She was on her way. She could feel it. The sky was the limit. Someday, she would be a star. She always knew she would be. Bouncing on her heels with excitement, she glanced around at the other customers waiting in line and the busy bank clerks behind the counter.
A Miranda and Parker Mystery #13
The place was crowded and felt close. She could smell the colognes and body washes of the customers near her. One large man in a suit grumbled impatiently. She should have expected the bank would be busy on a Friday just before noon. Everyone was here to cash their own paychecks and go out for a good time. So why was she suddenly feeling so anxious?
Maybe because Drew had promised he might stop by later. When she told him she was trying to get into the movies, he said he had some connections and might be able to get her something in Atlanta if she was willing to start at the bottom. But there was something about Drew that made her trust him.
But leave home and go all the way to Atlanta with him? And it had worked out. Here she was, cashing her first paycheck. She felt a hand on her shoulder. He was so handsome. His face was to-die-for. He was part Asian and his dark exotic eyes always made her knees feel like jelly. The man behind her stepped a little too close.
Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, she glanced around at the crowd. She was uncomfortable, antsy. She started to perspire. There were too many people in here. The clerk was wearing a ridiculous smile. She opened her pocketbook and stared down at its contents. She saw lipstick, tissues, a cell phone—and tucked neatly beside the phone was a small handgun with a pink handle.
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The red haze grew dark. Blue and purple clouds began to form around the edges of her vision. She felt dizzy, sick. And all she wanted was to make that clerk shut up. She reached into her purse, pulled out the gun, and fired at the woman. She spun around flailing the gun at the sea of terrified faces. Suddenly, she knew exactly what to do. Except for the dark, knife-like stare of the seductively handsome King.
The look that sends shivers down her spine. That might make her put her plans on hold for a while. Six months ago Leopold de Chambonay was crowned King of Prasala by a quirk of fate. Now he must prove that act was not a mistake. He longs to be a great King like his father. But the graceful carefree creature who is now his sister-in-law has cast some sort of spell over him. He finds himself drawn to her, longing to forget his duty and take her in his arms.
He must rid himself of her before he does something that might threaten the kingdom. Why should Darcy care what the enigmatic King thinks of her? Besides, she would never pine over a man. After all, love is just a game. Preorder on iBooks Apple. Darcy Matthews could feel her heart thump as she peeked out from the high scrolling arches of St. Suddenly a clip-clop sounded, the church bells rang out above, and everyone turned toward the far end of the street. Around the corner a gilded rose-covered carriage appeared, drawn by the ebony stallion and chestnut filly Katy had told Darcy so much about.
The coach moved slowly, majestically over the cobblestone lane, and after what seemed like half an hour came to a halt along the curb. A footman riding along the side disembarked and opened the door. She was used to seeing her sister in jeans and old shirts with her blond hair tousled by the wind. The matching veil had a real diamond tiara and the train was so massive it took three ladies-in-waiting to carry it. Well, she was a real princess. Or she would be in a few minutes.
Darcy would have to get used to that.
She stepped forward to speak to her sister but the thin dark woman who was in charge of the ceremony—and who reminded Darcy of the wicked witch in fairy tales—ushered her back inside. Her heart beating anew with excitement, Darcy began the slow procession down the long flower strewn aisle toward the huge, elaborate altar at the front. Second in line, Darcy took fashion-model-like steps in time to the soft strains of Handel from the colossal pipe organ. Behind her were seven other bridesmaids, three flower girls, and a young ring bearer. They were real ladies-in-waiting, part of the royal court.
Goose bumps prickled on her arms. She wanted to pinch herself. Was she really here in Prasala? Was she really marching down the aisle in a mermaid-cut gown of blackberry and tea-rose, created by the incomparable Valsois? Gazing up at the tall flying buttresses of the massive church, Darcy felt she had stepped into a fairy tale herself.
