Page 67 of Boxed In

Who had spoken to her? Luke or Zabastian?

She knew it was both of them. The man she had known for weeks and the other one—the warrior who had come roaring into her life. He kept kissing her as his hands stroked up and down her back, finding the knobs of her spine, playing with each one with sweet attention.

His hands and his lips centered her. As she gave him her total concentration, the room where they stood faded away. She could see the cave now—glimmering in the darkness, not quite solid but more real than the office where they had been standing.

It was a strange sensation. Somewhere outside their time bubble, she thought she heard at least one of the men rushing up the stairs toward them. She tensed, but Luke brought her back to him with his lips and tongue, and the stroking of his hands over her bottom.

The two images of reality still hung around her—the room and the cave—and she wondered if the two scenes were fighting for dominance.

Would the men still see them—as dimly as she saw the room? Would they know where she and Luke had gone? Could they follow?

That question sent a shiver over her skin.

“We must leave. And quickly,” Luke murmured against her lips, telling her that they’d better be out of here before one of the thugs found the office.

That piece of news wasn’t the ideal spur to arousal. Yet she called on all the feelings of connection she had to Luke. As she bent her entire focus on him, the room faded out of her sight, and she and the man who held her in his arms were back in the cave where he’d thrilled her with his lovemaking.

The fire still flickered, although it had burned lower since they’d been here earlier. The bed of furs still waited in the corner. Luke’s torn tee shirt lay on the floor. And the wind still howled outside their refuge.

He breathed out a sigh. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“Not if you wanted to avoid getting killed.”

oOo

Mr. Smith stopped in the doorway to the home office. Then, crossing to the computer, he put his hand on the metal casing. It was warm. Someone had been here. Probably the man and woman who had taken the box. At least, Peterbalm had seen someone he knew through the window.

Jones was in the basement, checking every hiding place. Brown was on the first floor.

Smith methodically went through the rest of the rooms on the upper story, but they were empty. And all the windows were closed. When he tried to open one, he found the mechanism rusty with disuse. Opening and closing it again would have taken valuable time.

Sure nobody had gone out a window, he looked above him for the panel that closed off the attic. It was in the middle of the hallway. He pulled a chair over, pushed away the panel and swung himself up. With his flashlight, he examined the dusty space. After assuring himself there was no places where a person could hide, he lowered himself to the floor again.

When he came back down to the first floor, the man named Peterbalm was lying unconscious on the living room rug.

“He had a list of clients with him,” Brown observed.

“We should kill him,” Jones said.

“No. We should torture him. He may have information.”

"Or we may lose valuable time."

“The computer was warm,” Smith told the others. “They can’t have been long gone. And they left a junk car in the driveway."

"How do you know it's theirs?"

"There is no ignition key. It was started by twisting wires together."

"Ah," Jones answered, then asked, “You think they saw us coming and got away? Or they saw Peterbalm—and that was enough?”

“Peterbalm alerted them. But I think they saw us.”

Smith stroked his chin, thinking. “I don’t see how they disappeared—unless they used magic.”

Jones’s expression hardened. “You mean they’re still in the house—but we can’t see them?”

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