Dreaming Of... France: The Husband She Never Knew / The Parisian Playboy / Reunited...in Paris!

‘I realised I’d been fooling myself,’ Ammar said flatly, ‘all along. It wouldn’t work between us and I didn’t want to drag you down. That’s why I walked away.’

His words fell into the taut stillness. ‘And you just happened to decide that, right after we got married?’ Noelle struggled to hold onto her anger instead of giving into the desolation that threatened to sweep right through her. ‘You couldn’t have figured that out before? You couldn’t have told me, talked to me—’

‘What’s done is done,’ Ammar said flatly, and Noelle let out a choked cry that sounded far too like a sob.

‘But it isn’t done for me, Ammar. It’s never been done. Why else would I be here demanding answers? Why would you even want me to be here? And how has it changed now? How have you changed?’ His jaw tightened. He said nothing. ‘Is it different?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you think a marriage between us could work now, when you didn’t think it could before?’ She took a step towards him, her fists clenched. She felt so angry, ridiculously angry, considering what ancient history this was. Should be. ‘You’re not telling me the truth, are you? Not the whole truth.’

‘I’m telling you enough.’

‘By whose say-so? All I know is that you changed your mind and so you abandoned me. Well, guess what, Ammar. I knew that before.’

‘It wasn’t like that, Noelle.’ For the first time he raised his voice and anger flashed in his eyes like lightning.

‘It felt like that.’ She let out a ragged breath, felt tears sting her eyes. ‘It took me years to get over our marriage, Ammar, to get over you, and all because you couldn’t bother to tell me what was really going on. You still can’t.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He took a breath, let it out slowly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and even though his voice was flat and hard she knew he meant it.

‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why, really?’

‘I was living in a dream world, those days with you,’ Ammar said quietly. ‘And on our wedding night, I woke up.’

‘How?’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

It did matter, of course it did, but this time Noelle didn’t press. Her anger had deserted her, leaving her as emotionally exposed as she’d been that horrible night in the hotel, when he’d thrust her away from him.

Ammar still looked completely expressionless, stony and blank, and belatedly she realised she had tears running down her face. Perfect. So much for being strong and independent, needing no one. Twenty-four hours with Ammar and she was a pathetic mess. He still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even moved, and Noelle had no idea what he was thinking. She felt more confused than ever before. With a revealingly loud sniff, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the garden.

Unfortunately there wasn’t anywhere to go except back up to her bedroom. She couldn’t exactly take a stroll through the Sahara. She paced the room, alternating between anger and desolation, until finally, exhausted, she fell onto her bed and cried in earnest, her tears muffled by the pillow. It felt good to cry, a needed release, and yet she still hated that she was crying about Ammar, a decade after their marriage had ended. Did you ever really move on? Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but the ones on her heart felt as red and raw as the scar on Ammar’s face.

Eventually she fell into a restless doze and when she woke the setting sun was casting long shadows on the floor of her room and someone was knocking on her door.

She struggled up, swiping her tangled hair away from her face. ‘Yes?’ she called, her voice sounding croaky.

‘Dinner is served, mademoiselle.’

Noelle didn’t recognise the woman’s voice, but she assumed she was some kind of household staff. So she and Ammar weren’t alone here. ‘Thank you,’ she called, and rose from the bed.

What now? she wondered dully. What would she say to Ammar when she saw him again? How would she even manage to keep herself together? She still had forty-eight hours to endure in this desert prison. Two days left with Ammar.

As she changed into a pale blue linen sheath—again too big, so she cinched it with a wide belt—his words, his tone, even the sombre expression on his face all came back in a heart-rending wave of anguish.

I wasn’t giving up on you. I was giving up on me. I knew I couldn’t be the husband you deserved.

Noelle sank onto a cushioned stool in front of the dressing table and dropped her face into her hands. She wasn’t angry any more, she realised with a pang of regret. Anger was easier, but now she felt only an overwhelming sadness for what had been … and what hadn’t been. What could have been, if only Ammar had been honest with her back when they’d been married.

Are you sure about that? a voice in her head, sly and insidious, mocked. Do you really want to know why he thought he couldn’t be a husband to you, the kind of husband you deserved?

Did it even matter?

She lifted her head from her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and dark with deep violet shadows underneath them. Did it matter? Was her heart, even now, contemplating some kind of future with Ammar, even as her mind insisted she would be leaving in two days? Her heart was ever deceitful and she knew, with a sudden stark clarity, that this was why she had been so emotionally volatile since she’d first laid eyes on him.

She was afraid she still loved him, or at least could love him, if she let herself.

Yet how could you love someone you’d never really known?

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had no answer to that one.

Ammar rose from the table as soon as Noelle entered the room. She looked pale but composed, the blue sheath dress emphasising the slenderness of her body, the sharp angle of her collarbone, and making her seem fragile. He felt a powerful surge of protectiveness, even as he acknowledged how useless it was. Noelle didn’t need his protection now. She didn’t want it.

All afternoon her scathing indictment of his actions had reverberated through him, a remorseless echo he could neither ignore nor deny.

It took me years to get over our marriage, Ammar, to get over you, and all because you couldn’t bother to tell me what was really going on. You still can’t.

No, he couldn’t. He didn’t yet possess the courage or strength to tell her the whole truth. He didn’t know if he ever would, even as he bleakly acknowledged that Noelle would keep demanding answers. Wanting to know all his secrets—secrets that could only hurt them both.

And he’d hurt her too much already. He had never, he realised, considered that he’d acted selfishly by walking away from Noelle. If he were honest with himself, which he had been, painfully, that afternoon, he’d attributed a kind of self-sacrificing nobility to his actions, considered it one of the better things he had done in his sorry life.

What a joke. What a tragedy.

‘Ammar?’

He focused on her now, saw how she placed her hand on her throat, her pulse fluttering underneath her fingertips. She was nervous. Was she afraid? The thought that she might actually be frightened of him was unbearable.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, starting forward. ‘I was lost in thought. Come, sit down.’ He reached for her hand, surprised and gratified when she took it. Just the feel of her slender fingers in his caused a shaft of longing to pierce him with its impossible sweetness. He wanted her so much. He’d always wanted her, longed for her with a desperation that had scared him, and yet he’d let her believe he didn’t desire her at all, never truly considering the pain it would cause her. Never wanting to. That was how he’d survived working for his father for so long. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Don’t think about the pain you cause. Don’t think at all.

She sat down, slipping her hand from his and reaching for her napkin. After a second’s silence she looked up at him, her eyes so wide and dark. ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’

‘That makes two of us.’ He served her some kousksi bil djaj, a Tunisian speciality with chicken and couscous.

While they were eating, he searched for an innocuous topic of conversation. ‘Tell me about Arche.’

‘Arche?’

‘That was the name of the shop you work for? What do you do exactly?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ She looked a little startled that he would remember, that he would ask. ‘I buy accessories and footwear for the women’s department.’

‘And what does that entail?’ He wasn’t all that interested in women’s shoes, but he liked to listen to Noelle. He enjoyed the way her cheeks flushed petal-pink and her eyes lit from within, turning them almost golden. And they both needed a relief from the intensity of their earlier conversation. God knew he did.

‘I go to all the fashion shows, decide what’s going to be popular each season. Keep an eye on what people are wearing. A lot of it is about predicting trends.’

‘That can be a bit of a gamble.’

‘Yes …’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I predicted that fauxfur ankle boots were going to be big one winter and they were a complete flop. To be honest, I didn’t even like them. They made you look like you had hairy feet.’

She made a face and he smiled, felt himself lighten, just a little bit, inside. ‘Not exactly the look one attempts, I imagine.’