The Husband She Never Knew
Kate Hewitt
What he wants, he takes!Cruelly discarded on her wedding night, Noelle Ducasse buries the shame of being an untouched bride – creating a new, glamorous life to mask the relentless ache of loneliness. Until Ammar returns… The image of Noelle’s guileless eyes lingers with Ammar still. Noelle can refuse him all she likes, but this time the ruthless Ammar will not be denied.He’ll spend each moment of each night proving that – no matter how much her mind denies it – she will melt under her husband’s exquisite touch…“Kate Hewitt captures the essence of overcoming a forbidden love.” – Kiru, 36, Author
‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’
Noelle froze. She didn’t have to turn around to know who was speaking to her. She hadn’t heard that low, rumbling growl of a voice in ten years.
Slowly she turned and faced her former husband. The first sight of him in the shadowy foyer jolted her to the core. His hair was cut close, almost a buzz-cut. A long, livid scar of puckered reddened flesh bisected his right cheek, starting at his hairline and snaking all the way down to his jaw.
‘And I almost didn’t recognise you,’ she said, keeping her voice crisp even though her knees were near to buckling just at the sight of him.
He seemed taller and darker and bigger than before, although that was surely an illusion. She’d just forgotten the effect his presence had on her, the way he held himself so still and yet with such authority. The man she’d fallen in love with.
She gave him as level a look as she could. ‘What do you want, Ammar?’
‘You.’
About the Author
KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon
romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long—fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older. She has written plays, short stories and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling and learning to knit.
After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.
Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com
Recent titles by the same author:
THE DARKEST OF SECRETS
KHOLODOV’S LAST MISTRESS
MR AND MISCHIEF
(The Powerful and the Pure) BOUND TO THE GREEK
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
The Husband
She Never Knew
Kate Hewitt
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
AMMAR TANNOUS scanned the crowded ballroom of the Parisian hotel with a coldly dispassionate air, his mouth a compressed line. Somewhere amidst this glittering throng his wife waited. Although waited, he acknowledged, was the wrong word; Noelle had no idea he was here. She might not even know he was alive.
He narrowed his eyes as he shouldered his way through the crowd, noting the way conversations sputtered into silence, followed by the hiss of surprised speculation. The newspapers, he knew, had carried the story of his miraculous escape from a helicopter crash two months ago, although he hadn’t been front page news. He never was. Ammar always kept a low profile; working for Tannous Enterprises required he maintain an intense privacy. Still, some here recognised him.
‘Mr Tannous …’ A thin, nervous man approached him, looking, Ammar saw, not just nervous but scared out of his wits. Ammar tried to place the face, but he had done business with too many people to recall every frightened underling who had experienced the punishing power of Tannous Enterprises’s fist. ‘I was going to make an appointment …’ the man stammered, fluttering his hands in apology. ‘Once I heard the news …’
The news that he was alive. Not very good news for most people, Ammar knew. Now he remembered the man, if not his name. He had a small clothing factory outside Paris and Ammar’s father had become lien-holder. He’d called in the loan just before his death in an attempt to bankrupt the man and cease his paltry competition with Tannous’s own interests.
‘I’m not here about that,’ Ammar said tersely. ‘If you wish to make an appointment, call my office.’
‘Yes … of course …’
Without another word Ammar moved past him. He could have assured the man he wasn’t going to enforce his father’s claim, but the words stuck in his throat. In any case, he didn’t want rumours to start flying, or his business associates and allies to wonder or worry.
All he wanted was Noelle.
It had been her face, the memory of her smile that had driven his survival. When he’d been starving and dying of thirst, wounded and feverish, he’d longed for her. He might not have seen her in a decade, he might have sent her away only months after they’d married, but he intended to find her now … and finally claim her as his wife.
His expression grimmer than ever before, Ammar moved forward through the crowd.
‘Someone is looking for you, and he seems rather ferocious.’
Noelle Ducasse turned at the sound of her friend Amelie’s voice, a smile firmly curving her lips, her flute of champagne held aloft. ‘Oh, really? Should I start quivering?’
‘Perhaps.’ Amelie took a sip of her own drink as she surveyed the crowd. ‘He’s about six foot four with a near-shaven head and a horrible scar on his face. The whole look is rather sexy, mind you, but also a bit fearsome.’ Amelie raised her elegantly plucked eyebrows, clearly curious. ‘Does that description ring a bell?’
