by Cathie Linz
Enough of that. She sat up. She could learn how to pack. She was an intelligent woman. She could do the things normal women did. Like cook.
She’d seen part of a gourmet-cooking show while channel surfing last night. The short segment had shown how to make French toast, and it looked easy enough. She could do that. She would do that. Right after taking a shower.
After selecting her clothes, she carefully opened the bedroom door and peeked down the hallway. She could see that Mark was still sleeping on the couch. He didn’t look very comfortable. She resisted the temptation to cover his bare chest with the sheet he’d mostly kicked off and instead scurried into the bathroom.
Thank heaven she’d brought along a few basics—soap and a toothbrush. The soap was hand milled in Volzemburg and smelled of carnations. After her shower, she put on a crisp white shirt, paired with her new jeans. They were the new capri length and had a flirty fringe at the hem that moved as she walked. The outfit was fun and represented her newfound freedom.
She was a woman in capri pants, hear her roar. She could do anything. Next up, breakfast.
Mark was still asleep on the couch as she walked into the kitchen and took stock. She didn’t question why there were eggs in the fridge already, she just checked the expiration date to make sure they were still good. They were. So was the bread and the milk. Mark must have run out last night and gotten some food after she’d gone to bed.
Good. She had all the ingredients for French toast. It took her a few tries to get the egg-soaked bread from a shallow bowl into the frying pan but she finally managed it. And it took a few tries to get the hang of using the spatula to turn the bread over without mangling it in the process. But she finally did manage.
Syrup. She needed maple syrup. There wasn’t any.
“What’s going on?” Mark demanded as he joined her in the kitchen.
She was momentarily distracted by his bare chest and legs. He was wearing a pair of military-green boxers and a frown. That was all. His vivid blue eyes were glaring at her as if she was responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong in his life. The Marine was clearly not in a good mood. And he was just as clearly incredibly sexy first thing in the morning, grouchy mood or not.
“What’s going on?” she repeated, stalling for time to get her thoughts together. It wouldn’t do to be caught drooling over him. “I’m cooking.”
“You?” He was clearly skeptical. “Do you know how?”
“Of course I do.” She didn’t tell him she’d picked up this bit of knowledge from the TV last night. “We need some maple syrup for the French toast.”
“Did you look in the kitchen drawer?” he asked.
“No.” It seemed a strange place to store a bottle of syrup in her opinion.
“The guy who lent me this place collects those condiment containers from fast-food places.” He looked through an assortment of ketchup and mustard packets before saying, “Aha!” He triumphantly held up several small plastic containers of maple syrup. “This stuff probably never saw a maple tree, but it is syrup, and it should taste good on French toast.”
“You should get dressed,” she briskly told him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled.
By the time she’d set out dishes and mugs on the tiny island that served as an eating area, Mark had taken a shower and gotten dressed.
“You did that fast,” she noted, impressed by his speed as well as his sexy appearance. His dark hair was still wet.
“The Marine Corps doesn’t encourage dawdling.”
Her eyes traveled down his body, finally registering what was written on the dark blue T-shirt he wore. When It Absolutely Positively Has To Be Destroyed Overnight—U.S. Marine Corps.
She laughed so hard her sides hurt, and her eyes watered. Not at all a dainty princess laugh.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, trying to regain her dignity.
“Don’t be.” He smiled at her. “You’ve got a nice laugh.”
Her father had once complained she sounded like a horse neighing when she laughed, not at all appropriate behavior for a royal. So she’d learned to control her laugh as she had every other aspect of her life, to keep it restrained and proper.
“I set the coffee machine on automatic last night, so it should just about be done perking now,” Mark was saying.
“That was clever of you.”
“That’s me. A clever Marine.”
“Maybe you should be known as the clever one in your family instead of the proud one,” she teased him, and then wondered at the shadow that passed over his face.
The truth was that Mark had gotten teased about being the smart one in his family, a family where strength was valued over all else. None of his brothers were dummies by any stretch of the imagination. But Mark stood out. He’d always wanted to know more. As an officer candidate he’d studied under the blanket with a flashlight at night while the others slept.
He knew about the derogatory comments made by others, often in other branches of the armed forces, about Marines. One frequently used comment was that Marine was an acronym for Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not Essential. Of course, anyone voicing said opinion was likely to end up on the wrong end of a fistfight.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
His expression hardened as if he regretted letting her see what she had. “No. The French toast isn’t half-bad.”
“Not half-bad? It’s delicious!” she declared, eminently proud of her culinary accomplishment. “The French toast made by the royal chef doesn’t taste half this good.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Mark paused for a healthy sip of his black coffee before taking another helping. “I don’t eat much food prepared by royal chefs.”
“Actually our chef is very good,” she said.
“I’m sure he is.”
“It’s just that I made this French toast.”
“Yes, you did.”
“It’s silly, I know, to feel this strong a sense of accomplishment over something as trivial as French toast.”
