Those creaky nail sounds took on new significance.

With a soft moan, she lifted her leg high over the missing step and finally managed to emerge onto the main floor hallway. As much as she would have liked to slide down the wall, huddle on the dusty floor and indulge in a good cry, she forced herself to head up the passage.

Her rental car sat in the weed-infested gravel parking area beside the cottage. The drive from here to the hospital, shaken and hurting, didn’t appeal to her, but neither did calling for an ambulance—if cell service even existed out here.

She rounded the corner into the main room, empty of furnishings like the rest of the cottage. Movement outside the mullioned picture window stopped her in her tracks. Her jaw gaped as oxygen vacated her lungs.

Someone stood on the porch, face framed in a rectangular pane. In the shade of the porch roof, she couldn’t make out features, but the dark craters that must be eyes fixed her with molten intensity. She’d never been one to sense emotion from people the way her psychologist friend Laurel did, but the sheer malice of the glare wrapped Janice in a sheet of ice. So this is what people meant when they said their blood ran cold.

“Who—who’s there?” She forced the words past rigid lips.

The porch boards moaned as the figure tromped away. By an act of will, Janice wobbled out the door in pursuit. Trespasser or not, surely she’d imagined the ill intent. Maybe this person would help her get to the hospital. If not, she’d at least like to be able to describe the intruder if she decided to report the incident to the authorities.

Avoiding the rotten board, Janice crossed the porch and trod down the front steps. A tangy Atlantic breeze billowed through her windbreaker and tossed a veil of chestnut hair across her face. With an exasperated huff, she used her good hand to brush the long strands behind her ear. She should have bound up the unruly mop in a ponytail this morning.

Where had the person gone?

Her gaze spotted no intruder scampering down the hillside strewed with boulders and tufts of greening vegetation. At the bottom of the incline, the slim ribbon of white beach lay empty except for small rocks glinting like grayish marbles amidst shiny granules of fine sand. The playful tussle between surf and sand made a chuckling, shushing sound as sunbeams danced on lacy blue waves as far as the eye could see. The sights and sounds would be calming if she weren’t in pain and alarmed by an intruder.

Clutching her throbbing wrist, she started a cautious circuit of the cottage. If someone was there she’d easily see the person. Moran Cottage poked up from the ground like an impudent blip on ten acres of overgrown pastureland. Though the cottage came with a shed and, of all things, a functional outhouse, the nearest inhabited structure lay beyond a distant stand of oak and maple trees.

At the side entrance to the kitchen, Janice climbed up pitted cement steps and tried the door, but found it locked. At least a vandal or a robber would have to break something to get in. Like the front window? What would the intruder have done if he hadn’t caught sight of her? Was the trespasser merely curious or bent on mayhem?

She moved to the rear of the cottage. Still no one. The pastureland stretched barren and empty. The outhouse was vacant and the shed was locked up tight—no hiding place there. A little farther up the back of the cottage, she found the outside cellar entrance. A rusty chain and enormous, aging padlock secured the doors. She’d need chain cutters to gain access unless the key to the old lock was somewhere among the jumble of antique furnishings and outright junk stored in a rental facility in Edgartown.

Sighing, she scanned the open field once more. Surely a trespasser wouldn’t have had time to get out of sight. Had her senses been addled by the fall so that her mind concocted from thin air the person at her window?

She plodded to the front of the cottage and up the porch steps. Gingerly finding her way over the treacherous board, she pulled her key ring from her jeans’ pocket. She needed to lock up and get to the only island hospital as best she could on her own.

Deep barks erupted from the beach area and Janice turned around. A mottled-brown dog the size of a small pony romped in a circle around a tall man who strolled along the edge of the surf. His attention was on the ocean, not on the cottage or on her.

“Hey!” Janice cried, waving her good arm in the air.

Her stomach lurched with a twinge of queasiness in reaction to prolonged pain. It was definitely a good idea to recruit help in reaching the hospital emergency room.

“Hey!” she hollered again and tottered off the porch, still waving.

The dog halted and let out staccato woofs as it stared in her direction. The animal’s master said something to it, though Janice couldn’t make out what. Then the man lifted a hand toward her and trotted up the faint path between the beach and the cottage, dog loping at his side. A gray Anorak hugged his broad shoulders, and long legs clad in a pair of faded jeans easily conquered the steep hillside. The wind ruffled thick sandy-brown hair above a broad smile.

“Hello,” the man called from yards away. “Shane Gillum here. And this is Atlas.” He patted the top of the dog’s head. “You must be my new neighbor.”

“I’m hurt,” Janice said. “Can you—”

Dizziness swept through her and she staggered back against the porch rails. A snap sounded from the roof overhang and the dog let out a sharp bark.

“Watch it!” Shane yelled, breaking into a run toward her.

A blow hammered the top of Janice’s head. Pain enveloped her skull as the sky and landscape waxed a midnight-blue shot with sparkly pinpoints of light. Then nothing.

* * *

Lips pressed into a tight line, Shane knelt beside the woman sprawled on the ground and checked the pulse at the graceful curve of her throat. Strong and steady. That much was good. Cursory examination of the wound buried beneath thick reddish-brown hair revealed a superficial cut. An amount of blood welled from the injury out of proportion to the size of the trauma—typical of head wounds—but the cleansing blood flow was already tapering off. He wouldn’t touch the site and risk infection.

However, serious injury to the skull might lurk beneath the minor cut. Shane peeled back the lids of her eyes. The pupils were of matching and normal size inside vivid green irises. Uniform pupils were another good sign, but it was too soon to become complacent. He needed to get her to a medical facility as quickly as possible.

Just before that chunk of roofing tile crashed onto her head, hadn’t she said something about being injured? Even while she was speaking to him, she’d staggered. Was one of her legs hurt?

