Wolfe Watching

S
he was a breath stopper.

Eric Wolfe inhaled and watched the young woman exit the house and stride along the flagged path to the sidewalk, hang a left, then head right toward where he was making a pretense of working on his bike in the driveway of the residence three properties down from her own.

The honey blonde wasn’t very big; she was really quite petite, but every inch of her was packed with feminine dynamite.

Her delicate features fit perfectly in her heart-shaped face. Brown eyebrows gently arched over dark brown eyes fringed by incredibly long eyelashes, lending an overall appearance of wide-eyed innocence.

Right.

Eric’s mouth slanted at a cynical angle.

Her name was Christina Marianna Kranas. Her friends called her Tina. She appeared to be something of a contradiction. She rarely, if ever, dated one-on-one, and yet she very obviously enjoyed her nights out and a good time. And she had lots of male, as well as female, friends.

Eric wasn’t one of them. He was a neighbor, a relatively new and temporary neighbor. But Eric knew just about all there was to know about her.

Born and raised in Philadelphia, Christina Kranas was twenty-six years and four months old. She had married in haste at the advanced age of twenty-one. It hadn’t worked. The man had a criminal record—he had been collared and booked numerous times—but he had never served time. There had never been enough hard evidence to prosecute with any hope of getting a conviction. Christina had claimed she didn’t know about his scrapes with the law.

Eric was reserving judgment on her claim.

The marriage had quickly disintegrated, barely lasting eighteen months. The union had been childless. Christina had been granted a divorce almost four years ago.

Eric was less than impressed, since the man continued to pay periodic visits to her...and his best friend, who just happened to own and live in the house across the street, the house Eric had under observation.

Too convenient by far.

Her former husband was a good-looking guy named Glen Reber. Christina had assumed her maiden name upon receiving her divorce decree.

She had also assumed the responsibility for the mortgage on the small ranch-style house on the quiet street in the middle-income section located on the very edge of Philadelphia’s city limits. She owned and operated a classy-looking florist shop in center city.

Christina stood exactly five-foot-two-and-three-quarter-inches tall. She maintained a weight of ninety-eight-and-one-half pounds—discounting nor mal monthly fluctuations. She wore a size 32B bra, size 5A shoes, and a size 3 petite dress, depending on the maker and quality of the garment. Her ring size was also a 5.

Eric knew all Christina’s vital statistics because he had made it his business to know; committing to memory every factor gleaned about a possible suspect was part of his job.

He took his job very seriously; he always had, and even more so since the death of his father at the hands of a strung-out cocaine dealer during a drug bust three years ago.

At present, Christina was striding along in low-heeled size 5 shoes, making for the bus stop at the corner, because her car had been in a repair shop for three days to meet State inspection standards. And his presence in the driveway at this precise time of the morning was not a mere coincidence.

Eric ran an encompassing, if unobtrusive, glance over Christina’s enticing form as she drew closer to him. Her outfit was both casual and smart looking. She had great taste. The observation was not a new one for him. He had reached the conclusion about her style at first sight of her, which had occurred nearly a week ago, on the very day he moved into the bachelor apartment above the garage attached to the three-bedroom house.

Eric had also concluded that watching Tina was the one pleasurable side benefit of the unpleasant business associated with being an undercover police officer.

Eric was good at his chosen profession; he knew he was, in all probability, good at it because he liked being a cop. It ran in the family. Generations of Wolfe men had served the law, in one form or another. The third of four sons, all in law enforcement, Eric was the only one who had followed his father into the force in Philadelphia.

He had volunteered for undercover work in the narcotics division after his father was gunned down in the line of duty.

Only, in this instance, Eric was working under his own auspices; he was officially on vacation. He had requested leave time after receiving a tip from one of his informants, a tip that had fired his anger.

The informant had told Eric that the latest word on the street was that there were dealers—ostensibly an ordinary middle-class couple—doing business out of their home in this quiet community minutes away from center city.

While important, that information alone had not been the catalyst that motivated Eric. It was the informant’s claim that the couple had been the suppliers to the man who had shot Eric’s father that had been the factor in determining his actions.

