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
