Chapter One
Stepping through the double doors of the prestigious Scottsdale-based ProAth Fitness Club, I anticipated sweat, testosterone and male grunts and groans to permeate the air. Instead, a fragrant citrusy scent wafted under my nose and instrumental music with an energetic, hard-driving beat filled the open atrium. To my right was an upscale sports shop, and to the left, a juice bar. The hardwood floor was polished to a glossy sheen and the reception desk was a spectacular creation of wood and glass. The two-story frosted windows lining the walls, along with the glass ceiling overhead, lent a bright, airy feeling to the lobby, which was decorated with lush foliage and an eight-foot-tall-and-just-as-wide waterfall behind the reception desk.
The premier athletic club catered to all manner of professional sports heroes, in addition to aspiring athletes whose stars were vibrantly on the rise. I instantly recognized several of Phoenix’s notable football, baseball and basketball players coming to and from the various arteries that flowed from the inner depths of the club to the lobby, or hanging out at the elaborate juice bar. Apparently, they supplemented their regimens with their affiliated trainers via trips to ProAth. As did other sports giants from around the country.
With pen and paper in hand, and my assigned staff photographer, Pete, trailing along behind me, I stepped up to the enormous desk.
“Welcome to ProAth,” the superhunk behind the glass-top counter greeted me. “Can I help you?”
“Claire Williams and Pete Russell to see Jack Reed,” I said in my practiced tone, forcing my gaze to remain on his face, rather than allowing my eyes to wander the path of sinewy neck muscles that led to ginormous trapezii and biceps the size of tree trunks. He had dark hair that stood on end, resembling a patch of well-manicured grass. Very twenty-something hip. I felt every year of my three-decade existence in the presence of such a trendy and youthful-looking stud.
“We’ve been expecting you,” he said with a flash of pearly white teeth.
He consulted the digital clock on the east wall at the same time I said, “We’re a bit early. Do you mind if Pete takes some photographs of the lobby and the grounds while we wait for Mr. Re—”
I lost my train of thought and my voice in the span of a heartbeat as a tall, amazingly good-looking man suddenly appeared at my side. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he put the superhunk to shame with his perfectly sculpted body. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, gym shorts and a thousand-watt smile that took my breath away.
“Claire Williams, right?” he asked in a casual tone, the rich timbre of his voice resonating deep within me. “I saw you when you walked in. I recognize you from your picture in Scottsdale Live magazine.” His smile was an engaging one. “I’m Jack Reed. Give me just a sec, will you? Then I’ll show you around.”
I was the one who needed a moment—or ten—to catch my breath. Holy moly . I’d also seen photos of Jack Reed, and an infomercial or two, truth be told. Neither stills nor TV did the man justice. Yes, I’d known he’d be solid muscle from head to toe, and not in the massive bodybuilder way. He was sturdy and surfer-boy handsome, but not ripped in that manner that sometimes looked uncomfortable—like the superhunk with his bulging traps that seemed to swallow up his neck.
Jack Reed’s neck was just the right size, just the right length. It led to broad shoulders that gave way to rock-hard biceps and sinewy forearms. His chest was wide and his shirt pulled tight against the hard ledge of his well-defined pectoral muscles. I could see the ripple of cut abs against the material as well, and his proportioned hips complemented his powerful thighs. He was six feet two inches of tanned and toned perfection and one seriously beautiful male specimen, what with his tousled sun-kissed blond hair and radiant green eyes. The
Stepping through the double doors of the prestigious Scottsdale-based ProAth Fitness Club, I anticipated sweat, testosterone and male grunts and groans to permeate the air. Instead, a fragrant citrusy scent wafted under my nose and instrumental music with an energetic, hard-driving beat filled the open atrium. To my right was an upscale sports shop, and to the left, a juice bar. The hardwood floor was polished to a glossy sheen and the reception desk was a spectacular creation of wood and glass. The two-story frosted windows lining the walls, along with the glass ceiling overhead, lent a bright, airy feeling to the lobby, which was decorated with lush foliage and an eight-foot-tall-and-just-as-wide waterfall behind the reception desk.
The premier athletic club catered to all manner of professional sports heroes, in addition to aspiring athletes whose stars were vibrantly on the rise. I instantly recognized several of Phoenix’s notable football, baseball and basketball players coming to and from the various arteries that flowed from the inner depths of the club to the lobby, or hanging out at the elaborate juice bar. Apparently, they supplemented their regimens with their affiliated trainers via trips to ProAth. As did other sports giants from around the country.
With pen and paper in hand, and my assigned staff photographer, Pete, trailing along behind me, I stepped up to the enormous desk.
“Welcome to ProAth,” the superhunk behind the glass-top counter greeted me. “Can I help you?”
“Claire Williams and Pete Russell to see Jack Reed,” I said in my practiced tone, forcing my gaze to remain on his face, rather than allowing my eyes to wander the path of sinewy neck muscles that led to ginormous trapezii and biceps the size of tree trunks. He had dark hair that stood on end, resembling a patch of well-manicured grass. Very twenty-something hip. I felt every year of my three-decade existence in the presence of such a trendy and youthful-looking stud.
“We’ve been expecting you,” he said with a flash of pearly white teeth.
He consulted the digital clock on the east wall at the same time I said, “We’re a bit early. Do you mind if Pete takes some photographs of the lobby and the grounds while we wait for Mr. Re—”
I lost my train of thought and my voice in the span of a heartbeat as a tall, amazingly good-looking man suddenly appeared at my side. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he put the superhunk to shame with his perfectly sculpted body. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, gym shorts and a thousand-watt smile that took my breath away.
“Claire Williams, right?” he asked in a casual tone, the rich timbre of his voice resonating deep within me. “I saw you when you walked in. I recognize you from your picture in Scottsdale Live magazine.” His smile was an engaging one. “I’m Jack Reed. Give me just a sec, will you? Then I’ll show you around.”
I was the one who needed a moment—or ten—to catch my breath. Holy moly . I’d also seen photos of Jack Reed, and an infomercial or two, truth be told. Neither stills nor TV did the man justice. Yes, I’d known he’d be solid muscle from head to toe, and not in the massive bodybuilder way. He was sturdy and surfer-boy handsome, but not ripped in that manner that sometimes looked uncomfortable—like the superhunk with his bulging traps that seemed to swallow up his neck.
Jack Reed’s neck was just the right size, just the right length. It led to broad shoulders that gave way to rock-hard biceps and sinewy forearms. His chest was wide and his shirt pulled tight against the hard ledge of his well-defined pectoral muscles. I could see the ripple of cut abs against the material as well, and his proportioned hips complemented his powerful thighs. He was six feet two inches of tanned and toned perfection and one seriously beautiful male specimen, what with his tousled sun-kissed blond hair and radiant green eyes. The
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