Cade Warner paused in the corridor of the health club and peered through the dusty panes of glass in the double swing doors. He could see at least thirty women bobbing up and down, led by a slight figure in a pink bodysuit.
He eyed the lithe body of the instructor with appreciation. When he'd read the copy of the newspaper article tucked in his jacket pocket he'd formed a mental picture of Eden Granger. It hadn't done her justice.
Cade sighed. He had become accustomed to the unpleasant aspects of his job; most of the time he didn't even think about it anymore. But this time he couldn't use his work as an excuse. He felt uncomfortable about that.
She looked younger than he'd expected. According to the article she was twenty-nine. Younger than he by almost ten years. She was maybe five three or four, with the kind of athletic build most women would kill for. Her dark hair was knotted on the top of her head with a pink ribbon, and her figure-hugging outfit gave him a very good idea of what she'd look like without it.
He squashed the image before it could completely form in his mind. This was strictly business--even if it was personal business. The suspicion that he might enjoy what he was about to do made him uneasy.
He mentally braced himself and pushed open the doors. He slipped inside and let them swing together behind him as Eden Granger's clear voice rang in his ears.
"One-two, one-two, keep it going, one-two." Eden pummeled the air with her fists, her upper body bent horizontally from the waist.
She watched rows of perspiring women in front of her do their best to mimic her actions without too much success. A small part of her mind registered the slight sound of the doors opening and closing, but she kept her gaze straight ahead, her concentration centered on finishing the set.
The music built to a pulsing crescendo, and her voice rose with it. "Reach, reach, come on, hit that ceiling, reach--that's it."
Quiet moans mingled with the final chords, and a few of the women collapsed onto the floor only to be urged to their feet again by Eden's firm voice. A soft, slow melody signaled the cool-down section of the exercises.
Eden took her gaze from the swaying arms and bodies to flick a glance at the doors in the corner. A man lounged against the wall with his hands shoved into his pockets, staring right at her. She had a brief impression of fair, windblown hair and a lean build then she switched her attention back to her breathless students.
"All right, everyone," she called out when the music faded, "that was good. Keep it up and you'll all lose twenty pounds by the summer."
A chorus of groans answered her, making her smile. She grabbed a towel from the back of a chair and mopped at her forehead before draping it around her neck.
For some reason the intruder bothered her. He made no move to come forward, but stood back to allow the stream of chattering women to file past him. More than one gave him a second glance, Eden noticed. It was his tan, she decided. After six months of rain and cool winds, she'd almost forgotten what a suntan looked like.
Ignoring him for the moment, she moved around the room, checking for any articles left behind by the women. He must be here to ask about her advanced aerobics class, she thought as the doors closed behind the last of the women and the man still waited in the corner.
She was intensely aware of him now; for some reason he made her nervous. She could feel his eyes on her, following her every movement, and she had to force herself to meet his gaze as she approached the doors.
"Is there something I can help you with?" she asked politely.
His eyes were green and deep-set, accented by thick brows. Compelling eyes, she thought, and very direct.
"I hope so." He fished in his jacket pocket and brought out a crumpled white card. "I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me."
Her hand shook as she took the card from him. She stared down at the black letters, her first reaction a sense of relief that he wasn't the police.
Then her heart plummeted as she stared at the small print beneath his name. She looked up sharply. "You're a reporter?"
"Yes, but--"
She cut him off before he could finish. "I'm sorry," she snapped. "I have nothing to say to you."
"No, wait a minute."
She avoided his outstretched hand and pushed through the double doors, feeling a stab of satisfaction when they swung back with a dull thud that suggested they'd made contact with his body.
His muttered oath confirmed it. "Wait a minute, lady. I just want to talk to you about--"
"I don't want to talk to you," she flung over her shoulder. "Either get out and leave me alone, or I'll have you thrown out."
Without waiting to see if he'd heeded her threat, she headed for the stairs and raced up them two at a time. It took only a few strides to reach the sanctuary of the women's locker room and once inside, she leaned against the counter and forced herself to relax.
It had been six months, but she could still hear the relentless voice of the reporter and his endless questions. The interview with the police had been bad enough, but that damn reporter...
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