Olivia gasped.

The whole room seemed to go cold as the white vapor enveloped Luke. He made a strangled sound and staggered back, the fingers of his right hand clamped around the chest. With his free hand, he scrabbled at the edge of the table as he tried to steady himself.

His face had turned pale as death, and a shudder raced across his skin.

“What the hell . . .?” The sentence ended in a wheeze as he tried and failed to fill his lungs.

While Olivia watched in horror, his body began to jerk, like someone having a grand mal seizure. But she was sure it wasn’t because he had any illness. It was from the white mist,

“Luke!” she screamed as he toppled forward, knocking the pitcher off the table when he fell.

The delicate china shattered, and Luke’s body continued to shake as he hit the floor.

“Oh Lord.”

Olivia dropped to her knees, quickly pushing the shards of porcelain out of the way as she knelt beside Luke.

His eyes were closed, and his body was still shaking, his muscles twitching and contracting.

Finally, the quaking stopped, and she whispered a silent prayer.

He lay deathly still, his face pale as salt and his breathing shallow. But at least he was breathing. And when she pressed her fingers to the artery in his neck, she felt his pulse beating and also the warmth of his skin.

“Luke?”

He didn’t answer. What had that awful white mist from the box done to him? Was it some kind of poison? It couldn’t be a virus or bacteria, could it? Not and put him out that fast, she told herself.

But she couldn’t help wondering if she was going to start gasping—then go unconscious.

“Luke?” she said again. She shook his shoulder gently, but he didn’t move. She glanced toward the phone on the table, thinking she should call 911. He needed medical help—help she couldn’t provide.

But when she started to get up, his hand shot out and captured her wrist, holding her in an iron grip.

Her gaze shot to his face as his eyes blinked open and focused on her. They were Luke Garner’s dark eyes, the eyes that had given her an admiring look when he’d first come strolling into the office. Yet, at the same time, they belonged to someone else. A man who was more assessing. More commanding. More dangerous than Luke Garner had ever been.

That was impossible. But she couldn’t shake the conviction that the man clamping her wrist in his hand had changed in some fundamental way when that mist had hit him.

He was staring at her mouth with an open lust that Luke would never have let her see. Or had she been fooling herself about him all along? Was he really a lot less civilized than she’d assumed?

His lips moved, and he said a bunch of syllables that made no sense to her. It was like he was suddenly speaking in a language she couldn’t understand.

“What?”

He didn’t reply.

When she tried to pull away, he kept his fingers clamped around her wrist, but his gaze had turned inward, and it looked like he was listening to some voice she couldn’t hear.

When his lips moved again, he murmured her name, although the accent was strange—as though he had spoken some other language all his life.

“Olivia.”

“You recognize me?”

“Yes.” He had switched from the foreign language to English. “You were with him when he opened the box. Part of his mind was focused on the puzzle of the box. The other part was thinking about how much he wanted to make love to you.” Again, his accent was unfamiliar.

Make love to her? She’d deal with that later.

“What do you mean—him? It was you,” she said in a voice she couldn’t keep steady.

“It was me,” he said slowly, apparently considering the statement. Then his gaze focused on her again.

“Yes, you. Luke Garner.”

“Luke Garner?” he mused. “A strong name. Good.”

He was regarding her with frank sexual interest. “You’re lovely,” he said, his tone deep and rough.

“I have to call 911. You need to go to the hospital.”

His eyes turned fierce. “No.”

Before she could move, he reached up with his free hand and drew her down against the hard wall of his chest.

She managed to say, “Don’t,” before he cupped his hand around the back of her head and brought her lips to his.

His mouth moved under hers, hungry and demanding, like a man who had been denied all pleasure for a thousand years or more. Or maybe a man released from prison and desperate for the sensations of the world.

He changed the pressure of his lips, subtly softening the kiss, and that was sexier than his previous assault.

As he devoured her mouth, his hands were busy, sliding down her back, molding her body to his. Heat roared through her veins.

Somewhere in her mind, she was shocked. By her own behavior and by his.

This was wrong! Luke had just gotten hurt. And she shouldn’t be draped on top of him making out.

If this was Luke.

A dart of fear stabbed her as that notion lodged in her brain again. This had to be Luke. Who else could it be?

The frantic thought evaporated as soon as it had formed. She was too busy responding to the sexy man who clasped her in his arms.

When he realized she wasn’t going to pull away, he drew her lower lip into his mouth, sucking and nibbling. He was good at what he was doing, and she heard a small murmur of arousal rise in her throat.

He seemed to drink in the sound as he silently asked her to open for him. She did, thrilling to the stroking of his tongue against hers. As he deepened the kiss, he slid her body fully on top of his, then swept his fingers across her back, pulling out the hem of her blouse. His hand slipped inside, and as he stroked her skin, he made a needy sound deep in his throat.

His hand was large and warm and firm against her heated flesh.

She moaned again as he reached with his other hand to cup her bottom through the fabric of her slacks, pressing her middle against his erection.

He was ready to make love to her. And she responded with a surge of arousal.

