Shake Down. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

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