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.

To her utter shock, Ammar said in his restrained, careful way, ‘Tell me that joke again.’

‘Which one?’

‘Toc-toc.’

They’d been speaking French, the only language common to both of them, and now Noelle obediently repeated the joke. ‘Toc-toc.’

‘Qui est là?’ Ammar asked, his tone so very solemn.

‘S.’

‘S … qui?’

‘S-cargot!’ Noelle finished triumphantly, and Ammar frowned for a second, his brow wrinkling as if he had never heard a joke before, and then he smiled. Properly.

That smile transformed not just his face, but his whole self. His body lost its rigid tension, his eyes lightened to gold, and the flash of white teeth—all of it together made thirteen-year-old Noelle very aware that this was an older and exceedingly handsome boy.

She looked away, flushing yet again, revealed by her blushes. ‘It’s a pretty stupid joke,’ she muttered.

‘I like it. S-cargot. Very good.’

They lapsed into an awkward silence, and a few minutes later his father came out of the chateau. He called once to Ammar in Arabic and she watched, strangely deflated, as he nodded and headed towards him.

‘I like it,’ she called at the last moment. ‘When you smile.’

He glanced back at her, their gazes locking in what felt to Noelle like sweet complicity, and in that moment she thought with a sudden blaze of certainty, I am going to marry him when I am older. I am going to make him smile all the time.

She didn’t see or speak to him again for nearly ten years, when they’d crossed paths in London and started dating, a tender courtship, the memory of which still made Noelle ache inside.

Yet in the space of a single day—their wedding day—he’d become a cold, hard stranger. And ten years later she still didn’t understand why. Now, as the lights of Paris sped by in a blur, she told herself it was better that she’d left the hotel before he could have said anything. Before he could hurt her again.

Yet the next morning, as sunlight washed her bedroom in pale gold, Noelle was caught by another memory: twenty-three years old, walking with Ammar in Regent’s Park in London, the sunlight filtering through the leaves. She had been chattering on endlessly, as she always seemed to do, and she’d stopped, self-conscious, and ducking her head had said, ‘I must be boring you completely.’

‘Never,’ Ammar said, and his tone was so sincere and heartfelt that Noelle had believed him utterly. He’d cupped her cheek with his palm and Noelle had closed her eyes, revelling in that simple little touch. Except nothing had been simple or little about it; they’d been dating for two weeks and she was in love with him, had been in love with him for years, and she thought he might love her, even though he’d never said. He’d never even kissed her. Yet when they were together the world fell away and all Noelle could think was how happy he made her and how she wanted to make him smile, then and always.

He’d smiled then, cautiously, touching her cheek. She’d been so besotted she’d actually closed her eyes, tilted her face upwards. She might as well have worn a neon sign saying kiss me. And he had. The barest brush of his lips against hers, and yet it had been electric. Noelle had leaned into him, her hands clenching on the lapels of his coat, and he’d rested his forehead briefly against hers, the gesture tender and yet possessing a bittersweet sorrow she still didn’t understand. She swayed against him and he steadied her, setting her apart from him.

She should have known then. Should have seen that no male as potently masculine and deeply attractive as Ammar Tannous would stop with a kiss. Would date her and not sleep with her. Marry her and turn away on his own wedding night.

The simple truth—the only truth—was that he’d never really desired her, never mind loved her, and he’d regretted their relationship entirely. He simply hadn’t possessed the consideration to tell her so before it was too late.

She rolled onto her side, tucking her knees up into her chest, hating that she was raking up all these painful memories now. She’d stopped recalling them years ago, although it had taken a great deal of determined effort. One Saturday about three years after her marriage had been annulled she’d gone out with her parents for lunch at a swanky restaurant overlooking the Seine and said firmly, ‘I’m over him now. But let’s not talk about him ever again.’

They’d obliged, clearly relieved to know she was finally moving on, even though they’d been angry and heartbroken on her behalf when the marriage had ended. In retribution, her father had severed all ties with Tannous Enterprises, and in rather childish pique Noelle had been glad. No one had ever mentioned Ammar Tannous to her again; none of her colleagues or friends even knew she’d once been married to him. It had been so long ago, and neither her family nor Ammar’s had ever wanted that kind of publicity. Noelle certainly wasn’t about to offer the information. It was as if the marriage had never happened. She could almost convince herself it hadn’t, until now.

