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

‘Wow.’ Noelle swallowed and studied the remnants of that day. I know what that feels like. She didn’t say it, didn’t even want to think it. For once she didn’t want the pain of the past to interfere with the present. The sun was shining, Ammar was smiling and the day stretched before them, promising, maybe even perfect. ‘Show me the rest,’ she said, and he reached for her hand again.

They wandered through the rest of the ruins hand in hand, stopping to pace out a house or examine a doorstep or window well. It was amazingly relaxed, natural even, in a way that made Noelle’s heart sing. She wanted this day to go on for ever.

Eventually Ammar led her back towards the oasis, to a sheltered spot where a couple of palm trees shaded them from the relentless sun. She watched as he spread out a blanket, desire spiralling inside her once again as she gazed at his lean brown arms, powerfully corded with muscle, the T-shirt he wore clinging to his washboard stomach. She sucked in a breath as he glanced up at her, his amber eyes seeming to burn into her. He must know how he affected her, she thought. He must. She only hoped she affected him the same way.

‘Come here,’ he commanded huskily and, with a thrill of both nervousness and hope, Noelle went to him. He took her by the hand and tugged her down to the blanket, his knee nudging hers, his body so very close.

‘Shall we eat?’ he said, and his voice sounded hoarse. He feels it, Noelle thought, he must feel it.

‘OK.’ Her voice was a scratchy whisper. She struggled to eat, even though each morsel he gave her was delicious. Her hand shook as she finally accepted a fig from him, soft and ripe. Touch me, she wanted to cry. Touch me. Show me you love me. She bit into the fig, its lush sweetness filling her mouth, yet she was only conscious of Ammar watching her, his gaze so heavy and intent.

Her whole body felt hot, liquid, the centre of her starting to melt. She felt a bit of juice from the fig dribble down her chin and Ammar reached forward and swiped at it with his thumb. Her lips parted, her eyes closed, her body instinctively giving every signal it could to show him how much she desired him.

With a groan of surrender—or was it despair?—Ammar cupped her face with both of his hands and drew her to him. The feel of his lips on hers was like a drink of water in the desert, as life-giving as the oasis itself. She needed him.

She brought her hands up to his shoulders, pulled him closer, pressing herself against him as her head fell back in helpless assent. She didn’t speak, terrified to break the moment, the spell of desire that had surely been cast over both of them, for Ammar was kissing her hungrily, his tongue delving into the softness of her mouth, his hands finding the fullness of her breasts.

He stretched out beside her, sliding his hand under her shirt, his touch warm and sure. It felt so unbelievably, unbearably good, and Noelle could not keep herself from pressing his hand against her tummy, holding it there, because she was still so afraid he would stop.

He lifted her shirt higher and bent his head to her breasts, nudging the lace of her bra aside. Noelle heard a sound come from her own mouth, a moan of intense longing she’d never heard herself make before. ‘Oh, Ammar,’ she whispered. She swallowed down the words she wanted to say. I love you. ‘I want you so much.’

She felt him still, tense. Oh, no, please, she thought, please don’t pull away from me again. What was wrong with her?

The moment seemed suspended, endless. His lips still brushed her breast, his hands on her skin. Neither of them moved or spoke. Noelle didn’t even breathe.

Please …

Then, deliberately, as if it were a decision he had to make, Ammar lifted his head and kissed her on the mouth, deeply, a promise. Relief and need poured through her, an overwhelming rush of emotion. She reached for him instinctively, her hand skimming along his chest and torso, pulling her to him, but suddenly Ammar tensed and rolled away and Noelle let out a cry of frustration and, far worse, hurt.

‘Why do you do that?’ She sat up, stared at him, still lying on the ground, his body rigid, his arm flung over his face just as before. ‘I know you want me. Physically, at least—’

‘It’s not you.’ He spoke flatly, his face still covered. ‘It’s never been about you.’

‘Really? Because it feels like it’s about me. I’m the one you push away, the person you reject—’ She heard how sharp her voice sounded, but that was better than letting him see how devastated she felt. She struggled to sit up, pulling her shirt down to cover herself.

Ammar didn’t say anything. He was staring up at the sky as if he were cloud-gazing on a perfect summer’s day, as if nothing were remotely wrong.

Fury rose up inside her, clawed its way out. ‘Don’t do that. Don’t blank me out. I hate it when you do that.’ Her voice shook and in a sudden burst of frustration she reached over and hit him hard on the shoulder.