Eric wanted vengeance—and he wasn’t inclined toward having his methods questioned by the department. Fully aware that he could be summarily dismissed from the force if he screwed up, he had decided to take vacation leave in order to play a hunch.

Since the hunch and the subsequent idea of taking up residence in the neighborhood were his, to all intents and purposes he was on his own. Eric rather liked the idea.

Eric had been maintaining surveillance on Christina for a week now. He had been open in his movements, visible as he tinkered with his bike in the driveway, pleasant in response to greetings offered by passing residents, but he had yet to exchange a word with her.

Today was the day.

Pulling a rag from his back jeans pocket, Eric slowly straightened to his full six-foot-four-inch height. He flashed his most charming smile as he casually wiped his hands on the grimy cloth.

“‘Morning,” he said as she drew even with him.

Christina started, as if rudely jolted from introspection by the sound of his voice. Her smooth stride faltered.

Eric controlled the smile itching to become a grin.

“Ah...good morning...” she returned, her lips forming a tentative smile, while her eyebrows crept together in a frown.

“Beautiful day,” Eric observed, keeping her from rushing on. “Unusually warm for November.”

“Yes...er, it is...” she agreed, taking a step forward to resume her brisk pace.

“Want a lift?” His offer brought her up short once more. “I think I’ve finally solved the problem here.” He waved a hand at the bike. “I’m going into town.”

Christina shifted a leery look from her soft gray wool slacks and matching hip-length jacket to the Harley. “Ah...I don’t think so, thank you.”

“It’s clean,” he assured her, flicking the rag at a nonexistent speck of dust on the gleaming silver-and-black machine. “And I have an extra helmet.”

“No, really, I...”

“There goes your bus.” Eric indicated the corner intersection with a nod of his head and smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I made you miss it.” He raised his eyebrows. “How long before the next bus?”

She sighed. “Half hour.”

“My offer of a lift is still open,” he said, in a tone designed to convey his eagerness to be of help.

Christina stood, silent and uncertain, for several seconds, and then she sighed again. “Okay, thank you.”

Eric turned away to head for the garage—and to hide a smile of satisfaction. “I’ll get the helmet...back in a sec.”

* * *

A motorcycle. Suppressing yet another sigh, Christina stood staring at the shiny bike. A big, dangerous motorcyle, driven by a man she didn’t know from Adam.

Not too bright, Tina, she told herself, even if the man did happen to look like a walking, talking twentieth-century version of a classic Greek god.

Only this particular Greek god had the formidable appearance of a modern-day Teutonic warrior.

Christina felt a delicate tingle skip up her spine. He was one attractive representative of the male species. Crystal blue eyes gazed out at the world from beneath a shock of wavy golden brown hair. His facial bone structure was chiseled, defined by high cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, a strong, squared jawline and a mouth that held a promise of inflicting infinite pleasure...or pain.

The speculation intensified the tingle in Tina’s now-stiffened spine. What had she let herself in for here? she wondered anxiously. She didn’t even know this man’s name, for pete’s sake! And he literally towered over her.

Tina judged him to be at least six-three, possibly six-four, and without a visible ounce of excess flesh on that lean, flatly muscled frame.

And she had agreed to ride away with him on that monstrous machine. Was she nuts, or what? she asked herself, glancing around, as if for an avenue of escape. If she had any sense left at all, Tina thought, she’d take off at once and, if necessary, run all the way into center city.

“Name’s Eric, by the way.”

Tina’s body jerked with mild shock at the sudden sound of his voice. But she managed to swallow the yelp of surprise that sprang to her throat at the sight of him standing beside the bike, his face concealed by a black-visored helmet. She drew a measure of reassurance from the fact that he didn’t look anything like her preconceived notion of a leathered, chained, tattooed biker. But, on the other hand, he looked too appealing with his lean body clad in tight jeans, chest-caressing pullover sweater and expensive, if rather beat-up, running shoes.

“Eric...Wolfe.”