Shane scanned the tall and slender yet very feminine length of the woman’s body. She wore a dirt-smudged blue windbreaker over a gray sweatshirt, a pair of sensible sneakers and designer jeans—expensive, unless he missed his guess—sporting a coat of dust and a small rent in the knee that looked recent and not a part of the design. He skimmed his hands down one leg and then the other. No discernible swelling.

At his side, Atlas whined. Shane ruffled the bristly fur at the dog’s neck.

“It’ll be all right, boy.” Hopefully he spoke the truth. “This wasn’t the way we’d planned to meet the new owner of Moran Cottage, if it came to it, eh?”

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?”

A chuckle spurted between her lips, but a throb in her head cut the sound short. She pressed the heel of her right hand against her forehead then gingerly investigated the lump forming on the crown of her skull. Her fingertips encountered a sticky substance that was likely drying blood.

“Don’t feel the area,” Shane said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Germs.”

“Right.” Janice dropped her hand to her lap, eyeing the reddish residue on her fingers.

She must be a sight to behold. Beyond bedraggled, but why should she care? Even if this guy was cute and kind and smelled nice, she’d be gone in a few months, never to return.

Shane backed the car away from the cottage and another wave of dizziness swirled through her. As he headed the vehicle onto the dirt track that led toward the highway, Janice fought the urge to close her eyes again. If she didn’t strive to stay oriented, the dizziness could easily lead to an embarrassing upheaval from her churning stomach.

“The nearest hospital is twenty miles away,” Shane said.

“In Oak Bluffs. I checked such things out on the internet before I came to the island. With my refurbishing plans for the property, I wanted to be prepared for the off chance of an accident requiring medical attention. But I didn’t figure on needing the services of a doctor quite so soon. I’d hoped not at all.”

Shane gave her a sidelong look as they joined the sparse traffic on the paved highway. He opened his mouth as if to say something then closed it and returned his attention to the road.

“Good thing it’s early in the season,” he said at last. “When the tourists start mobbing the place, getting anywhere can be miserable. And forget about getting there fast. That’s why a lot of folks rent bicycles.”

“I may do that myself later on... Well, at least I was going to.” She scowled at her injured arm. “Now a lot of things will have to wait until I’m fit again.”

“You’re going to continue with your plans for the cottage, ma’am?”

“It’s Janice, not ma’am.” She was in too much pain to conceal her annoyance at his terminology. You’d think she was in her dotage rather than no older than he was. Probably younger, in fact.

He let out a mellow laugh. The pleasant sound smoothed her hackles marginally.

“Sorry, Janice. In my EMT training, ‘ma’am’ is standard address for an adult female.”

“You’re an Emergency Medical Technician? I should have guessed from the way you handled things back at the cottage.”

“Paramedic, actually, but I’m not practicing as such on-island.”

“You’re not from here? Of course not. You speak too crisply for a New Englander.”

His shoulders rose and fell in a slow shrug. “And your lovely drawl drips Southern honey, not sea salt.”

Janice clamped her lips closed. They’d established that neither of them was an island native, and both were here prior to the regular tourist season, so they weren’t on vacation. His familiarity with traffic conditions during tourist season said he’d been here before, but the same could be said of lots of people. Like Shane, Janice had no intention of going into her history. Not that her curiosity wasn’t piqued by this enigmatic stranger, but she could respect personal space.

Yeah, right, as her honorary niece Caroline would say. This tap and slide of verbal rapiers had energized her, chasing pain to the edges of her mind. A small grin tilted her lips. Getting to the bottom of Mr. Shane Gillum might be a pleasant distraction while she healed.

“Since I’ll be out of commission for a while do you have any suggestions for how to go about hiring someone to handle the renovations?”

He pursed his lips and tilted this head. “You’ll have to let me think about that one.”

“Fair enough. Maybe someone at the hospital will have a lead for me. What brought you to my beach in the nick of time?”

“Our daily walk.” Smiling, Shane jerked a thumb toward his dog, who offered a woof of confirmation.

“You live nearby?”

“Renting a ramshackle cabin about a quarter mile up the beach. I’ll be here for the summer. Bumming, basically. Mulling over my future.”

Had he experienced a recent trauma in his life, necessitating a change of direction? A divorce perhaps? His ring finger was as bare as hers. Or maybe his summer of discontent was due to boredom—though a career as a paramedic didn’t sound too dull. Suffering from burnout more likely. She could be brassy from time to time, but she wasn’t rude enough to ask the question outright.

“I might take up antiquing during my stay on the island,” he went on. “I’ve heard Martha’s Vineyard is a good place to pursue that hobby. Since you’re embarking on cottage renovations, I assume you own the place.” He shot her a raised-brow glance.

“I’m a Realtor and home stager by trade. The heir to the cottage has never lived anywhere near here and doesn’t care to do so. The cottage hasn’t been inhabited for nearly twenty years, so it’s my task to supervise the process of getting it ready to sell.”

There. She’d delivered the stock explanation she’d practiced in her mind on the flight to the island, and she’d even sounded casual about it. The words offered facts in a plausible light without betraying the whole truth that was none of anybody’s business.

“Must be an interesting career.” The frown in his voice negated his words.

She laughed then winced at a jab of pain in her head. “You don’t sound too enthused.”

Color tinted his cheeks. “No, I didn’t mean... Well, what I meant was that it’s probably fun, creative work, but it’s got to be a hassle sometimes, pleasing your clients.”

“What do you know? Somebody got the downside of my business in two seconds flat. Contrary clients. You’re a perceptive man.” She grinned. Now she was really starting to be sorry she couldn’t be totally forthcoming with a guy this savvy and sympathetic.

He answered her smile. “I don’t think that jolt on the noggin is going to have any lasting effect. You’re pretty sharp yourself. I suppose when the work’s done the owner will have to stop in and approve the work.”