Until Ammar had died in the helicopter crash that had killed his father, and then came back to life. Resurrected not just himself but all the memories and feelings she’d thought she’d buried completely.

She hated feeling anything for him now, even if it was only anger. Yet in the pale morning light she also regretted the way she’d acted last night, like a child in a tantrum. He’d had a near-death experience, for goodness’ sake, and had been very ill. And she’d loved him once, or thought she had. Couldn’t she, in gracious and compassionate understanding, have listened to whatever he had to say? That would have surely shown him she didn’t care any more. And who knew? Maybe he’d only wanted to apologise for what had happened all those years ago. An apology she wasn’t sure she’d accept, but still. It might have been nice to hear it.

Sighing, Noelle rose from the bed. If Ammar approached her again, she decided, she’d listen to him. Briefly. Maybe a conversation could give her some proper closure to their whole sorry relationship, for she had to admit that she hadn’t found it yet, despite many desperate attempts. She surely wouldn’t be feeling so restless and edgy now if she had.

Half an hour later, dressed in a slim grey sheath dress and black patent leather heels, her hair twisted into a sleek chignon, Noelle hurried out of her apartment on the top floor of an eighteenth-century mansion towards the Métro. She was running late and she barely registered the narrow, near-empty street, the only person an older woman in an apron slowly sweeping the porch opposite.

Then she felt a hand clamp hard on her shoulder, something dark thrown over her head, smothering all sight and sound and, before she could even think to scream, she was bundled into a car and speeding away.

CHAPTER TWO

NOELLE stirred slowly to life, like a swimmer coming up to the surface of the sea. Consciousness glimmered, a twinkling, faraway thing. She reached for it, desperate now to seize it, and opened her eyes as if weights were attached to her lids. She lay in a bed and all around her was dark with shadows, and in the distance she heard the drone of an engine, could feel the thrum of it through her body. She was on a plane.

Panic shot through her as she struggled to make sense of what had happened, what little she could remember.

She had been walking to work and someone had grabbed her. Thrown a blanket or bag over her head and taken her in a car. She’d kicked out at her assailant and her fingernails had connected with someone’s face, raking along a cheek. And then someone had said something—in a language she didn’t understand—and she’d felt a jab in her arm and then … nothing.

Terror clutched at her chest, grabbed her by the throat. She’d been kidnapped. Abducted in broad daylight from one of Paris’s best neighbourhoods. Impossible and yet—here she was. On a plane—going where? And what did her captors want? Ransom? Her family was certainly wealthy enough to consider such an awful possibility. Or was it something else—something worse? Vague images of the modern-day slave trade danced through her mind and she tasted bile. She’d kill herself first, if she had an opportunity.

‘You’re awake.’

Noelle let out a stifled scream. In the near-darkness she hadn’t seen the figure sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. She still couldn’t make out his features, but she could certainly recognise his gravelly voice. Ammar.

‘You,’ she said, and her voice came out in a scratchy, unused whisper. She coughed and Ammar came forward to take the glass of water from her bedside table and hand it to her. Noelle took it, her fingers trembling so much that Ammar kept his hand wrapped around the glass, his fingers overlapping hers, and helped her to drink. She was too tired and too thirsty to resist this small solicitude, yet finally, with an effort borne of desperate fury, she pushed the glass away, spilling droplets on the silk coverlet. ‘You kidnapped me,’ she managed, trying to make it a question, because surely he wouldn’t have done such a thing. Yet here he was, and so was she.

In the shadowy room she could not make out his expression at all. ‘I told you, I needed to talk to you.’

Noelle let out a hoarse bark of disbelieving laughter and leaned back against the pillows. ‘And that makes it acceptable, does it?’

‘You didn’t give me many options.’

‘Sometimes,’ Ammar said, ‘extreme measures are necessary.’

