Wolfe Watching. Joan Hohl

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