“Believe me the heir wants less than nothing to do with the place. I have carte blanche, within a budget. The only ones I need to please are me and the buyer.”

“Kind of a dream job then.”

“So it would seem.”

Janice pressed her lips together. This was supposed to be a simple in-and-out job, requiring a brief investment of time doing work she enjoyed. She hadn’t counted on the complication of accidents, arranged or otherwise. It would be so nice to decide that the series of goofy mishaps was nothing more sinister than the result of a house in a state of disrepair. If not for the person standing on the porch when she’d emerged from the basement, she would probably be ready to stick to that conclusion. Now, questions reigned.

What should she make of the possibly malevolent trespasser? In her mind, the incident was eerie, but it could have simply been a curious local teenager—the figure had been too tall for a child. Or it might even have been an adult passerby. Grown-ups could be nosey, too. Then how did her mystery visitor disappear so quickly?

“Now you’re the one who sounds less than enthusiastic.”

Janice glanced at her impromptu chauffeur. His sober gaze and knotted brows questioned her, as if he sensed her troubled thoughts. She forced a thin smile. Unless she wanted to invite unwelcome inquiries, her fears and misgivings must remain her own for now.

“The whole picture changed when I messed myself up. There was a lot of work I wanted to do myself, now I— Look out!”

At a highway intersection, a midnight-blue SUV ignored a red light and roared toward her side of the lightweight car. Shane’s plunge on the accelerator plastered Janice to her seat. Face shrouded under the bill of a wide-brimmed hat, the driver of the other vehicle laid on his horn. The blast rang in Janice’s ears as the little Ford whizzed beyond the SUV’s massive bumper. The airstream of the near miss rocked the smaller vehicle.

From the backseat, Atlas let out a high-pitched whine.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Shane assured the animal.

Sucking a quavering breath into her lungs, Janice stared at his sober profile. Shane’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he kept his gaze locked on the road.

“Did you notice a license plate number?” he asked.

“Not hardly! I was too scared, and it happened so fast.”

Her whole scalp prickled and her heart continued to bunny hop around her chest cavity as she stared warily out the window at passing traffic. This was too weird. Was the whole island warning her away? She’d left the family name and all such associations behind long ago, but did someone with a vendetta against the Morans know who she was? Unfortunately the number of people with reason to hate the Morans—any Moran—was legion. Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

“Traffic doesn’t usually get so crazy this early in the season.”

Shane’s words drew her attention and she turned toward him. The droop of his lips and narrowed eyes betrayed troubled thoughts. Much like hers—only he couldn’t know being with her might carry risk. Should she tell him?

No, she’d sound nuts, and she could be totally off base anyway. Maybe she was just having the proverbial bad day. Besides, if she explained her misgivings she’d have to expose who she was, and that was out of the question when her greatest desire was to bury her Moran legacy with depth and finality. Unless, of course, she was misreading the matter. If these accidents weren’t accidents, and they weren’t related to her family name, was the folly of her misspent youth coming home to roost—again? But events just prior to her retreat to Martha’s Vineyard should have put an end to those consequences. The serial killer was dead and that was the end of the matter. Right?

Janice cast around in her mind for a change of direction in this conversation and a question occurred to her. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned knowledge about the tourist season. How often have you been here?”

“When I was a kid, we came to the island for a few weeks every July. Haven’t been back since I was around twelve when my folks started preferring Florida, California or Mexico for our vacations.”

“I see. You picked a ‘mulling’ spot that held pleasant memories.”

He angled a one-sided grin toward her. “Discerning woman.”

“No, that’s my psychologist neighbor back in Denver.”

“Denver? You can’t have grown up there, either.”

Janice forced a smile. It was a little late for biting her tongue. She’d revealed a tidbit of personal information, but then, so had he with that remark about his childhood vacations. What could it hurt to tell him where she’d grown up? Refusing to do so might seem suspicious.

“I was born and raised in Wilmington, South Carolina, but I haven’t been back there since I lost my parents during my first year in college.”

Silence fell for several blinks of Shane’s eyes. “Sorry to hear about your loss,” he finally said in strained tones.

“Me, too.”

Janice clamped her lips shut. No one needed to know the details of the “loss” that still stung her heart like a thousand hornets. Maybe when she unloaded the last morsel of Moran property, she could heal and get on with her life...if dealing with the dilapidated condition of the cottage or negotiating island traffic didn’t kill her first.

To save her sanity, she was going to believe recent events were unfortunate accidents. To save her life, she was going to keep her eyes peeled and senses sharp in case they weren’t.

* * *

Seated in the waiting area of the emergency department at the Oak Bluffs hospital, Shane scowled at the blank wall opposite him. Other people’s conversations droned in one ear and out the other. That was no accidental near-miss with the SUV on the way here. The driver had accelerated toward them, intending to ram them, or perhaps he’d meant to miss them but send a message. Was the message intended for him or for Janice?

He had come to Martha’s Vineyard believing that none of the other Morans were aware of Reggie Moran’s secret stop-off at his island property shortly before his fatal plane crash. Shane had also heard that the heir to the place was a fairly distant relative who didn’t number on the crime family roster. Not that such a detail made the heir an upstanding citizen, but at least the person was not directly linked to the group that hunted Shane. However, even though the mob Morans might not be aware of Reggie’s full itinerary on the day he died, they might be bent on shaking down any and every locality connected to Reggie, even a place that he hadn’t, to their knowledge, visited for two decades.

How did Janice fit into the picture? The woman hadn’t exactly been frank about the identity of the mystery heir or her relationship to the person. Was Janice hired through friendship with the Moran heir, or was she contracted as the result of someone who knew someone, which would indicate nothing more than an arm’s length acquaintance? Either scenario was common enough, but whichever was the truth might tell him a lot about what sort of person Janice was. He’d yet to meet a Moran who wasn’t as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and that went for their associates, too.