‘You take extreme to an entirely new level.’ She shook her head, tried to untangle her emotions. She was shocked, yes, and definitely angry, but was she afraid? No, she didn’t think so. If she were honest, she felt a treacherous tingle of relief that it was him and not some unknown thug. Or even just that it was him. And yet … kidnapped.

‘I’m sorry that extreme measures were necessary in this instance—’

‘Sorry? You talk as if you had no choice but to kidnap me, Ammar. As if I made you do it.’ She closed her eyes, a sudden sorrow added to the welter of feelings inside her. ‘You’re blaming me for what you did. This feels very familiar.’

‘I never,’ he said in a low voice, ‘blamed you for anything.’

She supposed that was true. It had just felt like it was her fault. One minute she’d been married, nurturing dreams of happily-ever-afters, domesticity and children and a little house outside Paris, and the next her husband was barely speaking to her, never mind anything else, with no explanation at all.

‘Turn a light on,’ she said, because she wanted to see his face. Ammar opened a shade on one of the windows, letting in a sudden stream of hard, bright sunlight.

In the unforgiving brightness he looked, Noelle thought, terrible. He was unshaven, the scar snaking down his cheek livid, red and raw. Although he was dressed in a pressed grey polo shirt and black jeans, he seemed more haggard and gaunt than he had last night. Last night—could it really have only been last night that she’d seen him at the charity ball? She didn’t even know how much time had passed.

‘Are we on a plane?’ she demanded hoarsely.

‘My private jet.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To my home.’

‘Alhaja?’ She’d hated the island his father had called home, a prison-like bunker set in gorgeous gardens on a private island in the Mediterranean. She’d spent two lonely months there before she’d finally fled.

‘No. Alhaja was never my home.’ His voice was hard, dark. Noelle saw one lean hand clench into a fist against his thigh before he slowly, deliberately flattened his palm out once more. ‘We’re going to my private villa in Northern Africa, on the edge of the Sahara Desert.’

‘You have a villa in the Sahara?’

Ammar gazed back at her levelly. ‘Yes.’

‘And you’re taking me there?’

‘Yes.’

Obviously. Yet she still struggled to understand, to believe. What could he possibly want with her? She closed her eyes, too tired to ask. She heard the creak of the chair as Ammar rose, and then her exhausted body suddenly pulsed with life as she felt his hand, callused, cool, on her forehead.

‘You should sleep some more.’

‘I don’t want to sleep—’ But she did. Already she felt herself sliding back into the safety of unconsciousness. Dimly, as if from a great distance, she heard Ammar speak.

‘We’ll be there in a few hours. I’ll stay here until you wake.’

Noelle was too tired to resist. And as she tumbled back into sleep a small, strange part of her felt reassured that he’d told her he would stay.

Ammar watched Noelle’s face soften in sleep and felt regret pierce him with its double-edged sword. Ever since he’d arranged for her transport here he’d felt it, that sliver of doubt, jagged, sharp and painful. He should not have taken her like that. Kidnapped, that was the word she’d used. A crime.

He sat back in the chair, his hands resting on his knees as he gazed at her sleeping form. He shouldn’t have done it, he knew that, but what choice had he really had? He was not going to chase her around Paris, trailing after her like a kicked puppy, begging for a few seconds of her time. And here, just the two of them, he hoped—even if he was unwilling to say it aloud—that they might recapture something of what they’d had before.

Now you’ll know never to trust a woman. Never to be weak.

Even in death his father mocked him. Ammar swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, his heart thudding. He hated his memories. Hated the response they instinctively dredged up in him, the fear, the loathing. The longing. He forced them away, made his mind blank. He’d always been good at that, had had to be good at it. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Don’t think about who it hurts. Don’t think. Taking a deep, slow breath, he leaned back in the chair and waited for Noelle to wake.

When Noelle woke again the sluggish exhaustion had gone, giving her a sense of relief, but also leaving her feeling both weakened and wary.

She sat up and saw Ammar was still sitting in the chair by her bed. He’d fallen into a half-doze, his face softened in sleep, dark lashes sweeping against his cheek, reminding her for a breathless second of the man he used to be. The man she’d thought he was. His eyes flickered open and he stared at her for a taut moment that seemed suspended and separate in its sudden, raw honesty. Ammar gazed at her, seeming almost vulnerable, hungry, and as for her? Noelle could feel the answer in herself. She’d loved this man once, no matter how he’d brought them to this place, and she felt its echo through her heart.

