Out of Character

By Diana Miller

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?
95,000 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781616505776

Diana Miller

When she was eight, Diana Miller decided she wanted to be Nancy Drew. But no matter how many garbage cans she dug through, conversations she “accidentally” overheard, and attics she searched, she never found a single cryptic letter, hidden staircase, or anything else even remotely mysterious. She worked as a lawyer, a soda jerk, a stay-at-home mom, a hospital admitting clerk, and a conference host before deciding that the best way to inject suspense into her otherwise satisfying life was by writing about it. Diana is a five-time nominee for the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award and winner of a Golden Heart for Dangerous Affairs—a romantic suspense novel that shows not everyone in her home state is Minnesota Nice.She lives in the Twin Cities with her family.

Book preview

America

Prologue

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.

Chapter 1

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.

Mark slid to a hockey stop beside her, a move she’d never dare attempt.

She gave him a suspicious look. What are you doing here?

What do you mean?

I mean you’re far too good for this class. Why are you taking it?

He brushed snow off the sleeve of his black ski jacket. I broke my leg a few years ago and haven’t been skiing since. I thought a lesson might help me ease back into it. We’d better get over there. He glided toward their classmates.

Jillian arrived during introductions, a tactic instructors always used to promote camaraderie. She’d missed most of the names, hometowns, and jobs, although she did learn that Mark was an accountant. Since she was leaving after this run, camaraderie wasn’t a priority.

The remainder of the hill looked even steeper than the first part, but Jillian made it down, primarily because Mark skied right above her the entire way, encouraging her and distracting her. So much so that he’d steered her into the lift line before she realized he’d thwarted her escape plan.

Mark rode up the lift with her again and grabbed her arm when they dismounted to stop her wobble from becoming a full-fledged wipeout. As they waited for the rest of their class, Jillian pulled her headband from her sweaty hair.

Mark surveyed the snowcapped peaks and pine-edge slopes with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old on his first trip to Disneyland.

You still haven’t gotten your fill of the mountains, she said.

He shifted his gaze to her and smiled ruefully. I guess it’s obvious I’m a geeky tourist. Why are you scared of skiing?

I could claim it’s because I’m an ER doctor and know how dangerous skiing is, but the Colorado Tourism Bureau would probably get me fired. Jillian smiled faintly. It’s also a lie, although I did break a finger the last time I skied. I think it’s one of those irrational fear things, since I’m usually not a wimp. She pulled off her gloves and stuck them in her pockets, then reached back and tried to stuff several loose hairs back under her ponytail binder. Kristen’s big on self-help books, and she’s convinced it’s because I’m a control freak. When I ski, I’m out of control, and I can’t handle it.

Are you?

Maybe a little bit of a control freak, she admitted. Definitely out of control when I ski. Even when things seem to be going okay, I know my skis are waiting for the first opportunity to dump me into the snow or ram me into a person or tree.

If you go slower and make wider turns, they won’t be able to.

Except then someone who’s out of control will have a better shot at me. She gave up on her hair and shoved her chilly hands back into marginally warmer gloves. We’d better go. She turned toward their instructor. I’m planning on ditching the class and heading for the lodge at the end of this run, so it’s been nice talking to you.

Mark grabbed her arm. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we both skip the class and do a few runs together? I’ll ski right above you and make sure you don’t get hurt. He removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of smoky gray eyes. You’ve already got good technique. He pulled a cloth from his jacket pocket and polished his glasses. All you need is a little confidence, and I think skiing with me would help that. Unless you have a husband or boyfriend who might object?

Her cheeks heated. Not at the moment. But you don’t know what you’re offering. You only saw me do one run.

I’d like to ski with you. I won’t let you get hurt, Jillian. His eyes had darkened to charcoal. You can trust me.

Jillian found herself nodding.

Good. Mark replaced his sunglasses. I’ll tell our instructor we’re bailing out.

Watching him ski away, Jillian fanned her warm face with her gloved hand, as agitated as a high school freshman who’d talked to her secret crush. She’d been so worried about getting up and down the mountain she’d never thought Mark might consider her more than someone to talk to in class. But why else would he have invited her to ski with him, asked her marital status, looked at her like that?

Get real. She dropped her flapping hand. He was bored with a class far too easy for him, didn’t want to risk a run-in with a jealous boyfriend or husband, and had looked so serious and intensely at her because he was a serious, intense kind of guy. Accountant-like. All he wanted to do was ski with her, and she had a feeling a couple runs would be enough for both of them.

* * * *

To Jillian’s surprise, she ended up skiing with Mark the entire afternoon. He was right. She kept her skis under control by making slow, wide turns, as innumerable instructors had also told her. This time, however, she didn’t have to worry about anyone smashing into her because Mark skied above her, encouraging her. Her confidence grew, until after a lengthy chairlift ride, she looked down on an incline in Mount Everest territory, at least according to the figure eights her stomach was doing. No way. She turned to find another route down.

