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

‘I don’t mean … I’m not saying … You still kidnapped me,’ she said, the words both a warning and an accusation. A way to protect herself.

Ammar didn’t move, and yet she felt as if something had left him, something inside him had suddenly winked out. ‘I see,’ he said quietly, and she bit her lip, forced herself not to say anything more. To apologise. The silence stretched on.

She could not, Noelle thought, have doused their earlier passion more effectively or completely if she’d poured ice water over the pair of them. Ammar might have stopped the kiss, but she’d ruined the mood. It was just as well. She wasn’t ready to risk that much with Ammar. She wasn’t ready to risk rejection again. Even now she remembered how he’d thrust her away from him when she’d tried to make him want her that horrible evening in the hotel. Clad in her ridiculous teddy and stilettos—the clothes of a seductress, a whore—she’d asked brokenly, Don’t you want me?

She’d never forget his answer.

No. No, I don’t. Just leave me, Noelle. Get out of here.

And so she had, shaking with the pain of it, a pain so great she felt as if her body could not hold it. He didn’t love her. Didn’t want her the way a man wanted a woman, the way a husband should want a wife.

And now with that memory came doubt, treacherous, terrible, seeping into her heart like some noxious gas, a deadly poison. Why had she told him she’d stay, that she wanted to stay? She drew a shuddering breath and backed away.

‘I think I should—’

‘Don’t.’ Ammar cut her off quietly, yet with certain purpose. ‘Don’t leave. Please.’

It was, stupidly, the please that got her. He’d tacked it on as an afterthought, yet sincerity throbbed in his voice. I want to be that man again. He was trying to change.

She took another deep breath. ‘I won’t leave tonight,’ she said, the implication clear. But I might tomorrow. He wouldn’t stop her now, she knew. This was her choice. ‘But if you want us to have any chance of making something between us work, then you … you have to try.’

‘I know,’ Ammar said, his voice so low it seemed to reverberate right through her. ‘I know.’

The silence stretched between them. Noelle didn’t know what to say. She felt too raw and vulnerable to reassure him; she was half-regretting her agreement to stay the night already. Yet when Ammar turned to look at her, she saw the longing and hunger in his eyes and everything inside her twisted in a confusing mixture of hope and regret. Without another word she turned and walked out of the garden.

She was exhausted but she couldn’t sleep. She felt an unsettling clash of hope and despair, her emotions veering from one to the other. She asked herself what on earth she was doing here, staying with a man who had broken both her heart and the law. She should leave, get out while she could.

And while the stronger, harder self she had cultivated over the last ten years insisted that she tell Ammar to release her in the morning, the quiet voice of her heart whispered that she’d never really wanted to be that person in the first place.

That quiet voice became more insistent, telling her that he was the only man who had reached her, touched her soul and her heart. Yet did he love her? He’d never said. Ten years ago she’d assumed he did, naively, trustingly, because she didn’t think he could look at her the way he did, or brush her hair, or cup her cheek, and not love her. Yet now she was different and she no longer believed in the simple boy-meets-girl fantasy. She didn’t trust happy endings, had deliberately let go of the dreams she’d once cherished. The little house, a family, a husband. She didn’t want those things any longer. So why was she here? Why had she stayed and told herself—and him—that she would try?

Because, Noelle knew with an appalling certainty, she wanted to believe. Even now, when absolutely everything seemed stacked against them, when their past history and hurt were proof positive that faith in love and happy-ever-afters was not just naïve but delusional, she wanted to believe.

How stupid, she thought with a weary bitterness, was that?

She must have slept because she awoke suddenly, blinking in the darkness. The clock read a little after two in the morning. In the distance she heard the sound of someone playing the piano; after a moment she recognised the haunting melody as Pathétique, Beethoven’s melancholy Eighth Sonata. Silently she slipped from the bed and, dressed only in a silky nightie that fell to her knees, she headed downstairs.

The whole house was quiet and still, except for the sound of the piano. Noelle paused on the threshold of the music room, the door only a little ajar, the sorrowful sound of the music sweeping through her. She was no expert, but she could recognise when someone played with both talent and passion. Ammar was such a man.