If love were real, this exotic southeastern European country would definitely be the place for it. It had been for Katy. As the years went by that wall remained. Darcy had never felt anything she could call love. She eyed the dignitaries and nobility from all over the world who were crowded together in the pews. On one side a handsome blond guy, well-groomed and all dressed up in a fine tux might have just winked at her. Across from him a whole row of young men seemed to be selecting partners from the procession of bridesmaids.
One of them caught her eye and she risked a flirtatious grin. An older man standing next to what must have been his mother looked as if he were making a mental note to dance with her later on. She reached the alabaster stairs and grinned at the dark, handsome groom awaiting his bride. Dressed in full Prasalian uniform, the man was absolutely stunning. Darcy had witnessed firsthand the pain Katy had endured, had listened to her cry herself to sleep every night.
The woman was sitting in the front pew now and Darcy had avoided even looking at her. According to Katy all was well now. But Darcy kept her reservations about the man. Katy had never told her the details about how things had worked out. Beside her Megan cleared her throat. Turn and face the entrance. She pivoted carefully, hoping to focus on her mother who was sitting on the opposite side from the Queen. The pair looked enough alike to be twins, though this one was taller and infinitely more handsome, in her opinion.
With his regal dress and the shining medallions decorating his broad chest, he exuded strength and power. Darcy winced, thinking again of the harsh words she and Katy had thrown at each other last night. Katy had wanted her here in Prasala a week ago for the wedding preparations, but Darcy had had a farewell concert with her band back in Kentucky. And to top it off, Katy told her the wedding planner—the wicked witch lady—had selected a local singer for the reception.
Okay, she could understand her timing was bad. But she could have handled it. She was a professional, after all. Katy thought her singing was a silly hobby and that Darcy needed to settle down and get serious about life. She would show Katy and everyone else, too. This wedding was going to be a turning point for her.
From this moment on her life would be different. She was starting a new adventure. The organ filled the vaulted ceiling with loud, majestic chords. At the end of the aisle the bride appeared. In that amazing Valsois gown, Katy looked as if she were floating in a dream. Darcy was overjoyed for her sister. She hoped she would be happy with her Prince. Suddenly Darcy realized how much she was going to miss her. Next stop was Los Angeles and a singing career. And she wanted a career as a singer more than anything.
How the royal colors of his deep blue and purple attire set off his rich black hair and intense features. How seductively handsome he was. How his presence seemed to fill the room. And most of all, she was carried away by his dark, piercing stare. The one that was sending shivers down her spine—right to her very toes. She was dressed in the same garb as the other females of the wedding party but somehow she stood out from the others like no woman he had ever seen. She had an unmistakable glow.
The rich dark hair piled under her veil? Those dark, inviting eyes? That pearl-like mouth with the teasing smile? She was a vision of pure loveliness. And just now she was making him want to run his hands over that delicate skin, his fingers through that hair, to taste those lips. He wished he were alone with her. In his rooms at the castle. In a hotel suite in the city. What inappropriate thoughts to have on today of all days. His brother, to whom he owed all he was. This was no way for a king to behave. His father would have been sorely disappointed. But no worse than he was with himself.
Chastising himself for his indiscreet thoughts, he turned away from the delectable sight and concentrated on the ceremony. Three powerful men of Prasala.
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Three feisty women from Kentucky. Can their hearts survive? With an excerpt below! For those of you who prefer thrillers, never fear. Miranda and Parker will be ready for another adventure later on in The famous Prasala Invitational is in three weeks and the demanding Crown Prince insists everything be perfect.
Katy heard the heir to the throne could be an ogre when it came to his horses. And that he had a very un-ogrely appearance. All the titled ladies in Europe flock after him because of his dazzling good looks. She was hired without his approval.
The Boy (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) #8
He has a good mind to send her packing. But her eyes are bold, full of strength, and as blue-green as the seas of Darthalia. It arrests his attention. Unfortunately the ladies at court and his country demand that attention first. Still, the position of royal veterinarian is his decision. The smell of freshly groomed horseflesh greeted her nose as the stable master led out her first patient.
