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Blurb
Blood
and sweat. Bethany Lewis danced her way out of poverty. She’s a world class
athlete… with a debt to pay.
Joshua
North always gets what he wants. And the mercenary wants Bethany in his bed. He
wants her beautiful little body bent to his will.
She
doesn’t surrender to his kiss.
He
doesn’t back down from a challenge.
It’s going to be a sensual fight… to the death.
Excerpt
Blinding lights. Aching lungs.
Thunderous applause. The final show concludes the same way we rehearsed for
months, the same way we performed for weeks. My muscles know the movements
better than they understand rest. The prospect of after, of what comes next,
makes my breath catch. Even as the primas take their bows, relief echoes around
the stage. Vacations are planned. Relief for strained muscles. Everyone needs a
break, even professional athletes. I’m the only one onstage dreading it.
We bow and curtesy with practiced
grace. The curtain descends to the floor. Almost to the second we break
formation—a flock of crows startled from the woods. The more exuberant among
us, the young ones, the new ones, the ones using steroids, prance and jete
toward the dressing rooms. Most of us limp our way out. One hundred percent of
NFL players are injured every season. Professional dancing is the same. We hurl
our bodies through the air, forcing massive impact through tired joints night
after night. I catch my friend Marlena in my arms. Her face is white with pain.
“Ice,” she says. “Or better
yet—tequila.”
I push my shoulder under hers as we
exit the stage. “Don’t sell yourself short. You can have both.”
A delicate snort. “Not likely. We
have to smile and flirt with the old men with big, fat wallets. And for what? I
won’t be here next season. You won’t be, either.”
The reminder clangs inside me like a
copper bell. I won’t be coming to the New York City Ballet after the break. We
fall into our creaky chairs in the dressing room. “Are you going to miss it?”
“Miss it? Of course I’ll miss it.”
Marlena turned twenty-eight last month. It’s comfortably retirement age for a
dancer. “When the little children do their terrible pirouettes, when they
sneeze and throw up and cry all over my leotard, I’ll think fondly of the
beautiful art I left behind. Then I’ll be able to walk home. That won’t happen
if I try to dance another season.”
“You’ll make a wonderful teacher.
You know you were mine.” She didn’t teach me to dance. It was my first love,
before I learned to flip and contort myself. Before I ever leapt from a trapeze
bar.
Marlena taught me the ropes of the
ballet company when I joined two years ago. Most of them thought I wouldn’t last
a week. Some of them didn’t want me to. It’s a rigid world, the hierarchy
stacked with graduates of Juilliard or the John Cranko school.
I don’t have a pedigree.
All I have is a body that does what
it must, no matter how much it hurts.
Which means changing out of my
sweaty leotard into a fresh one. We’re contractually obligated to attend the
ball. Like Marlena said, we should smile and flirt with the high society people
who attend. Both the male and female dancers have to do it. It’s what convinces
the sponsors to write checks that will fund the next season. By the time
they’re rehearsing The Nutcracker I’ll be in New Orleans, the place I swore I’d
never return.
Author bio and links
Skye
Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dangerous romance. Her books
have sold over one million copies. She makes her home in Texas with her loving
family, sweet dogs, and evil cat.
Links:
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& Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/audition-skye-warren/1132969928
