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

‘You.’

Her heart thudded hard in reaction to that simple statement. She’d asked him once before what he’d wanted, if he wanted her. Then the answer had been a resounding and devastating no. Even now, ten years later, the memory made her burn with painful humiliation, the remnants of the utter heartbreak she’d felt at the time. ‘How interesting,’ she said coolly, ‘considering we haven’t even spoken in a decade.’

‘I must talk with you, Noelle.’

She shook her head, hating how autocratic he sounded. Still. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’

He kept his gaze steady on hers, solemn and fierce. ‘I have something to say to you.’

She felt a sudden, hot clutch of emotion in her chest, a burning behind her lids. Ammar. She’d loved him so much, so long ago. She hated that she felt even a remnant of it now. And whatever he wanted to say to her … well, she didn’t want to hear it. She’d opened herself up to him once before. She would not do so again.

He stepped closer, and she saw how gaunt he looked. He was powerfully built, every limb corded with muscle, yet clearly he’d lost a significant amount of weight.

‘You heard about my accident,’ he said, and she realised she’d been staring at him quite openly.

‘Yes. My father told me. And about your miraculous rescue.’

‘You don’t sound particularly pleased that I survived.’

‘On the contrary, Ammar, I was glad. No matter what happened between us, I’ve never wished you ill.’ For too long she’d wanted him back. But she wasn’t about to succumb to that ridiculous temptation now, not even for a moment. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said stiffly. ‘Your father.’ Ammar just shrugged.

Noelle stared at him, wondering just how he had come to this moment. She knew the bare facts: two months ago her father had rung to say Ammar had been killed in a helicopter crash, along with his father. He hadn’t wanted her to find out through the media, and while Noelle had been grateful for that she hadn’t even known how to react. Anger? Sorrow? It had been ten years since their marriage had been annulled, and even longer since she’d seen him, yet the pain of their failed relationship had hurt her for years.

Mostly she’d just felt numb, and then as the weeks had passed she’d probed the dark tangle of emotions underneath that comforting numbness and found the main feeling in that confusing welter was regret, a sense of loss for what she’d once believed they could have had together, the happiness that had been stolen away with such sudden cruelty.

Then a few weeks ago her father had rung again, told her Ammar was alive. He’d been rescued from a deserted island by a few men in a fishing boat and was returning to lead his father’s business, Tannous Enterprises. The regret Noelle was just coming to terms with suddenly solidified into the still-raw anger she’d been nursing all along. Damn Ammar. Damn him for breaking her heart, for rejecting her all those years ago and, most of all, for coming back now to stir up the painful emotions she thought she’d buried.

Now she pushed it all down and gave him a steely glare. ‘Like I said, we have nothing to say to each other.’ With her head held high she pushed past him.

Ammar reached for her arm. His fingers circled around her wrist, the heat of him seeming to sear her skin. Noelle stiffened, knowing he was too strong for her to attempt to pull away.

‘Wait.’

‘It appears I have no choice.’

Ammar let out a rush of breath. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘Then start speaking, because you have thirty seconds before I make a serious scene.’ She glanced pointedly at the lean brown fingers still encircling her wrist. ‘And I’d rather not have a bruise.’

Ammar dropped her wrist so suddenly her arm fell back against her side. She felt as if she should bear a mark from where he’d touched her, a painful red weal, but there was nothing. ‘It will take more than thirty seconds,’ he said tersely. ‘And I have no intention of conducting a conversation in the foyer of a hotel.’

‘And I have no intention of going anywhere with you.’

Ammar said nothing, just studied her, his head cocked, his narrowed amber gaze surveying her from top to toe. ‘You’re angry,’ he finally said, an observation, and she let out a quick, humourless laugh. The last time she’d seen him she’d been crouching on the bed in his hotel room, holding back sobs, wearing only her underwear. He’d told her, very coldly, to leave. Yet even as that memory made her insides writhe, she quickly dismissed it. Ancient history. She wasn’t angry; at least, she shouldn’t be. She definitely shouldn’t still feel this hot rush of bitterness and hurt.

What she should have done tonight, she saw now, was acted coolly, politely indifferent. Maybe even reservedly friendly. She should have treated Ammar as an acquaintance, not the man who had broken her heart and crushed it under his heel. She never should have shown how much she still cared.

Because she didn’t.

‘I’m not angry,’ she lied. ‘But neither do I see any point in conversing with you.’

‘You don’t,’ Ammar asked, the words seeming to scrape his throat, ‘have any interest at all in what I might want to say?’

She stared at him, saw his mouth was twisted with bitterness, or maybe even sorrow. He looked different, and it wasn’t just the scar or near-shaven head. It was something that emanated from his very self, from the hard set of his shoulders to the deep shadows under his amber eyes to the twisted curve of his mouth. He looked like a man who had endured far too much, who was near to breaking from it all.

