that I’m not feeling well this morning and that I don’t wish to be disturbed. Oh, and when a Dr. Rosenthal arrives, please show him right in.”
Celeste departed, leaving behind the breakfast she’d brought with her. Mark was already lifting the heavy silver covers from the plates. “I’m starving. Fruit. Is that all you eat for breakfast? Ah, pancakes.” He licked his lips and dipped a finger into the small sterling pitcher that held warmed maple syrup. “Good. You don’t mind if I eat some of this, do you?” He dragged an armchair over to the small table holding the food. “All I got on the red-eye flight up here was a bag of salty peanuts.”
“Where did you fly in from?”
“Washington, D.C.”
“Is that where you’re stationed?”
He nodded and took a healthy bite of pancakes.
“A lovely place,” she noted. “But I believe New York is my favorite American city. There’s such an excitement here, you can almost hear its heartbeat.”
“All I hear is traffic.”
The man had no soul. Which wasn’t surprising. Marines weren’t known for their poetic natures.
Sitting there in her bedroom, eating her breakfast, he looked tough and sexy. The black T-shirt and black jeans he wore added a dangerous edge to his appearance. She could easily imagine him in an undercover operation. She could easily imagine him under her covers, period.
Oh my. She hadn’t had these kinds of fantasies about a man in ages. Not since the last time she’d seen him at Prudence’s wedding. This was certainly not the man to have those kinds of fantasies about. He was much too rough and too irreverent, too physical and too earthy. The qualifications for a good temporary bodyguard were not the same as those for a partner in a romantic relationship. Especially for a princess.
She wasn’t looking for a man in her life. She was looking for some freedom.
Briskly shoving her erotic thoughts aside, she said, “While you’re eating, I think I’ll write up a list of what I’d like to accomplish during these next few days.”
“Write away,” he mumbled around a mouthful of pancake.
Taking a piece of official stationery from her personal supply on the Chippendale-style writing desk, she nibbled on the edge of a pen that had been given to her by the queen of England for her twenty-first birthday. “Despite all my visits to New York, I’ve never seen the major tourist attractions like the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building.” She wrote those down. Despite her best efforts, her handwriting had never been as elegant and flowing as her younger sister Anna’s. A handwriting analyst had once done an article about Vanessa, saying she had a stubborn individual style that occasionally showed a surprising lack of confidence. Bingo. That was her personality in a nutshell. For once, the press got it right. “Oh, and I’d love to take a moonlit stroll through Central Park.”
“Dumb move,” he said bluntly.
She fixed him with a mocking stare. “Come now, Mark, don’t be shy. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Feelings have nothing to do with it.” He took a sip of coffee. “I’m telling you that walking through Central Park at night isn’t smart.”
“Nonsense. I’ll have a big strong Marine next to me. Besides, I’ve heard that New York is a much safer city now than it used to be.”
“You’re going through all this trouble just so you can do touristy stuff, like visit the Statue of Liberty. That’s all?” This assignment might not be so hard after all, he decided, aside from the walk in the park. That was a definite no-go. He was not compromising her security to that extreme.
Protecting foreign dignitaries usually did not fall under his command, or any Marine’s command for that matter, but this situation was unique. He’d been given this assignment because of his connections to Vanessa. As his C.O., his commanding officer, had told him, he was the only man for the job.
“I want to do what normal people do,” Vanessa was saying. “Eat at a fast-food restaurant, shop at a regular department store, go out dancing at a club at night—one that’s not just for the rich and famous.”
Shopping. Mark froze, his fork poised above the next portion of pancake. He’d rather do a month of Arctic training than shop. Marines didn’t shop. They went into a store, procured their necessities and got out ASAP.
And what had she listed before shopping? Dancing? He wasn’t a big fan of that wimpy activity either. Unless it was line dancing. He’d mastered that at a nifty little bar called Buck’s several years back. Where had that been? He frowned. So many assignments, so many bases.
But none of them had prepared him for dealing with a princess. If he had food like this served to him on a silver platter every day, he doubted he’d take off the way she wanted to. But then his mission was not to wonder why, his was to do or die.
And while the thought of dancing and shopping made him cringe, it wouldn’t literally kill him. Not like his time spent in Desert Storm eleven years ago as a young recruit or his last overseas assignment a year ago. Those had been dangerous. This was a piece of cake.
He was a “Mustang,” an enlisted man who’d worked his way up the ranks to become an officer. He thrived on challenges and was trained for efficiency. He excelled at strategy, and his strategy in this op was simple—to befriend Vanessa. A friendly princess was a more docile princess. He didn’t want a rowdy royal on his hands here.
“There, my preliminary list is done. I think I’ll go take a shower and get dressed now,” she announced.
“Put on some exercise clothes,” he told her, his thoughts already moving on to the next step in his plan.
She looked at him blankly. “Exercise clothes?”
“Yes, ma’am. Shorts and a T-shirt. Something like that.”
“I don’t own anything like that. I do have a dance leotard.”
“I guess that will have to do.” He wasn’t quite sure exactly what a dance leotard looked like, but surely it was like something the women wore in a gym. “Put that on.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to show you some moves.”
“Dance moves?” she asked.
Mark shuddered. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Then what?”
Instead of answering, he said, “Get in that shower and get changed. We don’t have all day.”
Twenty minutes later she stood on the bathroom threshold and announced, “I’m ready.”
Mark turned. He wasn’t ready for the slam of awareness that hit him midsection. The black leotard fit her like a second skin, outlining the curve of her breasts. She even had black ballet slippers on her dainty feet.
She looked ready for a performance of Swan Lake, not the mini–boot camp he had planned for her.
“Right.”
