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

‘No, indeed. I bought a pair and wore them for a season, though.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘All part of the job.’

‘I think you could probably pull them off,’ he said, and saw her flush deepen. He felt a fierce dart of possessive satisfaction that she still reacted to him, still maybe, miraculously wanted him. ‘You’d look good in just about anything.’

She froze and something flashed in her eyes. ‘Not, it seems,’ she said, her voice tight, ‘a silk teddy and stilettos.’

Shock iced through him. She was, of course, talking about that night in the hotel. That wretched, wretched night when she’d thrown herself at him and he’d pushed her away, both for her own protection and his. He took a steadying sip of wine. ‘So what was one of your accurate predictions?’

Her mouth tightened and she looked away. ‘Grey being the new black, I suppose,’ she finally said, and he felt a rush of relief. She wasn’t going to press.

‘You seem to favour dark colours now.’ She’d worn black when he’d seen her at the charity ball, and grey the day after.

‘Dark colours are trendy at the moment,’ she said flatly. ‘And I need to stay with the trends.’

‘I liked seeing you in bright colours.’

She gave him a sharp look. ‘I’m different now, Ammar. I know you think we can somehow pick up where we left off—not that I’d even want to, but in any case we can’t. I’m a completely different person.’

And she was intent on reminding him at every opportunity. Funny, how he was the one trying to make small talk now. It had always been Noelle before, drawing him out with her jokes and laughter, her innocent chatter. He’d loved it, even if he hadn’t always known how to respond. ‘How?’ he asked as mildly as he could. Deliberately he arched an eyebrow, managed something he hoped was close to a smile.

She stared at him. ‘How?’

‘Yes, how. How are you so different?’ He genuinely wanted to know. ‘How have you changed?’

She narrowed her gaze. ‘I’m not as naïve as I once was. Or as innocent. And I don’t believe in fairy tale happy endings, either.’ Every statement sounded like an accusation, a judgement. Ammar glanced away.

‘I see,’ he said quietly.

‘And how have you changed?’ she asked, a strident note of challenge in her voice. Ammar felt that familiar flare of anger. She sounded mocking, like she didn’t believe he had changed. That he could.

‘Well, there’s this.’ He gestured to the scar on his face. ‘And I’m thinking about keeping my hair short. They cut it all off when I was feverish—I suppose it was filthy. But I’m finding it very easy to manage.’

She stared at him and he knew she was torn between a sudden, surprised amusement and a deeper frustration. ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘Somehow,’ he said, his voice now carrying an edge even he heard, ‘I don’t feel like baring my soul to you when you look like you want to bite my head off.’

‘You’ve never bared your soul to me. You’ve never shared anything with me.’

He felt his fingers clench into an involuntary fist. ‘It didn’t feel that way this afternoon.’

Noelle gave a snort of disbelief. His fist tightened, his fingers aching. ‘You call that baring your soul? Ammar, you were speaking in riddles, telling me you realised it wouldn’t work and you meant to let me go, blah, blah, blah. Vague nonsense. I still don’t understand anything. Understand you.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, his teeth gritted, ‘I don’t want to be understood.’

‘Then what do you want?’ she demanded, her voice rising in both challenge and frustration. ‘Because you told me you wanted to restore our marriage, to be husband and wife, but I don’t even know what that means. It obviously doesn’t mean honesty, because getting a straight answer from you is like pulling teeth. It doesn’t mean closeness, because you’ve been keeping your distance in just about every way possible. So what? A warm body in your bed?’ She smacked her forehead, rolling her eyes, and a blind rage pulsed through him. ‘Oh, no, never that, because you have never wanted me in your bed.’

‘Don’t,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Don’t what? Don’t speak the truth? Why not? What do I have to lose? You’ve already kidnapped me, refused to let me go—’

‘You’re never going to forget that—’

‘Why should I? Why on earth should I come back to you? I loved you ten years ago, yes, but you were different—’

‘I wasn’t different,’ Ammar cut across her. ‘When I was with you, I was the man I wanted to be.’

She stared at him, clearly stunned into silence by an admission he hadn’t meant to make. The silence stretched on between them, endless and exposing. He felt as if she’d turned a spotlight on his soul. ‘And now?’ she finally whispered.

His throat ached, the words drawn from him so reluctantly, yet he knew he had to say them. She needed to hear them. ‘I want to be that man again.’

She said nothing, but Ammar saw the sorrow in her eyes, turning them dark, and she gave a little shake of her head. He rose from the table. He’d had enough. Enough of this awful intimacy, of feeling so exposed. Enough of her accusations and judgement. ‘Enough,’ he said out loud, his voice hard and flat. ‘We have discussed this enough.’

‘We haven’t even begun—’

‘I am finished.’ He threw his napkin on the table as he turned away from her. ‘I will arrange for my helicopter to transport you to Marrakech. You can leave tonight.’

Noelle watched Ammar walk from the room with long, angry strides with a sense of incredulity. Leave tonight? He was letting her go, then. He’d given up. She was free.

So why, sitting there alone, did she not feel jubilant? Or at least relieved? Amazingly, aggravatingly, she felt worse than ever. Carefully Noelle folded her napkin and laid it on the table. The house was as still and silent as always; did Ammar ever make any noise? Where had he gone?

He’d been furious, she knew that. She’d made him angry, and she saw now she’d done it on purpose because she was afraid. Afraid of giving in and letting herself feel anything for him again. So she’d pushed and pushed, asking for answers but really driving him away. And yet, now that she had, she wished she hadn’t. She wished … what?

She was afraid to acknowledge what she wished for. So afraid. She shouldn’t even be asking herself these kinds of questions. What she should do, Noelle knew, was walk right out of here. She’d get on the helicopter to Marrakech, a plane to Paris. She’d never see Ammar again.

The thought gave her a piercing pain, a direct stab to the heart. She didn’t want that. She closed her eyes, pressed the heels of her hands hard against her sockets. Why couldn’t she want that? Why couldn’t she be strong enough to walk away?

What about being strong enough to stay?

That thought felt like a thunderbolt from the sky, striking her heart, splintering her convictions. What was she thinking? Wanting?

I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t know what that means, what hope there is for us, but I don’t want to leave.

But what would happen if she stayed?

She felt her stomach hollow out and adrenalin course through her veins. Her heart began to thud with both anticipation and fear. Terror, really, because to contemplate such a thing would be to open herself up to the kind of devastating pain and heartache she had felt once before, and had since arranged her whole life to never feel again.

How could she even think of it?

How could she not?

Slowly Noelle rose from the table. Her heart was beating so hard and fast now it felt like a drumming through her body, an ocean roaring in her ears. Her legs were weak and wobbly as she walked from the room. She was going to find Ammar.

And then?

Slowly she walked through each empty room. She even found the disguised door and peeked in the study, surprisingly unlocked, but he was not there. She saw papers scattered on his desk, an open laptop, and turned away. In the music room she saw the French windows were ajar and she knew he must be outside, in the garden. With her fingertips she pushed the door open wider and stepped out into the night.

It was completely dark except for a swathe of light given by a sliver of moon, and it took her several moments to see enough to put one foot in front of the other. The little seating area where they’d spoken earlier was empty, but she saw a narrow stone path winding its way between the flowers and shrubs and she took it. She felt as if her heart, with its relentless pounding, was leading her onwards. Her heart, trembling thing that it was, would guide both her steps and words.

The path led to a private courtyard, with one wrought iron little bench. It was a pretty little space, or Noelle imagined it would be in daylight. Her breath caught in her chest and her heart beat harder as she saw Ammar sitting on the bench, his shoulders bowed, his head in his hands.