Had the saboteur seen through Shane’s disguise, thus making them both targets? Maybe not. The SUV had aimed for the side where Janice was sitting, and she was the one with the injured wrist and bonk on the head. He needed to find a way to get a gander at that cellar step she said gave way beneath her. If that incident was pure chance he’d eat his socks.

Neither setup with the roof or the stairs guaranteed a fatal result but would easily cause injury, just as it had done, as well as discourage someone from pursuing renovation plans for the cottage. A spooked heir might let the place go for pennies on the dollar, say, to someone needing free rein and plenty of time to ransack the property. If Shane didn’t know he wasn’t the saboteur that criteria could apply to him.

The high stakes made the battle lines fierce between the Morans and him, but if his enemies were behind the sabotage and knew Janice was only an agent, not the actual owner of the property, the arranged accident scenario made a little more sense. Shane might even encourage himself to believe his cover had not been blown. In fact, it was more essential than ever that he remain undercover. If the wrong people recognized him as Seth Grange, his presence in Janice’s vicinity would escalate the subtle hazing she was now experiencing into a death sentence in a hurry.

However, the forces who wanted the property left vacant wouldn’t take kindly to Shane Gillum’s interference on the agent’s behalf, either. Maybe Shane would face a few of those arranged accidents himself, but watching out for those was better than the bullet to the brain he’d get if the Morans pierced his cover.

The cottage was not the only place that called for a thorough shakedown. His mention of antiquing had been deliberate. Maybe Janice would let him sort through the storage unit’s contents in search of valuable items. She didn’t need to know that the item of the greatest value would be the most current, and finding it was the best way to move her clear of danger. With God’s help, maybe he could bring this terrible chapter in his life to a close without anyone else getting hurt—or at least any more hurt than she already was.

Shane consulted his watch. He needed to check on Atlas. It had been nearly an hour since Janice had disappeared into the bowels of the hospital for treatment, and Shane had left the dog in the car with a pair of the windows cracked open. Good thing the weather was cool. In a few weeks, temperatures were likely to shoot up significantly.

He rose and approached the small vending machine available to the people in the waiting area. A few coins sown into the machine reaped a bottle of water. The wastebasket next to the machine contained an empty cup that would meet canine needs.

Out in the parking lot, Atlas was sprawled in the backseat, panting lightly, tongue lolling. He seemed grateful for the water and said so with a few laps of the tongue on the hand that offered the refreshment. The dog’s big, dusky eyes smiled at Shane, and he smiled back.

Amazingly his pulse didn’t so much as skip a beat in handling this furry new friend. Shane might even keep the lovable galoot if he survived to succeed at his mission. Not that his knees wouldn’t knock and his tongue cement to the roof of his mouth if any other large dog came within ten feet of him. He wasn’t that phobia-free.

A grim smile spread Shane’s lips. Only people with similar phobias could appreciate the emotional sweat equity he had put into making friends with Atlas. Wisely, he’d chosen a breed that, though large, was also particularly friendly. Atlas didn’t seem to have an aggressive bone in his body, which made him a horrible guard dog but perfect as an identity-camouflaging companion for a guy with dog issues.

After taking Atlas on a brief walk to give him an opportunity to water a light pole, Shane returned the dog to the car and headed back into the hospital. From the hallway leading into the exam rooms, a willowy figure moved gracefully toward him, left arm in a navy blue sling.

Janice smiled when she saw him, dark eyebrows lifting toward a tousled wealth of chestnut-colored hair. He should have known straight off the bat that this was no Moran. He had yet to meet one—male or female—who didn’t sport flaming hair and ruddy brows and lashes to match. Of course, her eyes were green like the Morans’, and hair color could be changed—he should know—but dying the facial hair might be excessive. Most conclusive of all, this woman didn’t act like any Moran he’d ever met.

“Hey,” she said, halting in front of him, those green eyes frank and open. “Thanks for waiting. You didn’t need to feel obligated to do that.”

“I didn’t feel obligated at all. Glad I could be here when you needed a hand. But I guess you’re kind of stuck letting me use your car to drive back out to my place. I can drop you off wherever you’re staying and then get another neighbor to follow me in my Jeep while I return your vehicle.”

Her gaze went solemn. “That seems like an awful lot of bother. Glad I don’t have to put you to it. I’m staying at the cottage, which is apparently right next to your place. I think I can handle letting you drop yourself off then taking the wheel the rest of the way home.”

“You’re joking, right? The place is falling apart around you, and you’re going to sleep there? What about a bed...chairs...a table...food? Of course, you can always eat out in Chilmark or Menemsha. In fact, I can recommend any number of the seafood places, but—”

Janice cut him off with a wave of the hand and a laugh. “I appreciate your concern, Shane, but you should see the trunk of the car. It’s stuffed with more than luggage. After I flew in this morning, I spent a few hours in Edgartown picking up anything I thought I might need to rough it for a few days. Besides, the electricity should be on by the time we return, and a guy is coming tomorrow to check out the pipes and the water heater before getting the water service restored. I’ll be fine.”

Shane puffed out a long breath and scratched his head. “You don’t exactly strike me as the ‘roughing it’ type.”

“Oh, really! What type do I strike you as?” Her tone teased, but her eyes narrowed.

Shane scrambled for the right words. He’d better not blow this deal now! He cleared his throat. “Would you think badly of me if I say ‘soft dinner music and caviar on toast points’?”

“You’d put me in with the snooty set?”

“No, I was picturing more the grace and elegance set.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her lower lip, but a smile peeked out. “I’ll accept that.”

“Whew!” Shane passed a mock wipe across his forehead with the back of his hand, and she laughed.

