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.