Ammar straightened, glancing at his watch, and the moment broke. ‘We’ll be in Marrakech in twenty minutes.’

‘And then?’

‘A helicopter to my villa. It takes a couple of hours.’

She shook her head slowly, banishing that echo, that remnant of longing. ‘Ammar … why are you taking me there? What do you want from me?’

His mouth tightened and his gaze flicked away. ‘We’ll talk about that later. Right now you should freshen up. There’s food in the main cabin.’

‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

He returned his gaze to her, level and considering. ‘As you wish. I was only seeing to your comfort.’

‘My comfort? If you’d been concerned with that, you wouldn’t have kidnapped me in the first place!’

He expelled a low breath. ‘I told you, it was necessary.’

‘You had me drugged.’

‘It was the safest way to transport you. I didn’t want you to harm yourself.’

‘How very thoughtful of you.’

‘I try,’ Ammar said with a ghost of a smile, and it took Noelle a stunned second to realise he was actually making a joke. Toc-toc.

‘Try harder,’ she answered back, meaning to snap, but it came out like some absurd attempt at witty banter. It was getting harder to hold onto her brittle edge, the safety of sarcasm. She could still remember how he’d looked in that unguarded moment, how she’d felt, even as fury raced through her.

Ammar gazed at her with the remnant of that smile, his eyes dark and sorrowful. ‘I will,’ he said softly, and Noelle felt something twist inside her, start to break. No, she could not start responding to this man. Remembering.

The only thing to remember was the hard fact that he’d hurt her terribly in the past and kidnapped her today. What kind of people did he know, to arrange a kidnapping in broad daylight? What kind of man was he?

Before their marriage she’d thought he was gentle, tender, loving, if a little restrained. They’d dated for three months, a time so achingly sweet Noelle’s eyes stung to remember it. She’d wanted to give him everything, her life, her soul and, more importantly, she’d thought he wanted it. Sometimes she’d caught him gazing at her in a kind of wonder, as if he couldn’t believe she was really his.

Then they’d said their wedding vows and in a matter of hours he’d changed completely, turned into a brusque and distant stranger she didn’t know or understand. A man who, it seemed, was perfectly capable of abducting his former wife and keeping her captive in his desert villa. The real Ammar.

It was the real Ammar she needed to remember now. Drawing herself up, she said firmly, as if talking to an unruly child, ‘Well, now you’ve got me here you can say whatever it is you’ve wanted to say, and then you need to arrange my immediate return to Paris. I can get a flight from Marrakech.’

Something flashed in Ammar’s amber eyes, although Noelle could not discern what it was. She’d once loved the colour of his eyes, the warm peat-brown of whisky. She’d seen emotion reflected there, emotion he had never spoken of or given into in any way and yet she’d believed. She’d known.

‘No.’

Noelle’s fingernails snagged on the coverlet as she clenched her fists. ‘No?’

‘I cannot arrange your return to Paris. Yet.’

‘When, then?’ He shrugged, which was no answer at all. ‘Ammar, what do you want from me?’ Another flicker in his eyes—could it be regret? ‘This is a crime, you know,’ she said in a low voice, hardly able to believe she was saying the words, and that they were true. ‘You could be arrested for this.’

He glanced away. ‘I’ve done too many things already I could be arrested for. One more won’t matter.’

Shock iced straight through her, froze in her bones. She did not want to know what he was talking about, was overwhelmed by the terrible strangeness of a man she’d once thought she knew. Loved. ‘My God,’ she choked, ‘who are you?’

Ammar turned back to her and she saw a fierce blaze of determination now turning his eyes to gold as he met her own bewildered gaze. ‘I’m your husband.’

She stilled, the cover sliding from under her nerveless fingers. ‘You haven’t,’ she said after a long charged moment, ‘been my husband for ten years.’ And he’d never truly been her husband, never in the way that mattered most.