“Does the doc say you’re free to go?” he asked.

Janice lifted the sling-clad arm a few inches. “A hairline crack in a wrist bone, along with a bad sprain, as you thought. They gave me a short cast. And no stitches in my head, just a butterfly dressing. My brain seems sufficiently un-addled to require an observation stay in the hospital, so yes, I’m ready to blow this Popsicle stand.”

Her bright gaze, brimming with wry humor, shot sparks of interest through him. He quenched them quickly.

“What did they give you for pain meds? Maybe you shouldn’t drive at all.”

“Nothing stronger than extra-strength ibuprofen.”

“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a night at a comfy hotel or B and B in Oak Bluffs. I could come get you in the morning.”

Please let her agree to a night away from the cottage.

He needed a chance to scout the place—check for signs of intruders, even use his amateur lock-picking skills to enter the premises and do whatever he could to make sure no more unpleasant surprises awaited the unsuspecting occupant. Who knew? He might even find what he was looking for and put an end to the threat altogether. It was the least he could do for someone thrust into a dangerous situation not of her own making.

But Janice shook her head. “I’m stubborn to a fault. That place is not going to get the best of me. I have a job to do, and I mean to see it through.”

Shane studied the lifted chin and determined gaze of the woman before him. She meant what she said. In that case, it behooved him to stick to her as closely as possible, not only in hope of discovering what he needed to find, but to offer what protection he could.

“Are you still looking for someone to take over the nonprofessional tasks for you?”

Her eyes glinted like emeralds. “You know someone?”

Shane spread his arms. “You’re looking at him.”

He gazed into her wide eyes. What if she said no? His heart throbbed in his chest. How would he keep tabs on the situation? But what if she said yes? How would he keep himself objective and detached when the smiles this woman sent his way dizzied him like a knock on the noggin?

THREE

Janice’s eyes popped open to find hazy fingers of dawn plucking at the edges of yellowed shades. Fat chance she’d get any more sleep. She’d struggled for the few hours she’d obtained. The hazardous events of yesterday haunted her.

What should she make of all the crazy things that had happened? True accidents or arranged? Was someone out to get her, or was she just skittish from her recent brush with death in Denver or because of the taint of her birth family? How could she know the difference? Probably not by running away, though the option appealed like a high, dry cave in a monsoon. She couldn’t live life huddled in the dark behind stone walls. Whatever was going on, she had to face it. Maybe yesterday was a fluke and today would be smooth sailing. No way to find out until she got up and plunged into the tasks ahead.

Janice gathered her muscles to sit up but subsided with a huff onto her inflated mattress. Her battered body objected to a perky start. Scowling, she looked around her Spartan surroundings in the larger of the cottage’s two bedrooms. The only adornments were gossamer cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. The few utilitarian objects scattered about had come inside with her.

Her suitcase yawned open in one corner. A lamp she’d bought in Edgartown sat on the floor in the opposite corner. Nothing decorated the weathered walls, not so much as a mirror, which she no doubt badly needed. She ran her tongue over her teeth. A toothbrush would be welcome, also.

There was a silvered mirror in the dilapidated bathroom, a toothbrush in her suitcase and jugs of water in the kitchen to take care of her liquid ablutions until the water was restored whenever the plumber came today. Provided the plumbing still worked after all this time, she’d be able to take a shower. Until then, she would have to be downright eighteenth century in caring for her personal needs.

The notion had been in the category of minor inconvenience until her accidents of yesterday. Now the simplest activities could be a challenge, but she’d manage. She had to. Staying at a public place and answering well-meant questions from strangers was out of the question when she’d come here for privacy and anonymity.

Finally, steeling herself against the aches and pains, Janice eased upright and gingerly stretched—with one arm anyway—then stuffed her feet into a pair of mule slippers. Yawning, she shuffled to the kitchen where her food, toaster, hot plate and cleaning supplies waited.

Yesterday when she and Shane returned from the hospital, the electricity was on—thankfully. And thank goodness for electric baseboard heat. At least the cottage was nicely warm this morning. Janice had a haunting reason to dread a cold environment. Not something she was going to allow herself to think about this morning. She pushed away the memory as she reached for a fresh bottle of water from the vintage 1950s refrigerator that went nicely with the scuffed and chipped burnt-orange countertops.

Shane had given up on urging her to seek out the comfort of a hotel and insisted on carrying everything from her trunk into the cottage. He’d made several trips to the tune of her warning about that faulty porch board. He’d even blown up her mattress with the help of the electronic air pump, calling the gadget “pretty slick,” then helped unpack and put away all her kitchen items.

“You’ve got enough here to see you through a brief famine.” He’d laughed as he stowed boxes and cans. He had a nice laugh.

Bathed in early morning sunrays that reached her through the kitchen window, Janice’s spirits took an upturn. Her unexpected helper was turning out to be equal parts amusing and exasperating. Shane had been a total mother hen about leaving her here alone last night, but she’d been firm, and at last he’d taken Atlas and headed out with a final admonishment to get a landline phone installed ASAP.

Yes, Sergeant Gillum, she’d thought and nearly saluted. After what they’d been through, he’d probably felt as though he had a stake in her well-being. What would she have done without him? Matters would probably have gone quite differently yesterday without his help.

Janice sobered. Was Shane Gillum among God’s ways of assisting her through this rough patch or were things coming together too easily? Not that her injuries equated to easy, but her replacement worker had popped up effortlessly, seemingly out of nowhere. Should she be suspicious?

Suspicion and paranoia were family traits—the guilty were naturally suspicious of others. Since she had no guilty reasons for coming here to dispose of this property, she’d like to choose a different reaction. Shane had showed up when she’d needed someone and then gone above and beyond to be helpful.