Quietly she stepped into the room. He was so absorbed in his playing that he didn’t notice her and she watched him for a moment. He wore only a pair of loose drawstring trousers; his chest was bare and glorious, all taut, sleek muscle, although she could see some faded bruises from the crash on his back. His long, lean fingers moved elegantly over the keys, evoking a sound filled with such loss and longing that Noelle fought the urge to cross the room and put her arms around him.

Perhaps she made some sound, for Ammar suddenly looked over at her and his hands stilled on the keys, plunging the room into silence.

‘You play so beautifully,’ Noelle said after a moment. ‘Why didn’t you ever tell me you played piano?’ Inwardly, she flinched. It sounded like an accusation.

Ammar played a few single discordant notes. ‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s always been a very private thing.’

She took a step into the room. The only light came from a single lamp on top of the piano; it cast its warm yellow glow over Ammar’s lowered head. ‘You must have had lessons, though.’ He shook his head. ‘You mean you taught yourself?’

‘At boarding school. I used to sneak into the music room after hours.’ His mouth twisted in a grimace that Noelle thought he meant to seem wry but wasn’t. ‘Breaking the law.’

‘It was certainly justified,’ she said as lightly as she could, ‘if you play like that.’

He played a minor chord, the mournful notes echoing in the stillness of the room. ‘Is it ever justified?’

She knew he was talking about more than just breaking into a music room. I’ve done too many things already I could be arrested for. She wasn’t ready to think about that, much less hear it from him. Coward, she berated herself. She remained silent, half in the room, her hesitation obvious. Ammar glanced up at her, his narrowed, knowing eyes taking in everything about her. She wasn’t fooling him. She wasn’t fooling him at all.

Swallowing, she took a step closer. ‘Why did you have to sneak into the music room at school?’ she asked. ‘Couldn’t you have had proper lessons?’

‘My father forbade it.’

‘Why?’

A shrug. ‘Music was useless, I suppose, to him.’ He took a breath, let it out slowly. ‘My father had very definite ideas about what a man should be like. What he should do, or even think.’

‘Your father,’ she said, taking a step closer to him, ‘has a lot to answer for.’

‘You have no idea.’

Ammar’s voice was so low and grim that Noelle flinched from it. ‘I know I don’t,’ she said softly, and for several moments neither of them said anything more. ‘So how did you decide you wanted to play the piano anyway?’ she finally asked. ‘If you’d never played before?’

‘My mother played. She was a professional and she might have had a great career, but she gave it all up when she married my father.’

‘I suppose she thought it was worth it,’ Noelle said uncertainly.

Ammar gave a little shake of his head. ‘She had no choice.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My father insisted upon it. No wife of his would ever work, or be seen needing to work.’

‘And your mother accepted it?’

‘She was in love with him, or at least she thought she was.’ He played another minor chord. ‘Perhaps she didn’t really know him.’

Noelle felt a shiver of unease. Was Ammar talking about his parents, or about them? And surely, surely he was different from Balkri Tannous. She had to believe that. Deliberately she moved forward and sat next to him on the piano bench. Surprised, he shifted over to give her more room, but even so their thighs brushed against one another and Noelle felt a bolt of awareness at the contact.

‘Did you ever play the piano?’ he asked.

‘I took lessons for a few months when I was about eight. My parents made me.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, the gesture an apology. ‘I didn’t like it and so I didn’t practise and eventually they let me stop.’ She was uncomfortably and even painfully aware of the differences in their situations, in their very selves: Ammar had had to sneak into a music room to learn an instrument he loved, while she’d been given it freely and scorned it.

‘You could learn now,’ he said and, to her surprise, he took her hands and placed them on the piano keys, his own hands large and warm over hers. She stared at their twined hands, his skin callused and brown, her fingers slender and soft, the colour of cream. They were so different, she thought, in so many ways.

Carefully, Ammar pressed her hands down on certain keys. ‘C, C, A, A, G,’ he recited quietly, pressing each of her fingers down in turn.

Mesmerised by the simple touch of his hands on hers, Noelle could not recognise the tune for a moment. She felt as if a fist had plunged into the centre of her chest and grabbed hold of her heart. Squeezed. She was breathless with both longing and loss, and even a faint, frail joy.