Mark had been admiring the scenery, but now he caught her arm and met her eyes. He’d replaced his sunglasses with metal-rimmed glasses. You can do it, Jillian. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. I’ll be right behind you.

Jillian took a deep breath, tightened her hands on her poles, and pushed herself off. She started slowly, her skis barely angled downhill, with Mark skiing above her. After a moment, though, she realized she had enough control to avoid any skiers in her way. She didn’t need his protection. She accelerated, her skis gliding across snow that glistened like platinum in the late afternoon sun, a cool breeze caressing her cheeks. By the time she reached the bottom she was laughing, her heart pounding with exhilaration and adrenaline as if she’d won Olympic gold rather than simply made it down an intermediate slope. She grabbed Mark’s arm the instant he skied up beside her. That was wonderful. I felt like I was flying. Thank you.

My pleasure. His smile was warm, his eyes even warmer. Her body heated as she stood there, staring at him.

He broke eye contact, pulled up his sleeve, and glanced at his watch. It’s ten after four, he said in the easy tone he’d used all afternoon. How much longer do you want to ski?

Jillian forced herself to match his tone. I’d better stop now. I was supposed to meet Kristen at the lodge at four, and if I’m any later, she’ll worry I broke something major. Thanks for your help.

I enjoyed it.

Maybe I’ll run into you again. Hopefully not literally. She started for the lodge.

Would you have dinner with me tonight?

Jillian turned back toward Mark. She hadn’t seen that one coming. Of course, she wouldn’t accept, even though he’d told her he was single and unattached. Skiing together was one thing, but a date was an entirely different matter. She never dated any man she hadn’t checked out and certainly not one she’d met on the ski slopes who might be lying about his marital status, his name, even be a vacationing serial killer for all she knew. She opened her mouth to refuse.

And met his dark velvet eyes. On the other hand, she’d drive herself, and how much trouble could she get into at a crowded restaurant? I’d like that.

* * * *

You have a date tonight and didn’t tell me before now? Kristen Bartlett plopped down on a brown leather sofa in the living room of her parents’ townhouse. Despite a day of skiing, her shoulder-length dark hair fell in a smooth, shining bob, and her makeup was as flawless as when they’d left the townhouse that morning. Then again, Kristen always looked perfect. Tall, naturally thin, and model beautiful, she was also one of those woman who never had a bad hair or fat jeans day, never got dark circles, zits, or chipped a nail. She even looked good when she cried.

Jillian had decided long ago that if she hadn’t loved Kristen like a sister, she would definitely have hated her.

I waited until we got somewhere private because I knew you’d make it into a big deal, even though it isn’t, Jillian said.

It’s a very big deal. Kristen rested her stocking feet on the reclaimed wood coffee table. You haven’t had a single date in over six months. I didn’t even take that long after my divorce.

I’ve been busy. Jillian walked to the kitchen. She really didn’t want to have this discussion again.

Bull. You’re a lot less busy than during your residency, and you found time to date then. You’re still upset Andy left you for Tiffany.

Thanks for reminding me. Jillian grabbed a bottled water and slammed the refrigerator door shut. As she strode back to the living room, she pointedly avoided the oversized mirror on the dining room wall. She didn’t need to look to know her ponytail was limp yet frizzy and her supposedly all-day blush and lipstick had faded from her pale skin. She wasn’t the perfect type. Her lips twisted as she loosened the bottle top. Perfect women didn’t get dumped for twenty-year-old file clerks.

I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad, Kristen said with a sincerity Jillian knew was genuine. They’d been best friends since college. I was simply explaining why this date is so terrific.

Jillian sat down in a beige and brown striped armchair next to the fireplace. It’s just one date. Mark lives in New York City. After tonight I’ll probably never see him again. She took a long drink of water.

Andy lives in Denver.

So?

Kristen’s satisfied smile telegraphed she was about to top Jillian’s date in the big deal department. He called me a couple days ago. He’s broken up with the Barbie doll.

Why? Did he find someone even younger?

He’s clearly realized there’s more to a relationship than tits and ass. He’s going to call you after we get back. Would you consider getting back together with him?

Jillian opened her mouth to say of course, but closed it before the words emerged. Andy had hurt her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to risk that again. More important, while she’d thought she’d loved him, had even thought they’d end up married, after the initial shock she hadn’t been as devastated as she’d expected. She wasn’t sure how much of the hurt was from a broken heart as opposed to the humiliation of being dumped for Tiffany. I don’t know.

