Out of Character

Stepping out of your comfort zone can be hazardous…

Denver, Colorado, ER doctor Jillian Rodgers has never done an impulsive thing in her life. But all that changes when she meets the man of her dreams on a ski vacation. Within twenty-four hours, they’ve spent a passionate night together and Jillian is convinced she’s halfway in love. After all, she figures the worst that can happen is she’ll go home with a broken heart…But the man pretending to be an ordinary guy is far from it. In fact, he shouldn’t get anywhere near Jillian. Yet there’s something about her he can’t resist—and she’s perfect for his cover. Besides, he’s sure he isn’t endangering her. Unfortunately, they’re both wrong.

When someone uses their chairlift for target practice, Jillian ends up wounded—and her dream man promptly disappears. Within days, her car explodes. Just when things can’t get any worse, she’s kidnapped at gunpoint. Soon Jillian’s running for her life, and the only man who can save her is the one who deserted her. Or is he just trying to protect her? And can she survive long enough to find out?

Out of Character

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Diana Miller

LYRICAL PRESS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

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Copyright © 2015 by Diana Miller

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First Electronic Edition: July 2015

eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-577-6

eISBN-10: 1-61650-577-X

First Print Edition: July 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-592-9

ISBN-10: 1-1-61650-592-3

Printed in the United States of America

March 7

He would enjoy killing that bastard.

The man raised his trusty Sig Sauer, his gaze fixed on his target. He took aim then made adjustments until he was positive his aim was perfect. In his business, you rarely got a second chance. He’d never needed one.

He squeezed the trigger, again and again and again. His shots pierced the frosty silence, reverberating in his ears and chest. Every bullet hit precisely at the heart.

He moved the gun a few inches and shot again. A clump of snow exploded, showered the ground, and left a bare branch in its wake. A second shot cleared another branch. An immediate third was back at the heart.

“I think that’s enough practice for today.” He lowered the gun. “Thanks for watching my back.”

The man got up from the tree trunk and brushed a few flecks of snow from his camouflage parka. “Do you want me to take down the target?”

The shooter nodded as he retrieved his M-40 from the ice-hard snow. “This one’s pretty much shot.”

The man chuckled. “That it is. I’ve never seen anyone shoot like you do. Course I’ve never seen anyone practice like you do, either.”

“Revenge is a hell of a motivator.”

The shooter tromped through the snow and trees to the house, a single-story place with weathered wood siding and dark green shingles that blended into the surrounding forest. Its primary attribute was its isolation, thanks to the virtually impenetrable miles of pines, oaks, and birches surrounding it.

Gun drawn, he unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He surveyed the living room and adjacent kitchen, straining to hear a quiet breath or muffled movement, his sixth sense attuned to anything out of place. He’d kept his whereabouts secret and neither of his guards had raised an alarm, but guards could be bought and locations leaked. Only a fool assumed he was safe, and if he’d been a fool, he’d have cashed it in long ago.

Satisfied he was alone, he crossed the stained tan carpet as his nose acclimated to the mustiness and stale cigarette smoke that bombarded him every time he came inside. The place definitely lacked ambiance. But at least it was comfortable. Sometimes he wasn’t even that lucky.

After stashing his rifle in the utility closet, he grabbed a beer from the ancient Frigidaire and strode into the living room. The brown vinyl recliner in the corner was out of view of the windows, making it his favorite chair despite the duct tape patches on both arms. He sank into it, set his handgun within easy reach on the scarred table beside him, and sipped his beer. It was nearly payback time. They’d had their chance to stop him and blown it. Now it was his turn.

Of course, his friend might not come to Keystone, and he’d have to go with the original plan. His gut said he’d show, though, and if he did…

He rubbed the beard he’d been cultivating for the past few weeks as a disguise, not that he usually needed one. Very few people knew his face or real name, only his reputation. This bastard did, though, so a disguise was a necessity, along with a cover that would let him blend in with the families, college kids on spring break, and singles on the make overrunning the area this time of year.

He took a long drink then set the green bottle on the table. The set-up was perfect. If he were lucky, he’d finish the job and get in a couple days of spring skiing.

And if anything went wrong, there were miles of uncharted mountains offering more escape routes than even the entire U.S. military had the manpower to check out.

He grabbed his gun, twirled it once around his finger, and aimed at the deer head protruding from the fake wood paneling across the room. Damn, he couldn’t wait to get to Keystone, Colorado.

March 13

She was going to die today. She knew it.