‘F, F, E, E,’ Ammar continued, and she finally turned to him with a small smile.

‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’

‘You know it.’ He smiled back at her faintly, his lips barely curving but, even so, Noelle felt her already squeezed heart give a painful little lurch. He looked so beautiful and so sad, and she felt so much in that moment she couldn’t speak. He reached up and gently touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. She closed her eyes. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said, his voice so low that, even seated next to him, she had to strain to hear it. ‘So very lovely. I’ve always thought that.’

She drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I think I’ve always known you did.’

‘Have you?’ He sounded more sad than surprised.

‘Yes.’ She knew she was speaking the truth. She still didn’t understand why Ammar had rejected her during their brief marriage, but she knew he’d felt something for her, both then and now. He cared. He’d always cared.

Gently she placed her hand over his, pressing it against her cheek. She opened her eyes. ‘Ammar—’ Her throat was so tight it hurt to get the words out. ‘Won’t you tell me why … why you turned away from me? You said you didn’t come to me on our wedding night because you meant to let me go, but …’ She trailed off, not wanting to put it into words. Still Ammar said nothing. She drew in another breath. ‘I still don’t understand. I still feel like you’re hiding something from me, like … like you don’t want me.’

Still no words. He’d gone completely still, his face utterly expressionless. Noelle searched his face, longing for just one clue to what he was feeling. What he was hiding. ‘Ammar?’ she prompted, and now her voice wobbled.

He looked away, dropping his hand from her cheek. Sitting next to him, she could feel the tension steal through his body, the hand that had touched her so tenderly now clenched into a fist. ‘I want you to know,’ he said in a low voice, so low she felt it reverberate right through her chest, ‘that I have always wanted you. Desired you. I still do.’ He paused, his whole body angled away from her now, even though they were only inches apart. ‘Desperately.’

Desperately. The knowledge might have thrilled her once, but now she felt only a weary—and wary—confusion. ‘Why then have you never …?’ She broke off as in one abrupt movement Ammar rose from the piano bench and crossed the room, his back to her.

Away from the lamp that provided the only light in the room, he was swathed in shadow. In the half-darkness Noelle could still see the sinuous muscles of his back, the faded bruises from the crash.

‘Can’t that be enough?’ he asked, his voice raw. ‘Can’t you be satisfied with that?’

He sounded so tired, so tormented that Noelle almost wanted to agree. But what kind of future could they possibly have with so many secrets between them? ‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘I can’t.’

Ammar let out a shuddering breath. ‘What I told you was true. I didn’t come to you on our wedding night because I knew I had to let you go. But you’re right. There was more to it than that.’

Noelle held her breath, waiting, always waiting. ‘Ammar—’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t want you ever to feel like I was rejecting you.’

‘But you were,’ Noelle protested, and he shook his head, the movement abrupt and almost violent.

‘No. Never. Never that.’ He turned around and the agony written on his face was almost too painful to see. A lump rose in her throat and she felt fear beat its relentless tattoo through her veins. What terrible thing was he going to tell her? Could she bear it? Would it change everything?

‘It’s late,’ he said, and she saw his expression close once more, agony turned into adamance. She would get no more answers tonight. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I … I want to spend time with you, just being with you, before I …’ He shook his head, closed his eyes briefly. ‘Please.’

‘All right,’ she whispered. She knew it was futile to press him now. His eyes were dark, his face hard, his body rigid. And maybe she had heard enough, for tonight at least.

‘Come,’ he said, and reached for her hand. Surprised, Noelle let him thread his fingers through hers and lead her from the room. All around them the house was dark and still, the only sound the tread of their bare feet upon the tiles. Ammar led her up the stairs, down a corridor and past her own bedroom. Her heart lurched. Her breath hitched.

What—?

Outside a closed door, he turned to her, touched her cheek. ‘Sleep with me,’ he said, ‘in my bed.’

Such a simple request, Noelle thought, and yet she knew it cost him. His eyes were dark and intent, his body still rigid with tension. She smiled, although she felt it wobble.