What else? Tina squashed the nerve-jangling observation, along with her senses-stirring response to the low, attractive sound of his voice.

“I moved in a week ago.”

“Ah...how do you do?” Great response, Tina, she chided herself, reluctantly extending her right hand. His hand, long, broad, slim fingered and strong, shot out to enclose hers, drawing the tingle from her spine to her fingertips—and every inch in between. “I’m Christina Kranas,” she said, sliding her palm away from the too-warm, strangely intimate touch of his. “I live three houses down.”

“I know.”

Coming from behind that black visor, his simple reply had an ominous overtone that further intensified the tingle now jabbing throughout the entire length of Tina’s body. “Really?” she said, infusing coolness into her usually low, somewhat throaty voice.

“Sure.” His voice carried an unmistakable smile. “Couldn’t help but notice you...the times I’ve been out here, working on the bike, you know?”

“Oh.” The stiffness eased a little inside Tina; his explanation did have a reasonable ring. “Ah, yes, I see.” But why hadn’t she noticed him? she mused, skimming a quick glance over his person. He was pretty hard to miss, and—

“Chris for short?”

His question derailed the train of her thoughts. “Chris?” She frowned, then shook her head when his meaning registered. “No. Tina.”

“Umm. Makes sense.” Now his voice contained a definite shade of muffled laughter. “Well, then, Tina...” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Ready to go?”

No.
Tina clamped her lips against the sharp refusal; she
had
agreed to the lift. “Yes...I suppose so.” Even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice.

“It’s perfectly safe,” he said reassuringly, holding the helmet out to her with one hand while lifting a windbreaker from the seat of the bike with the other.

“I...um, it looks so powerful,” she said, her stomach clenching as she watched the play of shoulder and chest muscles as he shrugged into the windbreaker.

“It is.” Raising a hand, he flipped up the visor to grin at her, and dazzle her with his white teeth. “But I can handle the beast.”

Despite her trepidation, Tina felt a smile tug at her lips; this man was not without charm. “Well...okay.” Drawing a breath, she took the helmet and eased it over her head, careful not to dislodge the neat pleat she had folded her long hair into at the back. Fully expecting to have her vision curtailed by the dark visor, she was surprised by the range of visibility it afforded her. “How do I...er...mount?” she asked, eyeing the bike with suspicion from behind the dark cover.

“Like this.” Still grinning, Eric swung his right leg up and over the bike, then stood straddling it. “Come on,” he urged. “You’re wearing pants.”

Oh, what the hell. So thinking, Tina marched to the side of the bike and swung her own leg up and over. Although she completed the exercise, her effort did not bear comparison to his for smooth adroitness. When she was in position, he flipped down his visor and lowered his long torso onto the seat.

“Okay, settle in behind me,” Eric directed, effortlessly holding the machine upright and steady. “Then grab on to my waist, my belt...or whatever, and hang on.”

Tina bristled at the slight accent he had placed on the “whatever,” but she followed his instructions, opting for his belt.

“By the way, where do you want to go?”

“Oh, you can drop me off anywhere close to Wannamaker’s,” she answered, distracted by his question.

Eric flipped a switch; the beast growled to life and an instant later roared out of the driveway and turned left onto the street, sounding beautifully tuned and in perfect running condition.

Exclaiming at the sudden burst of motion in a startled shriek, which went unheard over the roar of the bike, Tina tightened her grasp on his belt and hung on for dear life, shutting her eyes tight as Eric whipped in and out around the snaking lines of rush-hour traffic.

Every muscle in Tina’s body was quivering by the time Eric glided the bike to a smooth stop along the curb opposite one of the wide showroom windows of Wannamaker’s department store.

“Thank...thank you,” Tina said, breathless and still quivering as she scrambled off the machine he thoughtfully tilted toward the pavement for her. Feet once more firmly on the ground, she removed the helmet and handed it to him.

Eric accepted the headgear with a shrug. “Anytime.” He paused, then quickly qualified, “That is, anytime I’m off from work, like today.”

Tina raised her brows. “Friday is your day off?”