Out of Character (10 page)

Oh my God. I’ve been kidnapped.

She opened her eyes a slit, saw nothing but dark. She closed them again and forced herself to breathe slowly and evenly. She needed to think. Her best bet was to feign sleep. They might say something that would give her a clue how to convince this Devlin to let her go. Or at least delay things until Andy could find her.

Andy would get suspicious when he discovered she’d disappeared. He’d never believe she’d take off like that. She wasn’t the impulsive type.

Although Andy knew she’d been upset lately. He might believe it.

No. No matter how stressed she was, she wouldn’t leave without first talking to his friend Phil. Andy would check with the ER and learn she’d left with a cop. He’d call the Denver PD, find out the cop wasn’t real, and get an all-points-bulletin out on her. Andy would find her.

She just had to stay alive until he did.

* * * *

“Time to wake up.” Jones jostled Jillian’s shoulder.

The car turned and slowly ascended a winding road. They must be close to their destination. Jillian kept her eyes shut as Jones shook her shoulder again. So far, no one had said anything that would help her plead her case to Devlin, but they still might as long as they thought she was in a drug-induced coma.

Jones grabbed both her shoulders and shook her hard. “Time to wake up.”

Jillian’s bad shoulder throbbed. She opened her eyes. “Where are we?”

Jones released her shoulders. “We don’t answer questions.”

“What time is it?”

“I said no questions.”

Tires crunched over packed snow. After a bumpy patch and a right turn, the car stopped, and the engine quieted.

“Thank God,” Jones said. “Now you won’t be our problem.”

“And we can get the hell out of here.” Alex opened the car door and slipped into the dark. Then he leaned back into the car. He was pointing a gun at Jillian.

She choked down a scream.

Alex was saying something, but the blood pounding in her ears obscured his words.

“Excuse me?”

“I said get out of the damn car.” Each word, he punctuated with a wave of the gun.

She slid a few inches toward the door then stopped and looked at her bound ankles.

“Untie her feet, and make it fast,” Alex told Jones. “It’s fucking cold out here.”

After Jones released her, Jillian scooted across the car seat and out the door. Her legs shook so much she had to lean against the car to stay upright.

A half-moon and a few stars illuminated a forest of pines and a couple silhouetted mountain peaks. They must be somewhere in the Rockies. Since she had no idea whether they’d been driving two or twenty-four hours, that narrowed it down to somewhere between Tucson and Edmonton.

They’d parked in front of a two-story house. Every light was off, so Devlin must be in bed. Or sitting alone in the dark, like Kristen’s mom. Jillian willed that painful memory away.

“Move it.”

Jillian’s mind raced as they walked toward the house, her loose cotton scrubs and unzipped ski jacket doing little to counter the frosty cold. This had to be related to Mark. Devlin or one of his people must have been trying to kill him on the chairlift. They’d targeted her because she might have seen the shooter, been helping Mark, or simply because she was a loose end.

Since they’d already killed Mark. Because if Mark were still alive, he’d have somehow warned her about this threat. No way had she misjudged him that much. Her eyes filled with warm tears. He was dead, the man who’d held her close through the night, who’d made love to her so intensely all those times, who’d kissed her so tenderly while she laughed at his story about his dog and a squirrel that she’d thought maybe—

The man who’d run out on her and was the reason she was in this mess.

Jillian blinked away her unwarranted tears. What the heck was she doing mourning Mark Jefferson, when thanks to him, she’d soon be dead, too? Unless she came up with an escape plan, which at the moment didn’t appear promising. She’d been listening, thinking, and praying, promising God if she survived she’d become a cross between Mother Theresa and Albert Schweitzer, but so far inspiration, divine or otherwise, hadn’t struck.

She stepped onto the wooden stairway in front of the house. Her only hope was to convince Devlin to let her go. She had no idea how, but she’d ask him to explain what was going on and take it from there. She’d always been good at thinking on her feet, did it for a living, in fact. Of course, figuring out how to stop uncontrollable bleeding was different from the present situation, but she could do it. She had to.

This time her life depended on it.