‘Yes,’ she said, and followed him into his bedroom.

CHAPTER SIX

AMMAR led Noelle into the darkness of his own bedroom, to the king-sized bed with its rumpled duvet. He hesitated, wanting so much to be with her and yet …

He’d never spent an entire night with a woman before. Even now, just the thought made him tense, panic. He hated the duality of his own desires, the longing to draw her close even as memories reared up and demanded he keep his distance.

‘Ammar?’ She placed one slender hand on his shoulder, her touch cool and soft. With effort he turned to her and smiled. At least he hoped he did. His mouth curved, at least. The moonlight, he saw, streamed over her, turning her skin luminescent. Her chestnut hair tumbled down her back in artless waves and her eyes were wide and trusting. Even now, when he’d demanded and denied and become angry, she trusted him. She followed him and waited with a patience that felt unbearably gentle. He was humbled, but he was also afraid.

He never let women close. They never spent the night, they never touched his heart. Only Noelle had succeeded, and in fear—both for her and, yes, for himself—he’d walked away all those years ago. Could he stay now? Could he finally put the ghosts of his past, the mistakes and sins and endless regrets, to rest? She reached up and cupped his palm with her cheek.

‘I don’t have to stay.’

Ammar felt his throat tighten so it hurt to speak. ‘I want you to.’ He knew he sounded grudging. Why, even now, did it have to be so difficult?

Noelle reached past him and pulled the duvet back. ‘Well,’ she said, smiling a little, ‘it’s freezing in here so I think I’ll get under the covers.’

He watched in a sort of dazed incredulity as she got in the bed and scooted to one side, pulling the duvet up to her chin. She looked so right there, he thought, in his bed. That was the most incredible thing of all.

‘There’s plenty of room,’ she told him, her expression almost mischievous over the edge of the duvet. He loved that even now she could tease. How much was it costing her?

Ammar got in the bed, feeling wooden and awkward as he stretched out next to her. He desperately wanted this to be normal, but he didn’t know how to act. What to feel. Surely not this blind panic that fell over him like a fog, memories shrieking inside him.

Sleep. They were meant to sleep. Ammar closed his eyes. Belatedly, he realised he should touch her, he wanted to touch her, so he laid one hand on her shoulder. He felt that shoulder shake and he tensed.

‘What?’

‘Ammar, you’re acting like … like you’re at the dentist or something.’ He realised she was actually laughing, just a little, although underneath he sensed her confusion and hurt. He froze, unsure again how to feel. Anger felt more familiar, yet he struggled against it. He didn’t want to feel it, to ruin the moment, awkward as it already was.

Then she rolled over to face him and placed her palms, so warm and soft, on his bare chest. ‘Come here,’ she whispered and, strangely, miraculously, it felt like the simplest and most natural thing in the world to pull her towards him.

‘You come here,’ he said, and she snuggled into him, the warmth and closeness of her short-circuiting his senses.

‘I can do that,’ she whispered, and he felt the silk of her hair brush against his chest, his cheek and tickle his nose. He pulled her closer.

He could do this. He could really do this. She fitted against him, he thought, she felt right. Yet, even as that thought formed, other darker ones chased it. Memories.

Never trust a woman, Ammar. Never let one close. Never show weakness.

He heard the angry echo of his father’s voice, the cruel laughter of the woman he’d thought, naively, he’d loved. Felt the crack of his father’s palm against his cheek, the rush of humiliation and shame dousing all desire.

Noelle brushed his cheek with her fingers, the touch as gentle as a whisper, and in surprise he opened his eyes, drawn from the agony of the past. ‘Don’t,’ she said softly. ‘Whatever it is, don’t.’ He gazed down at her, blinking in the darkness. He could barely make out her face, but he knew she looked completely serious.

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t let it control you,’ Noelle said quietly. ‘Don’t let it win.’

Ammar drew her closer to him. ‘I’m trying,’ he said and yet, even then, with her in his arms, he wondered if it would be enough.

