But Eden was wearing silk the color of moonlight, and she moved through the room with a mesmerizing, effortless gracethat made every other woman look suddenly clumsy. Max watched her chin lift as she navigated a particularly tedious group of English wives, refusing to let them make her feel small for being something they couldn’t fathom—a woman with ambition and money of her own.
He felt a steady, deep burn of attraction that had nothing to do with the cool professionalism he was supposed to maintain. Every time their eyes met across the room, the polite, social distance vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense heat that made his stiff collar feel even more constricting.
“Max, you must meet Colonel Ashworth and his wife,” Eden told him, appearing suddenly at his side and drawing him forward.
“Must I?” he asked blandly, but she only rolled her eyes.
The colonel, a florid-faced man accustomed to holding the floor, surveyed Max with a dismissive glance as they approached, clearly labeling him as the hired help—no one worth his notice.
“Colonel Ashworth, may I present my guide?” Eden said smoothly. She smiled at Max. “The colonel was just detailing his plans for the Suez expansion.”
Colonel Ashworth laughed a booming, patronizing laugh, his voice laced with the condescension Max had been subjected to for years—ever since he’d stopped telling people who his father had been. “You guides are the only ones who truly understand the logistics out here.Wehandle the strategy, andyouhandle the moving of the heavy things.”
Eden’s hand slid from Max’s elbow down to his wrist, a public touch that made every nerve ending in his arm stand up straight. Before Max could offer his usual polite, anonymous deflection, she smiled sweetly at the colonel, her voice dropping just enough to command attention.
“Oh, the logistics, yes. But Colonel,” she began, her green eyes wide and innocent, “Max is far more than a guide. I apologize for the oversight. Allow me to properly introduce Maximillian Thorne, younger brother of the Earl of Warwick.”
A visible ripple went through the small circle. Ashworth’s jaw dropped mid-sip. Max felt a sudden, fierce pride that she’d introduced him that way. He didn’t care about the title, but the surprise on the colonel’s face—the sudden, scrambling need to readjust Max’s position in the social hierarchy—was intensely gratifying.
He read the nervous determination in Eden’s gaze and realized she was desperatelyvalidatinghim to the fool who had just tried to dismiss his worth. She squeezed his wrist, and in that fleeting, charged moment, Max knew that the only thing that mattered was not the title she’d revealed, but the fact that he was the only man in the entire, stifling ballroom she would ever look at that way.
Max used the sudden, stunned silence to his advantage. “I need a word with Lady Eden, if you’ll excuse us, Colonel.” He didn’t wait for a reply, merely placed his hand against the small of her back and steered her toward a shadowed archway. They slipped through a set of heavy velvet curtains that masked the entrance to a small, private balcony overlooking the city.
The noise of the party instantly muffled, replaced by the soft roar of Cairo at night. Max pushed his hands into his pockets, the movement tugging the uncomfortable silk of his collar. “The brother of an earl?” he demanded, his voice low, edged with both irritation and reluctant admiration. “You know I usually don’t reveal that.”
Eden leaned against the stone balustrade, lifting her face to the cool breeze. “Ashworth needs to believe you have social leverage. He wouldn’t negotiate with the hired help,” she explained. “That was the only way to get his attention.”
He stepped closer. “I’ve been getting permits approved for years without any mention of my brother’s title. It’s your own that I’m counting on, and that’s the only reason I sent you here tonight. To let those in power know they are dealing with a lady.”
She frowned. “You’ve never tried to get a permit for a woman before. Those men have no respect for me. But now that they know who you are, we have a better chance.”
He shoved his fingertips through his hair in agitation. Perhaps she was right about that, but he still hated to be looked at for nothing more than the luck of his birth, not when he’d struggled so hard to make a name for himself here based on his own merits. “You should have told me that was your plan,” he said at last.
“You’re right. We’re a team, aren’t we, Max?” She reached out, her fingers brushing the stiff, unfamiliar silk of his cravat, a deliberate, sensual move.
Max groaned, a low, guttural sound of surrender. How could he argue with her when she was looking at him like that? Her hand cupped his jaw, and his carefully constructed control snapped. He lowered his head, not with frantic passion, but with a slow, agonizing intent.
His mouth found hers, a careful press that immediately deepened into a dangerous exploration. This kiss was softer than the one on the boat, tasting of champagne. He moved one hand to her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her lips parted under his, a soft, yielding that drew him in deeper. He felt the rapid, shallow pace of her breath against his own.
When they broke apart, Eden’s lips were dark and parted. She put her hands on his chest, not to push him away, but to steady herself, her fingers curling into the fine wool of his jacket.
“Let’s go back out there and curry some more favor,” she murmured breathlessly, her thumb tracing the line of hiscollarbone. Her voice was husky and strained, yet she was not denying him the way she had before.
Max nodded, his throat tight, adjusting his cuffs as he tried to regain control of himself. “Lead the way, Lady Eden.”
He watched her smooth the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt and walk back through the velvet curtains, leaving the quiet darkness for the loud gaiety of Cairo society. He followed, his mouth still tingling from the illicit sweetness of their kiss.
When Eden and Max returned from their evening’s entertainment and let themselves into the suite, butterflies filled Eden’s stomach at the thought of what the night might bring. For the first time, she and Max seemed to be on the same page. The kiss they’d shared still thrummed through every fiber of her being, and she hoped that he might want to continue where they’d left off.
They were still laughing and giddy from champagne and the night’s success. Eden held her fingers to her lips, not wanting to wake Mrs. Carlisle, but Max froze, his gaze shifting past her to the other side of the room.
Mrs. Carlisle was not only fully awake but waiting. She sat bolt upright in a high-backed armchair near the window, bundled in a thick burgundy wrapper, looking less like a gentle companion and more like a nervous, determined sentry. Her lips were pressed into a thin, unyielding line.
Max met Eden’s gaze with a look of disappointment, then, with a brief, terse “Goodnight,” vanished into his own adjoining room. A surge of disappointment crested within her, and she cursed Genevieve once again for insisting that she bring this woman along.
“You’re home very late, Lady Eden,” Mrs. Carlisle began, in a tone reserved for addressing a disobedient schoolgirl.
Eden sighed, rubbing her temples. The exhaustion of the evening—the forced smiles, the political maneuvering, the sudden, fierce heat of Max’s kiss—had finally caught up with her. “Mrs. Carlisle, it was a ball. Balls tend to run late.”