The instant they stepped onto the landing, the door opened. A light switched on inside, illuminating a man in jeans and a navy sweater. “I’m Sam. You’re late.”

“We were told to err on the side of caution.” Jones stomped snow from his boots.

“I’m glad you’re finally here. He was in a rotten mood last night and a worse one today.” Sam pushed thin, sandy hair off a sweaty forehead. “For the last few hours, he’s been pacing. Have you worked with him before?”

“Yep,” Alex said. “I know not to piss him off.”

“You also must know that pacing is not a good sign,” Sam said.

Jillian was about to meet Devlin, a man even Alex feared. His bad mood was because of her. His plan to kill her in Denver had failed, so he’d had to go to the trouble of bringing her here to finish the job. She couldn’t move.

“Can we discuss this inside?” Alex shivered. “It’s colder than hell out here.”

Jones chuckled. “Hell’s hot.”

“Not my version of it. Give me July in Houston any day.” Alex prodded Jillian with the gun.

Motivation to make her legs function again. She stepped around Sam and into the house, followed by Alex and Jones.

They walked down a hallway and into a large, well-lit living room with a high ceiling, wood plank walls, and shaded windows. It looked like a place someone had rented for a skiing vacation. The end table lamps even had cream shades decorated with brown pine tree and bear silhouettes. Why wasn’t that all this was? Why had she ever gone skiing in the first place?

“Sit.” Alex pointed at the Mission-style, dark wood and brown leather sofa.

Jillian plodded across the hardwood floor and sat in the middle of the sofa. Her tied hands rested against the soft leather back.

Alex plopped down beside her.

Jones dropped her purse on the floor and sat on her other side. “Did you tell him we’re here?”

“He knows. He’ll be down in a minute.” Sam parked his average frame in a chair opposite them and crossed his legs, revealing brown cowboy boots.

“Good,” Jones said. “I’d like to leave before the roads get too bad, and we’re snowed in.”

“Isn’t it too late in the season for that?” Alex tapped his gun rhythmically on his thigh.

Jillian looked across the room, focusing on the pinecones atop the mantel of the unlit stone fireplace.

“There’s wishful thinking,” Sam said. “March is usually the snowiest month of the year.”

Alex snorted. “Why the hell anyone would choose to live in an icebox like this is beyond me.”

“It’s a quality of life thing. But I wouldn’t expect a Texan to understand about that.”

Jillian shifted her gaze to Sam, fighting the urge to scream at everyone to shut up. Here she was facing probable death, and these guys were discussing the weather, road conditions, and quality-of-life issues?

“Know why we had to pick her up?” Jones asked.

Sam shook his head. “Only that she’s a problem.”

“The Devil’s an expert at dealing with problems. I remember once when we were in Bolivia. God’s armpit, let me tell you.” Alex smirked. “The women there are fucking incredible, though. Dark hair, enormous—”

Sam glanced at Jillian. “Stick to the Devil.”

“You’re missing out on hearing some amazing stories about him and women.” Alex shrugged. “But your loss. Anyway…”

Jillian’s nose itched. She wrinkled it, but it didn’t help. How could her nose itch now? The itching made her feel like sneezing. She couldn’t sneeze. It might startle Alex, which he could very well take as a reason to use his gun. She turned her head and tried to scratch her nose on the back of the sofa.

“What the hell are you doing?” A man’s murderous tone boomed from the staircase, echoed through the room.

Jillian jerked, quaking, afraid to look at him. “I’m sorry. I was—”

“Why is she tied up?”

“She hit me,” Alex said.

Jillian closed her eyes and braced herself.

His boots thumped down the stair treads. “You probably deserved it. Untie her.”

Jillian opened her eyes and looked toward the deep, menacing voice. Blood drained from her head, and she felt dizzy. “Mark?”

Alex had untied her hands, but she couldn’t move them from behind her back, couldn’t do anything but stare at the man approaching her.

He looked completely different than he had in Keystone. His hair was black, he didn’t wear glasses or facial hair, and his movements displayed a controlled power rather than a casual grace. His voice was deeper and fuller.

She still knew it was him. Joy bubbled inside her. He wasn’t dead, and he must be on Devlin’s side. Thank you, God. She had a much better chance of convincing Mark to spare her life than she did a man she’d never met.