He must have slept, although it seemed to take an age. He heard Noelle’s breathing finally deepen and slow in sleep and he remained holding her, in a sort of exquisite tension, enjoying the feel of her even as part of him longed for escape. Distance. Safety. And then, amazingly, sunlight streamed across the bed and it was morning, and he was slowly, languorously moving towards wakefulness, conscious only of the warm, round form fitted so closely to him, the flare of desire he felt in his groin as he moved his hand across her pliant softness, the silky fullness of a breast filling his hand.

Desire flared deeper and he rolled on top of her, his hands seeking her most private places as his lips moved over skin. He heard a moan and didn’t know whether it came from him or her; it didn’t matter. His hands slid over sleep-warmed skin, and her arms twined around him as he nudged apart her thighs with his knee.

‘Ammar …’

Consciousness crashed over him and he froze, even as Noelle said his name again, reminding him who she was. Who he was. He would not make love to her like this, a hurried, desperate fumble, even if he wanted it so badly his body shook. Even if it would be easier to keep his mind blank, always blank, and just lose himself in her as quickly as he could.

No. She deserved more than that. Damn it, so did he. Slowly he rolled off her, flung one arm up over his head. His body shuddered with the loss of her, desire still pulsing through him, an undeniable ache.

‘Ammar,’ she said softly, and he heard all the hurt and rejection in her voice.

He knew he should explain. Apologise. Say something. But he just lay there, silent, his mind a numb, frozen wasteland. It took all of his effort, all his willpower to block out the memories.

Did you think I actually loved you, you stupid, foolish boy?

‘Ammar, tell me what you’re thinking.’

He dropped his arm, forced himself to meet her unhappy gaze. She nibbled her lip, her eyes swamped with uncertainty, dark with pain. ‘I’m not thinking anything,’ he said, and heard how remote he sounded. How cold. Why couldn’t he gather her in his arms, explain to her that he wanted to make love to her, but he wanted to do it properly, without the fear of the memories swarming him, destroying him? He wanted to reassure her, but he was afraid of her rejection. Her revulsion. The words thickened in his throat, lodged in his chest like a stone. He stayed silent.

‘I’m going to shower,’ Noelle said and slipped out of bed and across the room. She was gone before Ammar could answer back.

Noelle walked quickly down the corridor to her own room, her head lowered, her vision near-blinded with tears. Stupid, to be crying again. Yet, no matter what Ammar said about desiring her or how beautiful she was, she still felt completely rejected, ugly and unloved when he rolled away from her, refused to make love to her as her body—and heart—demanded.

Why? Why had he turned away from her again? How could she believe he desired her when everything he did said he didn’t? Miserably she turned on the shower as hot as she could stand it and, shrugging out of her nightie, stepped under the spray.

It had felt so good, so right to sleep in Ammar’s arms last night … even if it had taken him an age to relax just a little bit, and even longer actually to fall asleep. Noelle had lain there, savouring the warmth and solid strength of him even as she longed for more. Always, she thought now, despair sweeping through her, longing for more.

And yet this morning, when he’d drawn her from sleep with his touch, every caress sending her spinning into pleasure … it had been wonderful. So sweet and yet so powerful, which made the crash to reality—and rejection once again—so much harder to bear.

Even now, doubt worked its corrosive power on her heart, her hope. How could Ammar care about her if he couldn’t bear to touch her? How could he want a marriage when closeness of any kind was so painful for him?

How could any of this possibly work?

Resolutely Noelle turned off the shower and stepped out into the cool morning air. One day at a time, one minute at a time, if necessary. That was all either of them could take.

And yet doubt still whispered its treacherous message: what if it doesn’t work? What if he breaks your heart … again?

Ammar turned to see Noelle coming down the stairs, her hair damp and pulled back into a loose ponytail. She looked pretty and fresh and so very lovely, but there were shadows in her eyes. Always the shadows. That morning, he knew, would cast a long one over the rest of the day. He would have to work hard to dispel it.

‘I’ve had my housekeeper pack us a picnic,’ he told her, managing a smile. ‘And I’ve taken the liberty of packing you a few extra clothes—I don’t think the clothes in your room ran to the sort of protective gear you need for desert travel.’

Noelle smiled back, although he felt that it took as much effort as his did. ‘You know better than me,’ she said.