Andy’s been my friend since law school, but he was a jerk to you, and I hate him for that, Kristen said. I don’t want you to risk trying again with him unless you’re sure. I’ve been worried that if you haven’t been near another man in six months, you might mistake lust for love when you see Andy. But now that you have a date— She waved her hand.

I’m not sleeping with Mark. Jillian took another drink of water then set the bottle on the fireplace hearth. To be honest, I’m not sure I should even go out with him tonight. Something about him makes me nervous.

Kristen’s forehead creased. Do you think he’s dangerous and might hurt you?

That’s not it. It was more the way Mark had gotten her to ski then convinced her to meet him for dinner when she’d meant to refuse. It was as though he’d used his mesmerizing eyes to hypnotize her into doing things she’d never have considered otherwise.

I think the only thing making you nervous is that you haven’t been on a first date for more than two and a half years, Kristen said. You’ve got first date jitters. Suck it up and go out and have fun.

Chapter 2

Mark scanned the dining area one last time. All clear. He dropped the hand he’d held close to the gun hidden under his sport coat then strode to the black lacquer podium the restaurant hostess was stationed behind.

Jillian isn’t here yet, but thanks for letting me check, he said. Either she’s even later than I was, or I’m being stood up.

If she doesn’t show, let me know. The hostess smoothed her wavy dark hair with both hands in a movement that accentuated her impressive bust. My break’s in fifteen minutes, and I’d be happy to keep you company. She smoothed her hair again.

I’ll remember that. Although Mark had no doubt Jillian would be here, since she wasn’t late at all. He’d told her he’d make a reservation for seven-thirty then made it for seven. He’d arrived at ten after seven and told the hostess he wanted to check whether Jillian was waiting in the bar occupying one side of the restaurant. He’d actually surveyed the entire place, the bar, the dining area, even the men’s room.

His friend wasn’t here.

The hostess shifted her attention to a tanned, silver-haired couple who’d come in.

Mark positioned himself against a wall in the shadow of the coat check, with a prime view of the double glass doors serving as the only public entrance.

Funny how things worked out. When he’d gotten to the ski area, he’d realized that good as his disguise was, it would be better if he added a woman. Someone might have been bribed to pass on his current description, but that description would fit many men on the slopes. Being with a woman would prevent him from standing out as a conspicuous lone male. It might even be uncharacteristic enough to keep his friend from giving him a second glance. He had a reputation for liking women, but also for treating them considerately and certainly never endangering an innocent one. No one would expect him to be with a woman now, under these circumstances. As long as he just skied with her, the woman would be perfectly safe. Even if he were recognized, no one would risk shooting him on a busy ski slope.

He rubbed the beard he’d finally gotten used to. When he’d bought his lift ticket, he’d spotted Jillian in the meeting area for group skiing lessons, talking to a woman he’d bet had been a Longhorns cheerleader thirty years and pounds ago. Jillian had confessed that despite dozens of lessons, she freaked out whenever she got near a chairlift, was only there because she’d promised her best friend she’d give skiing one last chance, and had been so agitated she’d spilled coffee on some poor man at a gas station on the drive to Keystone. Her nervous chatter had convinced him that she was exactly the kind of woman he needed, slightly timid, pretty but not hot enough to attract universal male attention. The kind of woman an accountant would like. So he’d signed up for Jillian’s class, taken the chairlift in front of her, and made sure she’d run into him. After that, it had been easy.

The outside door opened, admitting two men and a woman. Mark slid his hand underneath his sport coat and grabbed his gun. He didn’t recognize any of the trio, and they went directly to the hostess without sparing him a glance.

Jillian certainly hadn’t turned out to be the sweet, fragile type her appearance implied. She was an ER doctor at Denver County Hospital, for God’s sake, a place that treated the kind of guys who ended up in his business. He’d only offered to help her so she’d ski with him outside of class, which had given him freedom to look for his friend. Even though she wasn’t at all his type, he’d enjoyed talking to her much more than he’d anticipated. He’d figured he could safely take her to a crowded restaurant, have a few hours of intelligent conversation, and a decent meal, then send her on her way.

The glass door opened again. He stuck his hand under his sport coat then relaxed when Jillian stepped inside. She’d left her blond hair loose tonight and with her small frame and wide, pale blue eyes, she looked more like a preschool teacher than an ER doctor. Then again, he knew firsthand how deceiving appearances could be.

He smiled and stepped toward her.

* * * *

Jillian slipped from the frigid outside air into the restaurant’s aromatic warmth. Mark stood against the wall right inside the entrance, wearing a gray tweed sport coat over his black jeans and shirt. He smiled, and her relief—and increased temperature and heart rate—proved Kristen had been right about the first date jitters. Of course she was nervous. She hadn’t been close to a man without her stethoscope in more than six months.

After