The Marine and The Princess. Cathie Linz
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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.” He had to pause and clear his throat. It felt as if he’d swallowed his tongue when he’d first seen her. “Okay, Princess—”
“I told you to call me Vanessa,” she reminded him, gliding over to him.
Where did she learn to walk like that? he wondered irritably. In princess school?
Whatever lessons she’d learned in her royal life, he was about to teach her some hard facts. Life was tough. She had to be tougher.
He didn’t have much time to bring her up to scratch.
First he had to assess her physical fitness.
“How many push-ups can you do?” he barked out.
She was clearly startled by his question. “I have no idea.”
“How fast can you run a mile?” Her blank look was answer enough. “What about your exercise routine?” he continued. “Don’t you have a personal trainer or something?”
“I’m too busy for that sort of thing,” she said with a little wave of her hand.
“Too busy doing your princess thing,” he scoffed. “Right. Well, let me warn you, Princess, those Cinderella glass slippers of yours are liable to get broken in the real world. And you’ve got to be prepared for that. Now sit down and put your elbow on this table.”
“One does not put one’s elbows on a table,” she informed him before sitting down.
“One does if one is arm wrestling. Here, put your elbow on the table and bend your arm like this.” He showed her. “Now grip my hand and try to push my arm over.”
She frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”
“To show me how strong you are.”
“Why do I have to be strong? I thought that was your job.”
“I might need you as backup,” he said mockingly.
She took him seriously. “Oh, I see.” She blinked at him and leaned forward, thereby revealing an awesome amount of cleavage.
While his eyes were glued to her breasts, she adroitly shoved his arm almost to the table before he realized what she was up to. The little tease!
He recovered quickly and had her arm down in a flash. Tugging her to her feet a moment later, he began his next spiel. “I plan on teaching you some basic self-defense moves. If someone should grab you from behind like this—” He put his arms around Vanessa, pinning her arms to her sides. “I’m going to show you how you should respond.” He released her to move in front of her. “Now you put your arms around me as I just did you.”
She did as he ordered.
A thrill of forbidden excitement shot through her. Royal protocol precluded a princess from getting up close and personal with a U.S. Marine. Or with any other man, for that matter, unless his bloodlines were as pedigreed as her own and the man had been approved by her father.
Once, back when she was three or four, she’d left the opening of a new school in her country’s capital city of St. Kristoff where she’d been expected to stand still like a dutiful little princess. But she’d sneaked off to the playground where the other children had been playing tag. She’d envied the children their laughter and had wanted to join in the fun.
Instead, she’d stumbled over her own feet and had tumbled into the grass.
Looking up, she’d seen her father standing in the doorway to the school, a frown and a look of intense disappointment on his face.
“Stand up and stop being such a wild child,” he’d ordered her. “A princess never cries.”
She’d tried for years not to disappoint him, but had never quite succeeded in silencing that secret inner little girl that wanted to play tag. The truth was, she was still a wild child at heart. And standing there with her arms around Mark made her feel gloriously alive for the first time in years.
Unaware of the memories streaking through her mind, Mark continued giving orders in his brisk Marine voice. “There are several ways to respond to an attack from the rear like this. You can stomp your attacker’s foot. You can perform a shin scrape with the heel of your shoe. Or you can bend your knee for a backward kick to the groin with your heel. Do you understand those moves?”
“Yes.” She understood them but was distracted by her body pressed against his, spoon fashion. She was tall for a princess. The term gangly had been applied to her more than once. “Vertical Vanessa” was another one the European tabloids had used. But Mark was taller by several inches. He had to be over six foot.
While she was debating his height, Mark was moving on to the next segment. “Most attacks against women come from the front. Either the choke or the slap. To protect yourself from the slap, you put your forearm up like this.” He illustrated. “Now put your hands around my throat as if you were going to choke me.”
When she hesitated, he said, “Just think how aggravated you were with me when I called your plans lame.”
Nodding, she reached out. His skin was warm beneath her fingers. She could feel his Adam’s apple against her thumbs.
“The proper response to a choke hold is to push your attacker’s pinkies away from you,” he said, bending her fingers back, gently enough not to hurt her but firmly enough for her to see how such a move done vigorously would cause a surprising amount of pain.
“Think you got that?” he asked.
“Yes.” She’d also gotten all hot and bothered by all this close body contact. Her cheeks felt flushed, and her forehead was damp with sweat. A princess was never allowed to sweat. Not even on a state visit to India in a hundred-and-ten-degree