He appeared to be a private sort, as she was herself. In all other respects, he’d proved compassionate and helpful. Just a guy looking for some peace of mind through a change of scenery. Again, they had a lot in common. Hopefully, they would work together well—he’d work and she’d supervise, that is.

If he was starting a new antiquing hobby, she’d been told the storage unit in Edgartown held quite a few pieces. She’d yet to check out the contents and would need help when she started sorting through things. Shane would come in more than handy. Some items she might use to stage the cottage for sale. Others she could sell outright. Maybe Shane would be interested in some of the pieces in exchange for his work. Then her budget wouldn’t be so strained. Who knew? Maybe she’d find a few things to keep for herself.

What was she thinking? Janice shook her head as she capped the bottle of water. She wanted nothing that bore the Moran stain. Whatever she couldn’t sell or exchange for labor would go into the nearest trash bin.

An hour later she’d washed, dressed with a bit of an awkward struggle in a sweatshirt and jeans, and brushed her teeth and hair. After numerous one-handed attempts, she’d finally managed to gather her heavy locks away from her face and into a loose ponytail bound with a large hair clip.

Tired before the day had any traction under it she leaned against the kitchen counter while her bagel toasted. Her breakfast popped up just as the porch boards squealed and a knock sounded on the door. Glancing from the steaming, golden-brown goodness to the front door and back again, she sighed and headed to answer the knock. If Shane’s early-bird habits were going to cause her a cold meal, she’d dock his pay. Well, at least she’d razz him a little.

Janice opened the door, a quip on her tongue, but the words froze behind her teeth. The most unusual person she’d ever seen in her life—and she’d seen a few—gazed at her with bright hazel eyes rimmed in a virtual rainbow of eye shadow. The woman was about a head and a half shorter than Janice but nearly as wide as the doorway. She wore a floral print, muumuu-style dress under a crisp white apron edged in eyelet lace. A knitted shawl hugged sturdy shoulders, and a silver-white, beehive hairdo rose to a height that a more slender neck might find difficult to support. She hugged a small paper sack to her ample bosom.

“Hi, there,” the woman said with a beaming smile framed in vivid red lipstick. The word there came out “they-ah.” Definitely a native New Englander.

“Hello.” Janice tried a return smile, but it probably didn’t succeed as much more than a puzzled grimace.

“When I heard someone was out at the old Moran place, I could scarcely believe my ears. But here you are, pretty as a picture.” The woman bobbed her several chins.

“I take it the rumor mill is alive and well on Martha’s Vineyard.” So much for a low profile.

“You got that right, lambkin, and second to none.” The woman grinned and rocked on pudgy feet overflowing serviceable brown clogs. “I apologize that it’s taken a while for me to find a spare minute to drop by. I knew someone was here a couple of days ago when some fishermen at sea reported spotting lights up at the old Moran place. Scared their hair frizzy. They were talkin’ all crazy-like about ghosts and long-dead pirates, but I told ’em in no uncertain terms to stow their imaginations. There’s always a sensible explanation, and I’m lookin’ at her. I—”

“That’s impossible.” Janice burst into the woman’s chatter.

“What’s impossible?” The rainbow eyes blinked at her.

“Lights. Here. Days ago. I didn’t arrive on the island until yesterday morning, and the electricity wasn’t turned on until yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, what do you know about that?” Her guest frowned. “I’m thinkin’ some jackdaws bored of a poor night’s fishin’ got a snoot full and started tellin’ each other stories about bootleggers and pirates. Imagined the lights out of the reflection of the moon on the water.”

Janice inhaled a deep breath. Pirates? Bootleggers? Typical activities of her ancestors. But no peg-legged, eye-patched ghost was behind the strange clump of accidents she’d encountered since reaching Martha’s Vineyard. If those things were sabotage, they’d been carried out by flesh and blood.

“Sorry to see you’ve met with difficulties.” Her guest nodded toward Janice’s sling. “Please tell me you didn’t get hurt on our island.”

“I can’t assure you of that, but it was my own fault for not watching my step going down into the basement.” For now, Janice would count that version true, unless examination of the broken step told a different story.

The woman clucked. “I was on my way to work this morning and just had to see if I’d heard right. Then I saw your lights were on for real, so I thought I’d stop and introduce myself. Esther Mae Furbish here. Essie Mae to my friends, and that’s everyone!” She burbled a laugh that drew a genuine smile from Janice.

“I’m Janice Swenson, the Realtor handling renovation and sale of the property.”

“Sale, you say? Place like this’ll bring a pretty nickel with all those off-islanders hungry for vacation homes.” Essie Mae’s lips pursed as though she’d sucked something sour, but then she broke into her infectious grin. “Guess I should be grateful for the summer swarms. Without the tourist trade my job would be in jeopardy. My little place is next one up the road from here, Chilmark-way. You couldn’t buy it off me for love or money. To hang on to it, I wait tables at the Beach Shanty in Menemsha. You stop on in someday soon for the best chowder on the island. If I’m not there, tell ’em Essie Mae sent you, and you’ll get a 10 percent discount.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the offer.” A stiff breeze whooshed across the porch, ruffling the fringe on Essie Mae’s shawl and lapping at Janice with a chilly tongue. She shivered.

“Here I am keeping you standing in the doorway with my jawing.” Essie Mae hugged her shawl close, displaying glittery blue nail polish and an eclectic array of rings on every finger, including the thumb.

“Would you like to come in?” Janice stood back.

Maybe she could share her bagel or even toast another one, but she’d be challenged to know where to seat a guest with only a folding camp chair available. Apparently she needed to remedy the furniture situation sooner rather than later if curious neighbors were going to be stopping by.

“Another time, lambkin. Like I said, I’m due at work.” Essie Mae checked her watch and let out a little squeak. “Better scoot. Here you are.” She extended the brown paper bag. “Mulberry preserves. Made ’em myself.”