“Hold me,” he said in a gritty voice.

She did as he asked, clutching his broad shoulders as he reversed their positions, coming down on top of her, then raising up on his hands so that he could look into her dazed eyes.

It felt like the world had vanished. Only the two of them existed in a bubble of supercharged sexuality.

She had been attracted to Luke Garner. She had wondered what it would be like to make love with him. Well, now she was finding out. In the past few moments he had turned into the most exciting man she had ever met.

She knew without doubt that he would have her naked soon, and then he would join his body with hers—right here on the floor of her office.

His foot moved, and his boot scraped across the floor, hitting a piece of the pitcher that he’d pulled off the table when he fell.

The sound grated along her nerve endings. When she lifted her head, he kept her on top of himself, yet at the same time, awareness sparked in his eyes.

“What was that?”

“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.

She stared at him. Maybe he wasn’t playing games. Maybe he was sick—like with multiple personality disorder or something. And he’d hid it pretty well until he hit his head.

“Luke is still in your body?” she asked carefully.

“Yes.”

“Let me talk to him.”

His face contorted. “We do not have time for a conversation now. We are in danger. We must leave this place.”

Her exasperation bubbled over. “Let me talk to Luke!”

oOo

Luke opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to speak. But apparently the guy who had taken over his body wasn’t going to let him.

She needs to know what’s going on, he said inside his mind, hearing the words echo internally.

Later, Zabastian answered.

I’ll kill you later, Luke growled.

You’ll kill yourself, then, monkey brain.

You don’t have to insult me.

Then think logically.

Luke balled his free hand into a fist—the one that wasn’t clutching the haunted box.

He’d been strangely drawn to the damn thing—as if some magical force was tugging on him, goading him to try and solve the puzzle. Too bad he hadn’t kept his hands to himself when Olivia had warned him to leave it alone.

He’d thought he was so clever when he’d started working the sliding panels. Once he’d gotten the first one, his fingers had moved over the carved design on the sides as fast as the wind.

He’d slid hidden panels and pressed levers—like somebody else was directing his movements. And he was pretty sure that was really true. It seemed that the guy inside the chest—the spirit of some kind of ancient warrior—had connected with Luke’s mind, even when he was still trapped inside the chest.

He’d wanted Luke to let him out. When the lid popped open, the essence of the warrior came pouring out, like steam from a valve under pressure. The living mist of the man’s spirit enveloped Luke, knocking him to the floor with the force of the invasion. And knocking him unconscious.

He’d awakened, to find Olivia kneeling over him. He’d been trying to speak to her when Zabastian had taken over.

He gathered the guy hadn’t had a woman in over six hundred years, and he’d been ready to force himself on Olivia right there on the floor.

I did not force myself, an outraged voice inside his head answered. She wanted me.

She thought it was me!

And she liked what we were doing.

Luke had liked it too. He’d wanted Olivia since he’d set eyes on her—and known he couldn’t do a damned thing about it because it would screw up his Decorah Security assignment. But Zabastian had cut right to the chase.

Too bad his foot had hit that pitcher.

Later!

Get the hell out of my head.

You need me.

To prove the point, a sound in the doorway made him jerk around.

Two short dark men dressed in business suits charged through the door. Each of them held a gun in his hand—pointed at him and Olivia.

The Poisoned Ones.

Who?

The men who have come to take the box. They will kill you and the woman to acquire it.

Luke swore under his breath, knowing that he and Olivia didn’t have a chance of survival. Not with the fruitcake named Zabastian running the show.

I know how to fight! Better than you. The warrior’s voice said inside his mind.

But you’ve never seen a gun—right? Luke pressed.

He felt the warrior search his mind. I have seen them. Other times when I awoke. A weapon that shoots deadly projectiles.

Yeah, well, they’ve gotten more sophisticated in the last few hundred years.

We must cooperate to defeat these dung flies.

Could they? It was going to be difficult. But maybe that was their only chance.

The whole conversation had flashed back and forth between them in nanoseconds, since it was more like an internal thought process than speech. And Luke had never taken his attention away from the men with the guns.

“Give me the box,” the one with the gray hair ordered.

“No.”

The man raised his weapon, preparing to take what he had come for.

Moving like a streak of light, Luke thrust the box into Olivia’s hands and shoved her to the side as he charged the one who had spoken.

He took the thieves by surprise, because they weren’t expecting resistance. Kicking upward with his foot, he caught the man in the gun hand.

The would-be attacker screamed and dropped the weapon.

Luke whirled, using what he knew must be some kind of martial art. He couldn’t name the moves he was making, but they were effective. He took down the other guy, then jabbed the first one in the stomach with his elbow. From his peripheral vision, he saw Olivia bring down an ornate metal candlestick on the head of the man who was trying to get up.

He went down again like a bag full of grapefruits.

The first one he’d kicked had pulled out another gun, holding it in his left hand. Before he could bring it into firing position, Luke chopped down on his wrist, eliciting a satisfying scream.

“Give me the box,” he shouted to Olivia.