‘I know that.’ He looked away again, everything about him—his voice, his expression—seeming to harden. ‘We’ll talk of this later. We’re about to arrive, and I’m sure you’d like a moment to compose yourself.’ He rose from the chair. ‘There are clothes in the wardrobe. I’ll meet you out in the main cabin when you are ready.’ He spoke coolly, issuing these instructions with every expectation of being obeyed. It reminded Noelle of the man he’d been after their marriage, and she hated it. Hated remembering how different Ammar had seemed, how different she’d been with him, confused, needy and so unhappy, her dreams turning to dust, hopes to ash.

‘I’ll stay here.’ It was a small act of independence, but in her current situation it was all she could manage.

Ammar shrugged, then nodded his assent. ‘Very well.’ And then he was gone.

Ammar paced the main cabin of the plane, feeling as trapped as Noelle surely was. Nothing was going the way he had hoped. He’d handled everything wrong, he saw now, from the moment he’d accosted her in the hotel, to the clumsy abduction of her from the street, to the conversation he’d just had. He was a man who had millions at his disposal, thousands of employees to do his bidding and even more people who regarded him with both awe and fear, yet one slip of a woman defeated him. All the words he wanted to say, all the things he felt, tangled up inside him so he couldn’t get any of it out. He didn’t even know the words. He missed her, he wanted her, he needed her, but how he did tell her that without issuing a command?

Never show weakness. Never beg or even ask.

The rules his father had drilled into him were impossible to break or ignore. He’d learned them the hard way, by his father’s fist, starting on his eighth birthday when Balkri Tannous had taken him from the playroom and his brother’s side and, in the sanctified solitude of his study, hit him hard across the face without warning.

It had begun then and there, his education, the forming of his very self. How did he shed it? How did he change?

‘Mr Tannous?’ Abdul, one of his staff, appeared in the doorway. ‘We land in ten minutes.’

‘Very good.’ He glanced back at the door to the bedroom and, after a second’s hesitation he rapped on it sharply. ‘We’re about to land, Noelle. It would be safer for you to sit in here, in a proper seat.’

The door was wrenched open and Noelle stood there, still wearing her crumpled grey dress. She’d washed her face and brushed her hair, but he still saw dark shadows under her eyes, the anger flaring in their hazel depths.

She didn’t speak as she moved past him and sat down, buckling the lap belt. Ammar sat across from her. He tried to think of something to say, some words to bridge the gulf between them, but nothing came. Kidnapping her had been just about the worst way to go about this. Yet how to make amends?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly, and she turned to face him, surprise flaring in her eyes.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For … abducting you.’

‘And do you think I should accept your apology?’ She let out a short, unfriendly laugh and rolled her eyes. ‘No problem, Ammar. Mistakes happen.’ She shook her head, seeming disgusted, and fury flared through him.

‘You wouldn’t listen.’

‘And you wonder why.’

He shouldn’t have started this conversation. It was too soon. Ammar turned to stare out at the sky, an endless stretch of blue. He felt his stomach dip as the plane moved lower and then, a few minutes later, with the pair of them still sitting in taut silence, the plane bumped to a landing.

They didn’t speak as they moved from the plane to the waiting helicopter. As they came out on the tarmac Ammar saw Noelle scan the empty expanse and wondered if she’d actually make a run for it. If she did he knew he could catch her easily and in any case he had half a dozen staff waiting for his command. Besides, they were in Marrakech and a woman alone with no money, no passport and no phone wouldn’t get very far. Danger lurked everywhere.

For the first time he realised just how vulnerable she must feel, and regret lashed him again. He reached for her elbow, meaning to steady her, but she jerked away from him.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped.

Ammar dropped his hand. Wordlessly he ushered Noelle towards the helicopter and then climbed in after her.

They took off into the sky once more, neither of them speaking. Sweat prickled along the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. He hated travelling in helicopters since the crash, but his villa didn’t have the space to land a jet and there were no roads.

In any case, he needed to conquer his fear. Grimly, he stared out of the window, even as his stomach churned and memories of the crash danced before his eyes. He remembered the way the world had tilted and the sea seemed to swoop up to meet him. How he’d stared into his father’s grim face, a man he’d loved and hated in equal measure.

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