“Thank you.” Janice took the bag. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You already said it, lambkin. Thank you is more than enough.” She waggled be-ringed fingers, turned and took a step away from the door. “Whoops!” Her arms flapped as she regained her balance. “Soft spot in the floorboards, dear,” she said over her shoulder. “Good luck to you. The place needs a lot of TLC.”

“So sorry about that,” Janice called as Essie Mae hustled off the porch, holding her towering hairdo in place against the wind.

Janice’s pulse fluttered in her throat. She’d forgotten about the treacherous footing until it was too late to warn her guest. Unless she wanted to be liable for someone’s broken leg, she’d better address the porch boards first thing.

She returned to the kitchen, shaking her head. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she pulled the jar of preserves from the bag. Her mouth watered. What a thoughtful woman. And entertaining, too! If circumstances were different, Janice might enjoy a stay on the island.

At least now she had something yummier than margarine to spread on her bagel. A few more seconds in the toaster would warm it again. She pressed the toaster lever down as the creaky porch announced another visitor or maybe the return of the same.

With a groan, Janice headed for the door. A knock sounded, punctuated by a loud crack and a canine yelp. Atlas! She broke into a run.

* * *

At the sound of splintering wood and a high-pitched yip, Shane whirled from the door and dropped his gaze to find Atlas struggling to free his right hind leg that was buried in a hole in the floorboards. Scolding himself for allowing the dog to frisk around the rickety porch while he knocked, Shane knelt and placed his hand on the whimpering animal’s head.

“Steady there, boy.” The gentle words and touch must have ministered some comfort because Atlas stopped trying to tug his leg from between the boards and subsided, panting, onto the porch.

“Oh, no!” Janice knelt by his side.

“Pet him and calm him while I work his leg out,” Shane said.

She immediately complied, cooing to the animal and stroking his head. Atlas’s eyes rolled up in doggy bliss and he relaxed further.

“Perfect.” Shane gave Janice a grateful look.

Faint shadows under her eyes betrayed a fitful night’s sleep, but other than that he’d rarely seen a more attractive female completely devoid of makeup. The crisp temperature nipped color into her cheeks and her emerald gaze glowed in the sun’s early rays.

Jerking his attention from her riveting face, Shane worked his hands down between Atlas’s haunch and the boards. A few slivers pricked the skin of his hands and the backs of his wrists, but he paid no attention as he worked the dog’s furry leg upward in gentle pulls.

At last the animal sprang free and jumped up, knocking Janice over. She let out a soft squawk as she landed on her back. Atlas took her position as an invitation to bathe her face with his tongue. Laughter vied with spluttering as she received the dog’s adoration.

Shane grabbed Atlas’s collar with a stern command to sit. The dog obeyed, but gazed up at him with innocent surprise written on his whiskery face. Shane suppressed a smile. He couldn’t have his pet bowling people over and nearly drowning them in slobber, particularly someone who was already injured.

He knelt beside Janice, who was struggling one-handed into a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine.” She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Guess I’ve had my bath this morning, though. How’s Atlas?”

“He’s good. I think his fur cushioned him from scrapes or slivers, which is more than I can say for myself.” He grimaced at bits of wood sticking from his skin and small amounts of blood welling from a few raw scrapes.

“Come inside,” Janice said. “There’s a first-aid kit among all that stuff you unloaded for me yesterday.”

Letting out tiny groans, she began to rise. Shane reached out to help her, but she batted him away with a chuckle.

“I may be bruised and battered, but I’ll manage to stand on my own two feet, thank you. But now you’ve got war wounds, and we haven’t even begun to fight the restoration battle.”

She led the way to the door and shoved it open. Smoke billowed out, along with the unmistakable reek of burned bread.

“My bagel!” she cried.

Shane burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself. Her expression was so comical, as if her greatest treasure had been ruined. She shot him a scowl and then her lips broke apart in a grin.

She shook her head. “Are you as good a fireman as you are a paramedic? We need to open some windows and clear the smoke out of here. Then I’ll play EMT on those scrapes and slivers.”

“After that we go buy lumber to fix that break on the porch.”

“Great minds,” she quipped, eyes twinkling.

Shane’s pulse did a funky little jig and he quickly turned away and got busy prying windows open. A few minutes later he sat in the folding camp chair, while Janice knelt beside him picking slivers out of his skin with tweezers. A scent of smoke lingered in the air and Atlas went about sniffing every corner, nook and cranny. Shane fisted the hand she wasn’t working on. What got into him that he barely restrained the impulse to reach out and touch the wealth of shimmering chestnut hair that masked her face?

This tender, compassionate woman was no Moran. She probably hadn’t a clue what sort of crime family her employer came from...or what danger the jerk had sent her into. If Shane thought it would keep this innocent Realtor safe, he’d be tempted to go away. Right now, the best thing Janice had going for her as long as she refused to leave the island was his watchful presence.

“How about I try again with the bagels?” she asked as she finished cleaning and dressing the minor wounds.

“Better yet, how about I treat us to breakfast this morning? The nearest lumberyard is Vineyard Haven. I know because I bought a few things there last week. It’s only a hop and a skip out of our way to stop at this great home-cooking place in Menemsha.”

Janice lifted her eyebrows. “Let me guess: The Beach Shanty.”

“You’re kidding me.” Shane laughed. “Essie Mae’s been by here already?”

“She visited you, too?”

“Day after my arrival on the island. I think she fancies herself a one-woman Welcome Wagon.”

“Either that or she gets a commission for every bowl of chowder she sells.”

“That chowder would sell itself. My mouth is watering already.”

“Chowder for breakfast?”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“With a challenge like that, I guess it’ll be two bowls of chowder. Essie Mae will be thrilled. What a unique character. I think I like her.”

“Me, too.”