Of mortification, at the very least.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Jillian Rodgers struggled to plant her poles and push herself off the man she’d sprawled on top of. “Are you all right? Your foot, your leg—”

“I’m fine.” He moved her off his lap and extricated his skis from hers.

Jillian’s face felt hot enough to melt the snow in a three-foot radius as she untangled the rental skis that clearly hated her. She should have known things were going too well. She’d made it to the lift line and onto the chair without embarrassment, had even gotten off without tripping that nice lady from Texas she’d ridden up with, only to tackle the poor man who’d been on the chair directly in front of her.

Four kids who looked all of six whizzed down the slope beside her. Kids were supposed to be the ones falling, not thirty-two-year-old women. That’s why they were so much closer to the ground. Pushing herself up, she missed the packed snow and sank armpit-deep in powder.

A black-gloved hand appeared in front of her face. “Let me help you.” Her victim, a man a few years older than her with thick mahogany-colored hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, was already standing.

She extended her unburied hand and let him pull her to her feet, managing to avoid stabbing him with her poles. “Like I said, I’m really sorry.” She shook as much snow as possible from her snow-caked glove and arm. A clump of hair escaped her ponytail and flopped over her face. She shoved it behind her ear.

“I shouldn’t have stopped that close to the lift. Are you ready to go?” The man looked toward the second chairlift required to reach the run their instructor had specified.

“I guess.” Naturally she wouldn’t embarrass herself in front of someone she could avoid, but one of her classmates. Naturally he’d be the most attractive man she’d seen in ages.

Not that she’d had any better luck with men lately than with skiing.

Jillian shuffled to the lift line on legs as shaky as a post-op patient’s, her focus on a target that, to accommodate today’s crowds, was cruising at top speed. She stepped up to the mark, then carefully sat back onto the double chair, staring straight ahead and gripping the metal pole so tightly her hand cramped.

When her skis were safely floating in the air, she relaxed. It was an SPF 40 kind of day, temperature in the high twenties, maximum sun with minimum wind. The sky was that shade of blue it only got halfway to heaven, a stunning backdrop to the mountains with their perfect harmony of greens, purplish-grays, and sparkling white.

All this beauty made her more optimistic. Technically she’d only promised that she’d go to a lesson, not stick it out for the entire three hours. She just had to make it down the hill. Then she’d head back to the lodge, get her book, treat herself to something outrageously fattening, and—

“The mountains are incredible, aren’t they?”

Jillian looked at her chair mate and shook her head. “Why aren’t you keeping far away from me after how I plowed into you? Are you some kind of masochist?”

“Actually, I figured if I rode up with you, I’d have a better chance of staying out of your way.” The man’s smile softened his strong features. “I’m kidding. Getting off the lift can be tricky. I’ve been so busy admiring the view that I’ve run into people myself.”

“I doubt it, but thanks for being so nice.” Below, the sun glistened off snow so smooth it looked like a bakery cake ready for frosting rosettes. “You’re right about the mountains.”

“Being in the Rockies makes me wonder why I live in New York City.”

“It’s not as bad as living in Denver when you’re terrified of skiing.”

His eyebrows rose above his polarized lenses. “Was that a hypothetical comment, or are you a terrified Denver resident?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not hypothetical.”

“So you’re only in Keystone for the day?”

“For the week,” Jillian said. “I was desperate for a vacation, and my friend Kristen’s parents have a townhouse here. I plan on spending my time reading and relaxing. But Kristen made me promise that in return for free lodging, I’d give skiing one last chance and take a lesson today.”

“I’ll be here all week, too. I’m Mark Jefferson.”

“Jillian Rodgers.” They’d reached the
Prepare to Dismount
sign. She raised her ski tips, held her breath. Thankfully, this time she made it without incident to where her dozen classmates had gathered.

The instructor was young, tanned, and so insufferably enthusiastic he must think he was teaching a bunch of gung-ho nine-year-olds rather than cynical adults. “I’ll ski to that ridge. Then I want each of you to ski down to me. One at a time, so I can watch you.” He pointed at an incline way too steep to be a green run, no matter what the signs said.

Jillian clutched her poles. She was not skiing to that ridge, and the instructor couldn’t make her. She was paying him, after all.

Except everyone else in the class would do it. They always did, and she should know with the dozens of skiing classes she’d flunked since moving to Denver six years ago. Just like she would, she acknowledged as she launched herself down the hill when it was her turn. You never outgrew peer pressure.

Jillian was cold and stiff, her heart hammering double-time. Things went downhill from there, despite the suggestions her instructor yelled to her. By the time she snowplowed to a grateful stop, she felt like an ice sculpture on speed.