Page 70 of Boxed In

As she clenched around him, he followed her over the edge, shouting in satisfaction as he absorbed the pleasure she gave him.

Then she was gathering him to her, holding on tightly, and he clung to her just as fiercely.

He held her for long minutes, feeling her head droop to his shoulder.

“I wish we could stay here,” she murmured.

“For a little while,” he answered.

“This isn’t real life.”

He lifted his head and looked down at her. “No.”

She cuddled against him. Finally he pulled away and plunged into the water, submerging himself, then coming to the surface and floating the way she had earlier.

She leaned down to kiss him, and he reached up a hand to cup her head.

And somehow they got tangled up together. He went down, sputtering, then surfacing.

“Are you all right?”

“Um hum.” He didn’t know when they would be together again like this. And he couldn’t stand the thought of it ending—not yet. So he stood, pulling the length of her slick body against his.

Clasping her close, he climbed out of the pool, then carried her to a dark corner of the cave where spongy leaves made a perfect bed. As he laid her down and began to kiss and caress her, he struggled to keep the feeling of desperation from the front of his mind. He’d told her this wasn’t real life. Would they ever have that together? He prayed for the chance to build a life together. But he knew deep in his heart that his prayers might not be answered. This might be the last time they would ever make love.

oOo

Back in Baltimore, another man was feeling just as desperate. It was Carl Peterbalm, lying in the trunk of his own car with his hands bound and a gag wadded into his mouth.

There was only one good thing about the situation. It was his car.

He’d woken up when the thugs were binding his hands and feet, and he’d still been groggy when they’d slapped him around and asked a bunch of questions. He’d told the truth—that he’d bought the shipment of antiques.

And he didn’t know where the hell the box had gone. He’d hoped they’d let him go. Instead, they’d carried him to the car. As soon as they had shut the lid, his whole life flashed before his eyes.

He could easily die here. Only he wasn’t going to let that happen, because he’d imagined this scenario for years.

Well, not exactly this scenario. Not three fierce, foreign-looking men driving around searching for an antique box.

They wanted the damn thing. And badly. Which meant it was valuable. Too bad they’d picked up his trail when he was looking for Olivia and Luke.

Somehow, the two of them had escaped from the house and were on the loose again.

If the men didn’t find Luke and Olivia soon, they were going to haul him out of here and make life very unpleasant for him. This time they’d work harder to get every scrap of information out of him that they could. Then they’d kill him.

His only option was to get away before they opened the trunk again.

Sweat poured off his body. And he had to keep fighting off the panic attack that threatened to make his heart pound its way through the wall of his chest.

It was one thing to imagine getting locked in the trunk of your car. It was quite different to have it actually happen.

He struggled not to let the fear envelop him. If he gave in to fear, he was dead. The men who had kidnapped him were good fighters. And smart. But they didn’t know American vehicles the way Carl did.

He’d been a car buff all his life, and he’d picked this model because he’d been worried about carjackings. The big plus was an interior release button in the trunk.

When he’d pictured this scenario in the past, he’d always thought that if someone stuffed him into the trunk, they’d tie him up first. Which was why he’d rigged up a sharp piece of metal hidden beside the left brake light.

Since the ride had begun, he’d maneuvered himself so that his hands were positioned against the sharp edge. The kidnappers hadn’t used rope. They’d bound him with duct tape, which made cutting through it easier. Ordering himself to work slowly and carefully, he started sawing at the binding.

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