New York City, the world of ballet--two young dancers share
love and a dream, until one's ..enslavement to a magicalamulet
threatens all. 
The dance is the only true happiness in Glory's life…until
she meets Connor. She wants everything he has to offer, a life
on the stage with him, happiness and love. Very soon, however,
she finds that neither is possible under her masters' rule, and
their determination to separate her from her love and her dreams
endangers Connor's life.
Her only option is to give him up. Connor won't allow that
to happen.
..What
made me think I could write a ballet? Because that's what Glory
is, a dance, done to the score and choreography my characters
dictated.
I've always loved the ballet--and admired dancers… any dancers.
What they do with their bodies is beyond beautiful. It's living,
breathing, dynamic art. For the audience, dance is more than a
visual medium. It's a physical and emotional experience, melding
music, movement and the dancer's passion into the soaring, surge
of exhilaration you'd expect from a rush of awe, the depths of
love, the intimacy of sex. An
arousal,
..constantly renewed as the artist bares his very soul. How could
you not be inspired?
Here's an excerpt
from Glory:
"You hesitated. Glory, for the hundredth time, trust me. I'm
not going to drop you."
"I am too heavy," she said, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"Sophie Kessler is ten pounds heavier. I've never dropped her."
Already, after only their first hour together, he'd determined
to put this hurdle behind them as quickly as possible and make
this partnership work. If he succeeded in gaining her trust, if
the damn nosebleeds didn't get in the way, if … they would be
brilliant. "How badly do you want this?"
She locked her golden eyes to his and nodded.
The hunger was there. "Well, then," he said. With one hand against
her ribs, the other on her thigh, he lifted her over his head.
"Again, a Poisson." This time, she didn't hesitate, didn't
try to compensate. In the mirror, the perfect line her curves
created remained undisturbed as he extended and lowered her torso
into a dive. He reversed the tilt and dropped her into his arms.
She weighed nothing. With his arms wrapped around her thighs,
he buried his face in her belly and smiled. Peppermint, she smelled
like Christmas.
She was desire personified in his arms, her body sliding, slowly,
caressingly, over his as he lowered her en pointe. Her
left leg curled around his hip and she leaned back into his arm.
With her arm stretched above her head, the mounds of her breasts
and the peaks of their nipples yearned toward the sky. He couldn't
stop himself, in spite of the growing discomfort as the belt he
wore tightened around his rising arousal. Hell, he didn't want
to stop. They were already so close to what he'd imagined, a celebration
of the body.
The arch of her back deepened as he let his hand slide up her
thigh, hip, ribs to cradle one full, round breast with his outstretched
thumb. That's as far as he let himself go; his eyes completed
the stroke. The shadows of her dark areolas bled through the taut
fabric. For a moment, the sight of her took his breath away.
"Perfect," he breathed.