Essie Mae was the sort of affable soul people took to right away. Janice was deep and sometimes hard to read, but already he liked her more than he had bargained for, and they’d been acquainted for only one day—granted under extreme circumstances that could create an atmosphere for rapid bonding.

This woman was hiding something, though. Something that troubled her deeply. What could it be? Was it just that she suspected her accidents weren’t so accidental? Or was there more to her burden? Whatever the issue, they would have to talk about it. The problem with the discussion idea was that he had things to hide, also.

“Give me a little help with a tape measure,” Shane said, “and we’ll jot down length, width and depth of the existing porch before we take off. Shouldn’t hold us up but a few minutes.”

Janice grabbed a pad of scratch paper and a pencil. She proved familiar with handling a tape measure in tandem with someone else. Probably came with the Realtor territory. As he knelt on the ground to take the height measurement, his knee pressed into the mellow earth next to the piece of the broken roof tile he’d been examining yesterday. His conscience smote him. She needed to be alerted even if he dared not offer her the reasons why.

Shane picked up the tile and handed it to her where she knelt on the edge of the porch. “Notice anything?”

She examined the edges of the tile and her lips pressed together with a soft humph. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?” Her gaze met his. Did he detect a smidgeon of relief glowing in the green depths? “I was starting to wonder about all these strange things happening, but I didn’t know how to say so without sounding paranoid or making excuses for clumsiness.”

Shane nodded. So she’d been worried that he’d think she was seeing threat where none existed or that he’d interpret any protest as a cover-up for a fault. He could understand that motivation.

“Clumsy is not a word I associate with you,” he said. “As for deliberate sabotage? At the very least, the marks look suspicious.”

“Agreed, but whoever did this couldn’t know the tile would come down on top of someone.”

“But there was a decent chance of it. Particularly if anyone knew the place was about to be renovated, and there would be a good deal of traffic and probably hammering and bumping and thumping.”

Janice frowned and her expression went distant. Then her gaze met his, grim and solid. “I surprised an intruder on my porch yesterday—just before you showed up.”

“Who was it?”

“No clue. Except he—or she—was shorter than you. Probably shorter than me, too. The person was peering through the picture window. All I could make out was the outline of a face and part of a torso. I felt like...” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“Nothing. Probably my imagination. You know, because I was so startled, I got the feeling the intruder meant me harm.”

“And here you have the proof.” Shane tapped the broken tile.

“No, if the trespasser had been sawing on the roof right before I caught him, I would have heard the noise.”

“The person could have been here before, you know. Maybe the intruder came back to check on his or her handiwork.”

Janice sat back on her haunches. “Could be. In fact, Essie Mae said some fishermen saw lights up here a few nights ago. But what would be the point of booby-trapping this place?”

Shane dropped his gaze to the tape measure. He couldn’t answer that question—truthfully anyway. “Let’s just be extra careful from now on, okay?”

“Should we report this to the police?”

Her voice inflection said that she dreaded that option almost as much as he did, but he wouldn’t discourage the measure—not when her safety was involved. “Probably a good idea.”

She sighed. “All right. Maybe there will be an office in Menemsha or Vineyard Haven where we can file a report. I just hate—” She bit her lip, her gaze on the rippling ocean. “I mean, I so wanted this job to go smoothly.”

“Rumors of a saboteur could hurt a sale.”

“True.” She sent him a wry smile. “But from a few things Essie Mae let drop, this place already has an unsavory reputation. Some of the locals apparently consider it haunted.”

Shane shrugged. “An air of mystery might have extra appeal to a certain sort of buyer.”

“Way to cheer me up.” She bopped him companionably on the shoulder. “We’re burning daylight so we’d better get this last measurement and be on our way.”

Soon they had all the figures they needed and headed for Shane’s Jeep. He insisted on driving his vehicle. Janice countered by insisting on paying for gas. The debate ended in Shane’s surrender on the gas issue as he buckled Atlas into the backseat.

“You’re either a really good guy or a very bad driver,” Janice said as Shane slipped into the driver’s seat.

“What makes you say that?” He started the vehicle.

She laughed. “It takes an unusually conscientious pet owner to buckle his dog into a seat belt, or else a pet owner who has serious reservations about his driving ability.”

Shane shook his head, grinning. “How about this option? I’m a nervous new pet owner who happened to adopt a dog that tolerates neurotic behavior in his master. I’m sure Atlas would rather stick his head out the window and let his tongue flap in the breeze.”

“That explanation works, too.”

The short trip passed in pleasant small talk and soon they drove into a tiny fishing village. A large statue of a marlin welcomed them to the community. Boats from dinghy-size to fishing trawlers to majestic schooners lined piers that stretched long fingers into the green-blue ocean. With the jumble of masts piercing the skyline, the land-cupped bay resembled a massive toothpick holder.

Shane brought the Jeep to a halt in a parking place across the street from a clapboard structure with portholes for windows and colorful sea creatures painted in framed sections of the exterior. Over the red-painted door hung what looked like a hand-scrawled sign proclaiming The Beach Shanty.

His passenger let out a small giggle. “This place is as unique-looking as its waitress.”

“I’d say they belong together. Actually, Essie Mae is part owner.”

“Good for her,” Janice said as she emerged from the vehicle.

“Wait here,” Shane told Atlas as he unbuckled him. “I’ll bring you a fresh-baked biscuit.”

The dog whiffled softly and stretched out in the seat.

Shane turned in time to see Janice begin crossing the street. Traffic was sparse. The types of rugged vehicles chugging down the road suggested fishermen and other laborers going about their tasks. He began to follow Janice across, but the rev of an engine swiveled Shane’s head toward the intersection behind them.

A large, rattletrap pickup squealed around the corner, Janice and Shane in the path of its rusty grille.

“Look out!” he shouted and raced toward her.

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