“Never underestimate the importance of a good breakfast,” he solemnly told her before digging into his meal.
She watched him eat. What exactly was it about this man that got to her as no other had? Certainly, his blue eyes were gorgeous. The easy-to-look-at lines of his face lent him a reckless attractiveness. And he had a good body. An incredible smile, a sensual mouth, especially his full lower lip. He also had nice hands, she was just noticing that now. Lean, long fingers.
Put all the bits together and you had a man who was like a magnet—pulling at her center, drawing her ever nearer.
He was more than just sexy or attractive. He was powerful. In both the way he carried himself and in everything he did.
Even now, eating breakfast, he still looked as if he could lay down his fork at a moment’s notice, grab a machine gun and lead a squad to glory. This man was a warrior at heart.
The warrior and the princess—both accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. The resulting interaction was bound to create friction between them.
Vanessa smiled in anticipation. Sometimes friction was a good thing.
“I’m queen of the world!” Vanessa announced from the front of the ferryboat taking them out to the Statue of Liberty later that morning.
She was rewarded with a faceful of rain as a sudden downpour dropped from the sky as if a heavenly hand had unzipped a pocketful of rain.
“Do you think that was a sign?” she laughingly asked Mark as they both hurried to the cover of the cabin.
Mark thought she looked utterly adorable as she stood there, her baseball cap stuck in her pocket so it wouldn’t blow off, her sleek hair caught up in two pigtails with a big apple hair fastener he’d bought for her at the souvenir shop back at Battery Park where they’d caught the ferry.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Do I have something on my face?”
She had happiness written all over her face in big bold l
etters. What a difference a couple of days made. She’d been so pale when he’d first seen her at her hotel suite, with hollows in her cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. She looked like another woman now. One who’d shed a ton of stress.
He’d seen it before, in the men he commanded. The constant need to be alert, to always keep your guard up took its toll. Combine that with a lack of sleep, and the “fog of war” set in. But that had been in combat conditions. For the first time he was realizing that Vanessa truly had been under a great deal of stress and that her position as a princess had left a mark on her. She’d been a woman at war with herself.
“What is it?” she demanded, almost looking cross-eyed in an effort to look at her own chin and nose. She didn’t have a mirror with her to check her face. And Mark was looking at her so strangely.
Maybe she should excuse herself and go check a bathroom mirror. Normally her lady-in-waiting packed the contingency items like a makeup bag and mirror in her purse, leaving Vanessa free to worry about other things.
“Nothing,” Mark finally replied. “You look fine.”
“Do I look like a typical tourist?”
“I don’t know that you’ll ever look typical,” he said with certain wryness.
“I thought I looked very typical,” she said, prepared to make her case for normality of appearance.
“You look…cute.”
She grinned.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re about to disembark. Starboard side. Right side,” he translated for her.
“How do you know that?”
“The Marine Corps began as a sea service. We use a lot of the same terminology squids do.”
“Squids?” she said, confused.
“A Marine’s way of referring to Navy personnel.”
“Said with affection, no doubt.”
“Absolutely,” he said with a wicked grin.
“Why, you are just a fountain of information this morning,” she said. “Not only do you know your starboard from your left, you also know how to make good coffee.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “A word of advice in the compliment department, it carries more weight if you don’t sound so astonished when making the compliment.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. So you’re a diplomatic Marine, hmm?”
“Again, a compliment carries more weight if you don’t sound quite so astonished when you’re saying it.”
“I’m just saying that I’m impressed by your diplomacy. Prudence led me to believe that Marines were a tough-as-nails bunch.”
“That we are, ma’am.” He cupped his hand under her elbow as he chivalrously assisted her down the plankway.
The sun came out again just as they stepped on land. They walked past the concession building toward a circular area with a flagpole in the center. A profusion of colorful flowers bloomed around the walkway. But it was the sight of the Statue of Liberty directly beyond the American flag that brought an emotional lump to Vanessa’s throat. She blinked away an unexpected dampness in her eyes that wasn’t caused by the earlier rain.
“You okay?” Mark asked.
She nodded. “My mother was an American citizen. I guess I was just hit with a wave of patriotism for my American heritage. I was actually born in New York City when she returned here for medical reasons. The pregnancy was a difficult one, so my father had her come here.”
“How did an American woman end up marrying a king?” Mark had seen the facts in Vanessa’s security file, but they didn’t tell the story of her life.
“They met at Ascot in England,” Vanessa replied. “My mother said it was love at first sight. My father broke with tradition and married outside of European royalty.”
“If your father did that, then maybe he’s not as straitlaced as you think he is.”
“He seems to have forgotten that part of himself,” she said quietly. “He’s changed since my mother’s death. We all have.” Vanessa wondered what her mother would have thought about her daughter playing tourist on Liberty Island.