He caught her hand in one quick movement, held it, firmly yet with leashed strength, in his. ‘Don’t hit me,’ he said in a cold, flat voice she barely recognised. ‘Don’t ever hit me.’

Noelle stared at him, her hand still caught in his, his face so blank and remote, everything about him distant and strange, and with a choked cry she yanked her hand away and struggled up from the blanket. Ammar still said nothing, didn’t react at all, and blindly she turned and strode away from him, through the long grass.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u55bdd43b-b8d0-5533-b510-7624efb2bff0)

DAMN. He’d handled that completely wrong. He’d acted on instinct, which was just about the worst thing he could have done. When it came to Noelle, Ammar knew, he needed to act against his instincts. And in moments like the one they’d just shared, that felt near impossible.

He heard the whisper of the grass fringing the water and knew she was walking around the oasis. He hoped she had the sense not to stray into the desert. He should follow her, say something. But what? He had no words. Nothing inside him. Yet he knew he couldn’t stay blank for ever, even if part of him longed to.

It would be easier, he thought, and simpler, just to let her go. Set her free, just as he’d done before. If he were stronger, he would do it. But he wasn’t, and he needed her too much. Even if she didn’t think he did.

And as for what Noelle felt … The very fact that she’d stayed, that she’d wanted to stay, meant something. She might not love or trust him yet—and God only knew why she should—but something in her called out to him, from the first moment they’d met. They had brought out the best in each other, even if they were seeing the worst now.

When I was with you, I was the man I wanted to be.

He’d spoken from the heart when he’d told her that, meant it utterly. Those few months in London were the happiest of his life. He’d been twenty-seven years old and most of his life had been a barren, loveless landscape, like living on the moon. Cold and lifeless … until Noelle. Until she’d woken him up, gave him glimpses of the kind of life he’d never dreamed he could have. And he’d lived in that dream for two months, not thinking of the future or reality at all until his wedding day, when his father had woken him up with the cold, hard truth.

She’s just a woman, Ammar. You will show your wife her place. And if you don’t, I will.

He’d been furious, powerless and completely trapped. The only thing he’d felt he could do was walk away from her.

And it was easier for you, wasn’t it, keeping your secrets? She never had to know the truth of who you are. What you’ve done, what you’re capable of.

Ammar closed his eyes, the recriminations pouring through him, a scalding river of regret. The past tormented him even as he ached to forget it, to forge a future where he was different. Where he was with Noelle.

When I was with you, I was the man I wanted to be.

He needed to be that man now.

Slowly, his body aching, he rose from the blanket. He walked around the oasis, the sun beating down so the tranquil surface shimmered like a metal plate. The air was still and drowsy with the heat of mid-afternoon; nothing moved. Halfway round he saw her, sitting on a flat rock that jutted out towards the water. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her chin resting on top, her hair tumbling about her shoulders and hiding her face. She looked, he thought, as lovely as ever, and completely miserable.

He stopped a few feet away, but she didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. He had no idea what to say. Life had not prepared him for moments like this.

‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said. It seemed as good a place to start as any. He was sorry.

She glanced at him, her expression guarded. ‘What are you sorry for?’

Was this a trick question? Ammar hesitated. He was sorry for so many things. Sorry for walking away from her all those years ago, without even explaining why. Sorry he’d had to walk away, that he’d felt trapped and hopeless. And sorry—desperately, painfully sorry—that his past still tormented them both now, that he was afraid he would never be free of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for hurting you.’

Her face hardened, and so did her voice. ‘How did you hurt me, Ammar?’

He felt the first familiar flicker of anger. What was this—a test? Clearly there was a right answer and he had no idea what it was. ‘Why don’t you tell me how I hurt you,’ he asked evenly.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Turning the question back to me? How very neat.’

He felt himself grit his teeth and forced his jaw to relax. ‘I don’t want to fight.’

She let out a shuddering sigh and shook her head, her hair tumbling about her shoulders once more. The sunlight caught gleaming strands of gold and amber amid the deep chestnut brown. ‘I don’t want to fight, either,’ she said quietly. ‘But I can’t …’ She trailed off, biting her lip, and Ammar felt everything in him freeze.

‘Can’t what?’

She just shook her head and looked away, and Ammar thought, I’m losing her. I’m not sure I ever really had her, but what I might have had I’m losing now.

He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, as if he were suffocating in his own silence. He didn’t know what to say. What words she needed to hear.

The truth.

The answer was so simple, so blindingly obvious, and so awful. He didn’t want to tell her the truth. He couldn’t stand being so vulnerable, so utterly exposed, and having her look at him in hatred or pity or even revulsion—