Page 10 of Boxed In

“The pitcher. You pushed it off the table when you went down.”

He made a sound that might have been a curse—in that foreign language he’d used before.

“We’re in danger,” he said in a low voice as he moved her off of him so that he could stand and help her to her feet.

“What danger?”

“From the thieves who want the box.”

The answer made no sense to her, yet she heard the absolute conviction in his voice.

He flexed his muscles, moving his arms and legs like a man stretching after a long night’s sleep.

Again he seemed to be paying attention to some voice she couldn’t hear.

“Who are you listening to?” she asked.

“Luke Garner.”

“You are Luke Garner,” she snapped.

“Yes. And also I am Zabastian, the guardian of the box.”

“Oh come on.” Even as she spoke, she was wondering if he’d seriously damaged his brain when he’d hit the floor. Or had she damaged hers? He’d hurt himself, and she’d come down on top of him, her lips fused to his. Not exactly administering mouth to mouth resuscitation.

She could say that he’d pulled her down. But she hadn’t objected. And he certainly hadn’t been behaving like the Luke Garner she knew. That guy was shy—at least with her.

This man was anything but shy. He was commanding. He knew what he wanted, and he knew how to get it.

He interrupted her thoughts with another of his cryptic comments.

“Luke is still here. But he is not in control. He cannot be. Not now.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you sounding so . . . stilted?”

Ignoring her, he reached down to scoop the box off the floor. “How did you come by this?”

“It arrived in a shipment of antiques—from France.”

“I do not understand the reference,” he said, standing quietly again. Then his expression cleared. “Luke has told me about France. The Coneheads are from France.”

She laughed. “Is that what he thought of first? There are a few other things—like Bordeaux wine. Onion soup. And champagne.”

“We will discuss France later. We must leave before the thieves arrive.”

He turned toward the door.

“Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere until you explain who you are, if you’re not Luke.”

“I already told you my name. I am Zabastian, a warrior whose spirit was trapped in the box.”

Okay. She’d play along, trying to figure out his game. “Like a genie in a bottle?” she asked sweetly.

“I have heard of that. The genie grants wishes?”

“Yes.”

“I do not,” he said firmly.

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