Katy preferred conducting her first examinations in the daylight. Not only because it gave her a better view of details that could be missed in a darkened barn, but because she loved the outdoors. Holding her breath, she ran her hands over the quivering crest of the beautiful horse before her. He was a healthy animal. His coat, black as a coal pit, shimmered like jewels in the warm morning sun. At the unfamiliar touch, the thoroughbred whinnied nervously and stamped the ground of the royal courtyard with an authoritative hoof.
Though the country seemed backward with its ruling aristocracy, the breed had fascinated her since she was a child. They were strong and tall as Clydesdales but as delicate as thoroughbreds and lightning fast. And this spirited stallion was a fine specimen. Better in her opinion, than even the celebrated Derby winners she tended back home. She was here in this strange faraway country in southeastern Europe, with its French and Slavic influences, in a professional capacity.
As temporary veteran, she was filling in for the one who had fallen ill. She bristled as the all too recent memory formed in her mind. Katy stroked the probing muzzle, watched the nostrils twitch. It was a charming sound, she decided. Kindness, knowledge, good judgment, years of experience, and a deep love of the animals under his care. Katy twisted her mouth. Thank goodness it was a temporary job. His Majesty will be displeased. In her opinion, there was no need for alarm. Hartwig obviously kept the stables in regimental order.
The large building with its red-thatched roof and spacious, airy compartments were impeccably clean and smelled of saddle soap and fresh hay. And Oberon had been meticulously groomed for her inspection this morning. Of course, he would never badmouth his sovereign. Crown Prince Julio de Chambonay was exacting. And he could be an ogre when it came to his horses. And he swatted them away when he was done with them, like a stallion shooing flies off his rump with his tail. Let me see his mouth. Shielding her eyes, Katy squinted at the emerald green fields, almost as lush as the blue grass back home, that stretched to azure hills at the horizon.
She gazed at the spot before the hills where the magnificent castle Avante sat, home of the ruling de Chambonay family. She focused on the trail that ran between the stables and the castle. There was a man running down the pathway, flying at a mad dash, right toward them.
Ballet: the secret lives of dancers - Telegraph
He was dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt. Or almost dressed—the shirt was half-open and flapped behind him in the air like a flag. His raven black hair was flung back as he ran, and his fierce, dark blue-black eyes flashed with anger. He looked like some mad pirate racing for his crew ship. Katy swallowed hard as he neared. The man had the face of a god. He was the most gorgeous creature she had ever laid eyes on. What sort of sovereign runs outside half-dressed? A pair of binoculars hung around his neck.
You know that no stranger is to touch these horses. How could you allow it, Hartwig? He came to a halt just in front of her and eyed her with a fierce, powerful look that took her breath away. Not to mention his sensual, exotic accent, melded from Italian and French.
The hint of foreign bath soap teased her nose. It had been his idea to bring her here. A royal personage would have better manners. The Crown Prince would be very displeased. He put his hands on his hips and glared at her with those deep, dark blue eyes. The owner of these stables? The future ruler of this country? He's in for morning class. It's like they say — miss class for one day, you notice; miss class for two days, your colleagues notice; miss class for three days, your audience notices. That's all hypothetical since the New York City Ballet announced that, because of the economic climate, they were laying off dancers.
These days, nobody misses class. Of course, it wasn't always like that. And nor was Pennefather. And going out a lot. I would come in for class and wouldn't be able to remember what I was doing — I wouldn't even be able to lift the girls. I had to, because life in the Royal Ballet is so competitive. Without question, the Royal Ballet is one of the top three companies in the world. Pennefather knows that he is lucky to work there.
Although the beauty and mystique that surround the art often make it easy to forget, that's just what ballet dancing is: A tough and often thankless one. Even if you make it to the top, you'll still be faced with short-term contracts and early redundancy. Since the death of Rudolf Nureyev, there have been no 'superstars' in ballet. He was about so much more than the dance, which is why he went on to become one of the most photographed men of the 20th century. Born to an impoverished family in Russia, he ultimately died on his private island purchased with the millions he made during his dance career.