When she handed it over, he tucked it firmly under his arm. “Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”

The second man was climbing to his feet. Luke kicked him down again, then ducked around him and made for the door, pulling Olivia behind him.

He’d scoped out the building, and he knew where to find the stairs. As they ran along the corridor, a woman stepped out of another office, her face tense.

“What was that?”

“A robbery. Get out of the hall,” Luke shouted, then stared at the woman. He knew her. It was Betty Custer, and she had gone to school with him.

She ducked back into her office and asked in a hoarse whisper, “Should I call the police?”

“No. Just stay out of sight. Hide.”

They rushed past.

“Why not call the police?” Olivia gasped out.

“The men who tried to steal the box won’t let themselves be captured. People will die.”

“Who are they?”

“I told you. The Poisoned Ones. They came to steal the box—to acquire its power. They will risk everything to win the prize. Stop asking questions,” he said as they reached the stairs. He yanked open the door and ushered Olivia inside.

He could feel Zabastian inside him. It was a strange sensation—a combination of power and helplessness. The warrior was still getting his bearings, and he had let Luke take charge, now that the fight was over. But what he was telling Olivia about the Poisoned Ones came straight from the warrior.

“Stay in the background,” he muttered under his breath because he knew the building, and he was the one who could get them out of here.

“What?” Olivia asked.

He felt heat stain his cheeks as he considered what she must be thinking. “I’m not talking to you.”

“Then who?”

“Zabastian. You remember him?” he asked as they ran down a flight of stairs.

“Luke, have you . . . gotten . . . psychiatric treatment?” she puffed out as they ran.

“I don’t need a shrink.”

She shot him a sidewise look that told him she was planning to get away from him as soon as she could

Well, he couldn’t allow that. Because if the attackers didn’t get the chest, they’d come looking for her.

“What? You think those guys are my drug dealers? Or maybe my bookies? Come to take me out for not paying my bills?

“I don’t know who they are.”

“They’re after the box. Like they told you.”

She made a strangled sound and stopped asking questions.

They reached the garage level of the building, and he pulled open the door. Without waiting to find out what was on the other side, he charged through.

His mistake.

“Stop!” a voice called, and he knew in that moment that the other two men had left a cohort in the garage, just in case.

The grating voice was followed by a barrage of bullets.

“Monkey balls.” Zabastian’s curse rang out in the grungy air. But Luke had already pulled Olivia behind a rectangular pillar. Bullets struck it, chipping pieces of cement.

And the angle was shifting. They’d been striking the front of the column. Now they were moving to the side.

“Down,” he whispered. “Move behind the cars. Mine’s the silver Honda.”

She looked around. “Where?”

“Halfway down the row along this wall.”

He reached into his pocket and handed her the key. “Get in. Drive toward the door.”

“It’s locked!”

“You have an opener in your car?”

“Yes. But it’s on the other side of the garage, and we can’t get to it.”

“Is there a release at the door?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll get to the door and open it.”

She gave him a panicked look.

“Go!”

She ducked low, moving along the wall, following his directions, and he gave her points for not arguing. But he couldn’t help wondering if he’d put her in worse danger.

The garage was half empty and deathly quiet, and he’d like to know where the man with the gun had disappeared

He could be in back of them. In front. Anywhere. Straining his ears, he tried to figure out where the guy was hiding. But he heard nothing—and saw nothing.

Praying that Olivia made it to his car in one piece, he crawled awkwardly to the exit gate with the box under his arm, using the remaining cars as cover and hoping the gunman didn’t spot him.

But as he moved toward his goal, a wave of dizziness seized him, and he saw black spots in front of his eyes. It took every ounce of determination he possessed to hold on to consciousness. Even so he felt it slipping from his grasp.

Panic tightened his throat.

“No,” he ordered himself. “Not now.”

But working with another person inside his head was taking its toll. Luke stopped, pressing his shoulder against a car bumper, feeling like he was hanging onto awareness by his fingernails. If he passed out, he was dead. And so was Olivia.

And the box is lost, the warrior growled inside his skull.

Right, the all-important box. That’s what got us into this damn mess.

The warrior didn’t respond to the sarcasm. But as Luke wavered on the cold cement floor, he felt his breathing change. It became slower and deeper, and he knew the warrior was using some kind of calming technique on his mind and body. It helped. After a minute, the black spots went away, and Luke felt like he could function again.

“Thanks,” he muttered as he started crawling again toward the front of the garage where a metal gate closed off the entrance. Luckily there was a car parked nearby, which gave him some cover. But when he reached for the red button that opened the door, the guy spotted him and started shooting.

At that moment, shots rang out from the other end of the garage, and he realized that at least one of the men he’d disabled upstairs had made it down here.

He ducked behind the car as the metal gate began to slowly open. But he didn’t like his chances of getting into the Honda with two men catching him in the crossfire. Worse, he’d draw that fire toward Olivia.

Just as he was trying to figure out his next move, he heard an engine rev.

The Honda shot out of its parking slot, then whipped into forward gear and came barreling toward the gate—which was still not open enough for the car to exit.

His heart leaped into his throat when he heard bullets hit the back fender.