Joan Hohl - Wolfe Watching

Ted moved forward to hold a chair for Tina.

Eric moved faster. With a casual-looking, smooth turn of his body, he blocked Ted’s movement. Pulling one chair aside, he kept a firm hold on it while sliding another one out for Tina. The moment she was seated, he dropped into the one he was holding and drew it into the table next to hers. Ted was relegated to the only remaining chair...between Mike and Helen, at the far end of the other table.

“Hope you like your pizza loaded, Eric,” Bill said, grinning. “We ordered the works on both.”

“I like it any way I can get it,” Eric drawled, slanting a hooded, sultry look at Tina that implied something other and much more intimate than pizza. “But I like it best spicy and sizzling hot.”

Denying the flare of response that leapt to life deep inside her, Tina glared a warning at him before turning away.

“So what are we waiting for?” Helen wailed from the end of the table. “Serve it up!”

In between bursts of conversation and laughter, the pies were parceled out and demolished. When it became clear that appetites were still unsatisfied, more pizza and fresh drinks were ordered. It was a normal Friday night.

Not quite normal, Tina mused, squirming in the allotted space afforded her between Eric on one side and Vincent on the other. On a normal Friday night, she could relax away the tensions of the workday, not have the tension increased by the sensations instilled by a hard thigh pressing against her leg, a muscled shoulder nudging her arm, a pair of crystalline blue eyes probing into her thoughts.

Tina’s appetite for pizza deserted her, replaced by a different, sharper hunger below her stomach. Forcing herself to chew and swallow the food she no longer desired, and refusing to acknowledge the sensual craving, Tina managed to consume two slices of the pie without choking.

Next to her, Wolfe wolfed down half a dozen slices between pulls on another beer. Nothing wrong with his appetite, she thought, sliding a wry look at him.

Correctly interpreting her expression, Eric grinned, and once again set his shoulder and chest muscles into action with a careless shrug.

Tina shot an arched look back at him.

“I was hungry,” he said, pressing his hard thigh more firmly against hers. “Still am,” he went on, in a lower, breathy murmur. “But not for pizza.”

Shock—or something—zigzagged through Tina. She went cold, stiff as a board, outside—and hot, soft as warmed satin, inside. The sensation of craving deep within her contracted into a tight mass of need, expanding the sense of shock to the farthest reaches of her body and mind.

What was happening to her? she marveled in confused silence. What kind of sensual power did Eric Wolfe possess to so effortlessly affect her in this manner? She hadn’t experienced such a compelling carnal compulsion since—

Tina’s mental process stalled, then raced forward, blurting the truth into her disbelieving consciousness. Never before in her life had she experienced such a depth of carnal compulsion. Not even with her husband. Not on his most potent night, or day, had Glen ever managed to arouse her in body or mind to the degree that Eric Wolfe had accomplished with smoldering glances, murmured innuendos and the relatively minor pressure of his thigh and shoulder against her own.

It was weird. It was scary. It was not to be tolerated, Tina decided, edging closer to Vincent. She didn’t appreciate this hot-and-cold, hard-and-soft reaction to what, in fact, were the blandest of advances.

“Another drink?”

Tina’s thoughts fractured. Blinking, she turned to face Eric, certain her expression was every bit as blank as her mind. “Ah...what?”

“Would you like another seltzer?” He inclined his head, indicating the tall glass in front of her, empty except for a wedge of lime and three half-melted ice cubes.

Feeling dull witted, Tina stared at the glass in bemusement, wondering when she had drunk the fizzy water...and why her throat still felt so dry.

“The waiter’s waiting.” Eric’s droll drawl snagged her attention. “Would you like another?”

“No. Thank you.” Tina shook her head. She felt suddenly tired, drained by the interior havoc created by this too-attractive, too-sexy, too- close man. “It’s been a long day.” Beginning with a short, wild ride, she added to herself. “I’d like to go home.”

“I’ll take you.”

On that silver-and-black monster? Tina stifled the question, and shook her head again. “No, you won’t,” she said with tight asperity. “I came with Ted, I’ll go home with him.”

“Yes, but when?” Eric sent a pointed glance at Ted, then back to her.

Leaning forward, she gazed down the length of the tables to where Ted was engaged in a heated political discussion with Helen, Mike and Louise. At that moment, the waiter set a full mug of beer in front of him. Obviously Ted hadn’t given a thought to leaving yet; it was still early, after all.

“Whenever.” Tina lifted her shoulders in what she hoped conveyed an attitude of indifference she was far from feeling. “I think I will have another seltzer, after all.”

* * *

Cool. Christina Kranas was one cool cookie.

Interesting, Eric mused, how the so-very-cool cookie called Tina could activate his personal heat button. Concealing a sardonic smile, he turned away and raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention.

After placing her drink order—seltzer? Eric grimaced—he shifted around to her again, only to find that Tina had turned her back to him to join in on a conversation in progress between Vincent and Bill.

Lazing in the chair, Eric monitored the discussion on the pros and cons of the current professional football season, and various teams, primarily the Philadelphia Eagles, while at the same time doing some professional work of his own, that of evaluating the members of Tina’s close-knit group.

They appeared ordinary enough—all-American, clean-cut, ages running from the mid-to late twenties, upper-middle to middle class, well educated, motivated, career minded. Everyday, normal, innocent.

Maybe.

Then again, maybe not. Eric hadn’t remained alive by relying on guesswork. He wasn’t about to begin now. Although he regretted having to do so, he would have to go back to the well of information at the fingertips of one special agent for the FBI, his brother, Cameron Wolfe—referred to by his fellow agents as the Lone Wolfe.

Eric was prepared to endure the ribbing Cameron would most assuredly give him about a member of the force having to once again come begging for assistance from a federal agent. His brother’s teasing was nothing new, and it was a price Eric was more than willing to pay.

Raising his arm, Eric took a small swig from the long-necked bottle, swishing the beer around inside his mouth before letting the brew trickle down his throat. The bottle was his second for the night...his second and his last.

Eric knew better than to overindulge at any time. A soused undercover cop had even less value than a soused anyone else, and was potentially a lot more dangerous...to himself, to the force and to bystanders, innocent or otherwise.

“Aren’t you about ready for another beer, Eric?” Bill asked, almost as if he had tapped into the other man’s thought process. “You’ve been nursing that one since right after you sat down. Hell, the rest of us are on our fourth.”

No kidding? Eric mentally responded, lips curling into a rueful smile. “Two’s my limit,” he said truthfully. “I can’t tolerate more than that, it goes to my head,” he explained, lying without compunction.

“Bummer.” The unsolicited opinion came from Vincent. “I can knock ‘em back all night without getting woozy.”