That was in , but he remains an inspiration to this day. Ballet Girl Kimberly Jaraj makes weighty pointes. Love and Loss, by the BRB - review. In T-shirt, tights and canvas shoes, Pennefather has the timeless quality of a Nureyev. Way back, tights were made of heavy woven material and weren't stretchy at all. You used to end up with terribly baggy knees. And I tried on a pair of ballet shoes from the olden days and they were really thick leather with a lot of material inside.
When I pointed my foot, I thought, "My God, how did people dance in these? In readiness for class, he's had breakfast. I imagined a cup of green tea. A natural yogurt maybe. The girls are at risk if you're not strong enough. You really can't go dropping a girl. Pennefather didn't get where he is today by doing that. It's one of the reasons that he's risen to principal so quickly — his reliability. That's all I'm saying Lauren Cuthbertson is one of the principals that Pennefather has charmed. With a BMI of I'm not too too, which seems to be the fashion these days. Everything has gone way beyond what is normal.
She looks down at her flat chest. And they all look so young. Dancers for the corps de ballet are most attractive to company directors in their late teens or early twenties. It's a life of pressure, as they try to carve out a career before injuries, and age, cut it short.
But to look at them all now, you wouldn't know it. They look wonderfully happy. Some are studying choreographers' notations. The notations are a ballet's steps, written down on a musical stave — a balletic score, in effect. Each line of the notations represents a different part of the body, and abstract symbols show how each part moves during the dance. As any dancer will tell you, in their darker moments, the choreographer is the real star of ballet — the dancers are just the ones who dictate how brightly that star shines.
Johann choreographed La Sylphide , for instance, and had worked out, visually, exactly what everyone was doing. It was all thought out in his head. You don't want to change it. Technically, if you're on a pirouette, you can carry on turning as long as you're in time with the music — there's no set rule — but it doesn't really happen like that. It's your performance, but it's someone else's production. The dancers are very huggy and kissy. And in such an intimate job, it's inevitable that relationships happen.
Most, though, look elsewhere — even if it's not very far. Mara Galeazzi married a Royal Ballet stage technician. Why do you choose me? As the ballerinas file into class, it's clear that a lot of perfection is down to genetics. You're either born with a small head, a long neck, a shortened torso — or you're not.
Galeazzi, who has been one of the principals since , was one of the lucky ones. You get to a certain level, and you just can't go any further. So you find your own way. Finding out the limits of what is possible can be painful. The ideal ballerina has toes that point outwards. The 'turnout' is the cornerstone of classical ballet. It begins at the hip and moves down to the knee, the tibia, the ankle and the foot. But if the leg isn't turned out naturally, it can be done by stretching, which can take its toll.
From the number of straps and supports, it's clear that every dancer nurses some sort of injury. Pennefather, for instance, is wearing a belt to help his back. And Galeazzi still has a toe fracture that she first sustained as a young dancer. It's difficult not to feel those injuries in class every day of the week except Sunday however much glucosamine and calcium you take.
Cuthbertson has trouble with her left foot — a sprain next to her second metatarsal. It just never gets any better,' she says.
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I've found that acupuncture has helped, because it's meant to stimulate the blood flow. But, to be honest, rest is the only thing. The physiotherapist is in today. One former Royal Ballet physio, who came from the world of rugby and rowing, said that the dancers were 'as hard as nails'. The chiropodist is due at 2pm. For the male dancers, the jumping and lifting puts strain on their feet, so they get bad ankles.
For the female dancers, it's all corns and bunions — the inevitable result of going on pointe. When dancing on pointe, a dancer's entire body weight ends up on the very ends of the toes, potentially causing clawed feet, broken bones and bleeding during a performance. It's worst when the company is doing Swan Lake. The dancers spend the class studying every aspect and angle of themselves in the mirrors. Although there are some people who are vain. Who build up, not for strength, but for appearance.
I've never done that. You should only do what's necessary. But you do want to look right in the part.