“Do your wrists hurt?” He didn’t look or sound happy to see her.

Maybe he thought she’d set him up for the shooting. The trembling resumed. She shook her head.

“Move.”

Jones and Alex shifted to chairs.

Mark sat beside her. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee, soda?”

“Some water, please?”

“Sam, bring her a glass of water.” Mark moved Jillian’s hands from behind her back and examined them. “Your wrists look sore.” He stroked his thumbs over the pink, chafed skin.

Goose bumps shot up her arms. Jillian yanked her hands away.

Mark watched her, his expression inscrutable.

Her cheeks heated, which made as little sense as getting goose bumps at his touch.

Mark took a water glass from Sam and held it to her. She reached for it, but her fingers refused to tighten around it. The instant Mark let go, the glass slipped out of her hand and crashed onto the Navajo woven rug.

“Shit.” Alex’s voice sounded like a shot in the silent room.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jillian was dangerously close to tears as she mopped at Mark’s wet pant leg with her jacket sleeve. The glass hadn’t broken, but water had spilled on the rug and splattered his jeans.

Mark grabbed her arm and moved it away from his jeans. “You had the circulation to your hands cut off for quite a while. No wonder you can’t hold onto things.”

Sam was soaking up the water on the rug with a yellow and white checked towel.

“I’ll do that.” Mark took the towel. “Get her another glass of water.”

“I’m still a little groggy from the drug, too.” Jillian twisted her hands together.

“What drug?”

“I don’t know what was in that injection, but—”

“What the hell did you do?” Mark’s voice resonated ominous and quiet as he stared at Jones.

“Alex did it.”

Mark’s attention shifted. “What the hell did you give her?”

“A little shot so she’d sleep,” Alex said. “Made the trip more pleasant for her. And for us.” He raised an eyebrow. “She’s quite a fighter, let me tell you.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Mark said.

Sam returned with another glass of water.

Mark took it and held it to Jillian’s lips. “Drink this. You need to flush that crap out of your system.”

Cool water tasted wonderful. Jillian drank, stopping for an occasional breath, until she’d finished more than three-quarters of the glass. “No more, thanks.”

Mark nodded, his chiseled features seeming to soften as he set the glass on the coffee table.

Hope flickered. Maybe Mark didn’t want her hurt. When he’d come in, he’d seemed to barely remember her, but would he be so worried about her wrists and that she’d been drugged if she’d soon be dead?

“I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting. Before the shooting, I didn’t mention meeting you to anyone besides Kristen.”

“I know,” Mark said. “How’s your shoulder?”

She blinked. “I barely notice it unless I bump it.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

“Do to you?”

“I know you’re involved in something, but I don’t know anything about it, I swear. I didn’t see anything on the chairlift or in your townhouse.”

Mark’s posture went rigid, and his hands fisted.

“If you let me go, I promise I won’t do anything to endanger you because I don’t know what you did. Honestly. Please don’t kill me.” She’d never stooped to begging in her life. Funny what desperation did to pride.

Mark’s expression was menacing, and a muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. She’d failed. She squeezed her hands painfully, waiting for him to say the words.

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing.” Jones answered. “They said to bring her here, but not why. Said you’d handle any questions.”

“Goddamn it!” Mark pounded the coffee table. He closed his eyes and took a couple harsh breaths before reopening them. “Go to the kitchen. All of you.”

Jillian was terrified to be alone with him, felt about to throw up. She folded her arms over her whirling stomach.

“No one’s going to kill you,” Mark said. “We’re with the government.”

“Which government?”

“The United States government. That’s a logical question, given how you’ve been treated.”

She unfolded her arms, her eyes on his face. “Why am I here?”

“For your protection, believe it or not.”

“Did Andy’s friend set this up?”

Mark took her hands. “This has nothing to do with Andy. It has to do with me. We know someone’s after me, and you may have gotten caught up in it. We thought you were safe in Denver, but it appears we were wrong.”

She looked down at their joined hands as she struggled to understand. “Who’s we?”

“The FBI and a couple other federal agencies.”