Out of Character by Diana Miller

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