For a breathless moment she felt that old savage twist of longing lying latent beneath the knee-jerk reaction of anger. She had the bizarre and yet achingly familiar urge to comfort him, to make him smile. To listen, and to understand—

No. Ammar Tannous had appealed to her curiosity and compassion before. She’d fallen in love with him, or what she thought she knew of him, and then he’d gone and hadn’t just broken her heart but shattered her whole existence. It had taken years—years—to build up this new life, this new Noelle. She wasn’t always sure if she liked what she’d made, who she’d become, but at least she owned it. She owned herself; she was strong, focused, needing no one. And a few minutes’ conversation would never change that. She wouldn’t let it.

‘Go to hell, Ammar,’ she said and walked past him, stumbling once in her ridiculous stilettos before she righted herself and stalked out into the night.

Ammar stared after Noelle’s retreating back—so straight and rigid—and felt a pulse of fury beat in his blood. How could she walk away from him like that? She hadn’t given him more than two minutes of her time, and all he’d wanted to do was talk—

And tell her, his mind mocked, what, exactly? He’d never been good with words, hated talking about emotions. Yet since the crash he’d known he needed Noelle back in his life. From the moment he’d regained consciousness, alone and injured on a tiny slice of deserted beach, he’d thought of her. He’d remembered her playful smile, the way she tilted her head to one side as she listened to him—not that he ever said much. As he’d battled fever he’d dreamed of her, the soft slide of her lips, her husky murmur of assent as she tangled her hands in his hair and pressed against him. He had even, incredibly, imagined sliding himself into her warmth and feeling her close around him, joyfully accepting the union of their bodies. That certainly belonged only in his delirium, for making love with Noelle was a pleasure he had never known.

And at this rate never would.

Ammar cursed aloud.

He’d handled their meeting badly, he saw that now. He shouldn’t have cornered her, made demands. Yet what else could he have done? He was a man of action and authority. He didn’t mince words. Most times he didn’t even say please.

And Noelle had been his wife. Surely that should still mean something to her; it did to him. Yet from the way she’d just stalked away, he suspected it didn’t.

And yet … for a moment, a second, she’d looked at him the way he remembered. Her hazel eyes glinting with emotion, her face softening into a smile. He’d seen it, just for that one second, a flicker of happiness. He felt a faint, fragile hope at the thought. Yet how to talk to her? Make her listen?

Take what you want. Never ask. Asking is weakness. You only demand.

He heard his father’s harsh voice echo through him, as if he was still alive, standing right next to him. Lessons he’d learned from childhood, words that were written on his heart.

He heard the screech of her taxi pull away and felt both tension and resolve steal through him. He’d told his brother Khalis that he wanted to find his wife and restore Tannous Enterprises. He wanted, finally, to build something good and right with both his life and his work. He would not let it end here, with Noelle stalking away from him. He would get her back. He would reclaim his business, his wife, his very soul. No matter what. No matter how.

As soon as she reached the pavement Noelle hailed a taxi. She slid into the dark leather interior and saw she was trembling. Her ankle throbbed from when she had stumbled. Irritated, she kicked off her stilettos and gave the driver her address on the Ile St-Louis.

Ammar. She couldn’t believe she’d actually seen him. That he wanted to talk to her. Why? No, it was better this way. Better not to know, or even to wonder. She had nothing to say to him any more and that was all that mattered.

But once you had so much to say to him. Closing her eyes, Noelle leaned her head against the seat. She saw herself at thirteen years old, all coltish legs and gap-toothed smile, squirmingly conscious of the spot on her chin. He’d come with his father to her family’s chateau outside Lyon to talk business with her own; a rangy, sullen seventeen-year-old, he’d studiously ignored her until Noelle had made it her personal mission to make him smile.

It had taken her twenty long minutes. She’d tried everything: telling jokes, poking fun, sticking her tongue out, even a bit of clumsy flirting. He’d remained stony-faced, unspeaking, staring out at the sluggish Rhône that flowed past the bottom of their landscaped gardens.

In a fit of girlish pique, Noelle had flounced away—and fallen flat on her face. When she’d scrambled to her hands and knees, her face scorched with mortification, she’d seen a large callused hand reaching down to hers. She’d taken it and his fingers had closed over hers, causing a tingle to travel right up her arm and through her body, a delicious, spreading heat she’d never, ever felt before. Then she’d looked up into Ammar’s face and saw his lips curve into the barest of smiles, no more than a glimmer, gone when she’d blinked.

‘Are you,’ he asked, seeming to choose his words with the utmost care, ‘all right?’

With effort Noelle had risen, yanking her hand from his to swipe at the bits of dirt and gravel on her knees. Embarrassment came rushing back and she felt like such a child. ‘I’m fine,’ she said stiffly, but Ammar reached down and brushed her knee with his fingers.

‘You’re bleeding.’

She’d scraped her knee, just a little bit, and a few drops of blood trickled down her shin. She brushed them away impatiently. ‘I’m all right,’ she said again, still embarrassed.