A cloud scuttled over the sun as a group of school-children passed by, jostling Vanessa. Mark gathered her close.
The Statue of Liberty represented the idea of a safe haven for so many millions of people, and here she was, an American-born princess who’d never felt a safer haven than here in her Marine’s arms. She closed her eyes and savored the brief moment—the sounds of the soaring seagulls mingling with the steady beat of Mark’s heart beneath her ear.
“You okay?”
She could feel as well as hear his husky voice. Why hadn’t she noticed the awesome range of his voice before? It could soften to incredible gentleness or harden with powerful authority. It was the kind of voice that brought women to their knees.
“You okay?” he repeated.
She nodded. Much as she might want to, she couldn’t just stand here in his arms all day. Reluctantly, she moved away and smiled at him.
His responding roguish grin made her heart perform somersaults.
“Come on, let’s go.” He held out his hand to her.
She took it, and felt the special connection between them clear to her very soul.
They entered the museum at the base of the statue just as a guide started his spiel.
“The sculptor Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi had originally envisioned that this statue would mark Egypt’s Suez Canal, but history and politics got in the way. He then looked to America.”
Vanessa couldn’t imagine Lady Liberty being anywhere else but here, welcoming newcomers to America.
“Upon entering, you no doubt noticed the torch,” the guide continued. “It is the original torch, which was replaced during the refurbishing of the statue in the 1980s. The statue’s iron skeleton was designed by Gustave Eiffel who built a little tower in Paris.”
Vanessa smiled. She’d been to the Eiffel Tower several times. But it hadn’t had the same effect on her that the Statue of Liberty did. Perhaps because the statue represented what she was looking for—freedom and liberty. The freedom to be herself, to be loved for herself and the liberty to live her own life.
“Where to now?” Mark asked as they departed Battery Park. The view of the Manhattan skyline on the return trip had struck Vanessa with its beauty. So had the view of Mark’s face in profile against that skyline. Power and beauty. A potent combination.
She doubted her Marine captain would appreciate her thinking him beautiful. She grinned and linked her arm through his. “Is there any place you’d like to go?” she asked him. “Besides that strip joint you were telling me about,” she added with a teasing grin.
“We could make a quick stop at the Met.”
“I’d like that.”
They stopped at the museum store first, where Mark insisted on buying her a necklace with a miniature silver shoe dangling from it. “Your glass slipper, ma’am.”
“But you’ve already gotten me souvenirs today.”
“This is different,” he said gruffly. “Just graciously accept it.”
She curtsied. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“Do you want me to put it on for you?”
“Yes, please.” His fingertips brushed against her nape as he struggled with the neck chain’s fastener. The chain was short so he didn’t have much room to maneuver. Vanessa didn’t mind. She just stood there, in the midst of the crowded store, basking in the glow of his meticulous attention as tiny shivers of pleasure chased each other up and down her spine. Her reaction to his touch wasn’t diminishing with exposure. If anything, it was increasing.
“There,” he finally said. “Let me see how it looks.” Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around to face him.
She fingered the necklace, which was a shorter length than her mother’s St. Christopher medal, which she wore beneath her top. “How does it look?”
“Perfect.”
As she smiled at him, she marked this as a perfect moment in her life. There hadn’t been many, so when they did occur, she always took n
ote.
Once inside the museum they held hands as they strolled around the collection of impressionist paintings. Vanessa had seen them once before, on a diplomatic visit when she and her mother had been given a private tour after regular museum hours before going to a special gala ball for the Volzemburg Ballet, something else her country was famous for. She hadn’t been back to the Met since then.
“Something wrong?” Mark asked. “You seem awfully quiet all of a sudden.”
“I was remembering the last time I was here, when I was fifteen and came with my mother for a private tour. I remember wanting to stay in front of one of Monet’s paintings and just soak in the joyful color and light radiating from it. But we couldn’t stay because we were on a tight schedule and there was a gala event waiting for us. My mother promised we’d come back again, but she died in a car crash a short while later.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand in appreciation. “It’s just that I still miss her, even after all this time.”
“What about the rest of the American branch of your family?” Mark asked, although he already knew the answer from her files.
“My mother was an only child, and her parents died in a plane crash shortly before she did.”
“That must have been tough for your family.”
“Royalty doesn’t show grief, it’s not allowed. It’s an emotion, and any emotion is to be avoided at all costs.”
“Sounds like the Marine Corps.”
“Yes, but you chose to enlist in the Marines. I had no choice.”
Mark wondered if he truly had had a choice. He’d done what was expected of him, and then swerved from tradition by becoming an officer.
Where were these insurgent thoughts coming from? He’d never questioned his place in the Marine Corps before.
It was her. Vanessa was questioning her own life choices, which made him question his. Too bad he didn’t have any answers.
Chapter Seven
Vanessa had never been so nervous in her life. Not even when she’d met the pope for the first time had she had these kind of butterflies in her stomach.