‘Not really.’ Noelle gave her friend, always prone to exaggeration, a bemused look. ‘He sounds like an ex-convict.’
‘Maybe. Although his tuxedo is top of the line.’
‘Intriguing.’ Although she wasn’t particularly intrigued. Paris’s social scene was always buzzing. ‘My feet are killing me,’ she said as she deposited her half-empty glass of champagne on a tray held by one of the many circulating waiters. ‘I might call it a night.’
‘I knew those heels would murder you.’ Amelie spoke with gleeful satisfaction; she’d wanted to wear the five-inch silver stilettos that had been seen on the catwalk at Paris’s Autumn/Winter Fashion Week last March. Arche, the high-end department store they both worked for as assistant buyers, would sell them exclusively this autumn.
Noelle shrugged philosophically. ‘All part of the job.’ Arche liked to have its junior buyers out and about in Paris’s social scene, modelling Arche fashions and looking glamorous. After five years, Noelle was tired of playing at being a pretty young thing, but she knew it was all about paying her dues. In another few months she’d be up for a promotion to senior buyer of women’s wear, instead of focusing just on shoes and accessories.
‘You can’t leave yet,’ Amelie protested with a pout, ‘it’s only eleven.’
‘And I have work tomorrow. As do you, I might add.’
‘What about your ferocious admirer?’
‘He’ll just have to admire from afar.’ A flicker of curiosity rippled through her—a shaven head and a scar? Really? In this crowd of preening socialites it seemed unlikely. Still, all she wanted now was her bed and a hot drink. And a good book. Her scary suitor would have to live with disappointment.
She waved her farewell to Amelie, who had already moved on to the next crowd of social-climbers. Standing alone amidst the circulating crowd, Noelle suddenly experienced a sharp pang of loneliness, the kind she’d tried not to let herself feel in the ten years since she’d walked out on her marriage and rebuilt her life—a life she’d chosen, even if it bore no resemblance to the kind of life she’d expected to have. She liked Amelie and all of her other friends, but they weren’t kindred spirits. Soulmates. But then she’d given up on that idea long ago.
Sighing, she pushed any recriminations, as well as that irritating pang of loneliness, to the back of her mind. She just wanted to go home. In bed with a book and a hot drink she’d feel better. And at least she’d be able to shed these ridiculous shoes.
It took her a quarter of an hour to work her way through the crowd, knowing she needed to stop to smile or chat with various guests. She’d just reached the deserted foyer of the hotel when she heard a voice behind her.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’
Noelle froze. She didn’t have to turn around to know who was speaking to her. She hadn’t heard that low, rumbling growl of a voice in ten years. He still, she acknowledged distantly, spoke with the cautious reserve of a man who chose his words with care and didn’t say many of them.
Slowly she turned around and faced her former husband. The first sight of him in the shadowy foyer jolted her to the core. His hair was cut close, almost a buzz-cut. A long, livid scar of puckered reddened flesh bisected his right cheek, starting in his hairline and snaking all the way down to his jaw. He was, she knew then, the ferocious admirer Amelie had told her about. Ammar. She should have considered such a thing, she supposed, although in truth she’d never have expected Ammar to be looking for her. He’d never looked for her before.
‘And I almost didn’t recognise you,’ she said, keeping her voice crisp even though her knees were near to buckling just at the sight of him. He seemed taller and darker and bigger than before, although that was surely an illusion. She’d just forgotten the effect his presence had on her, the way he held himself so still and yet with such authority. The way his mouth thinned and his eyes narrowed—so different from the man she’d thought she knew. The man she’d fallen in love with. She gave him as level a look as she could. ‘What do you want, Ammar?’
‘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 Rh?ne 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.
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 l??’ 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 Måtro. 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.’
‘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.
‘Ammar.’
He didn’t realise he’d been scrunching his eyes shut until he opened them and saw Noelle. He felt a jolt of panicked confusion, for her face—her smile—had been the last thing he’d seen before impact. No more than a memory, and now here she was in reality. By his force.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked quietly, and he nodded. Gulped.
‘I’m fine.’ And even though he knew he’d revealed a terrible weakness, he couldn’t keep from being glad she’d asked.
They didn’t speak again until the helicopter had landed.
The whole world felt as if it were holding its breath as Noelle stepped from the helicopter. The air was hot and dry and utterly still. Desert stretched in every direction, endless, undulating sand, occasionally strewn with boulders and rocks. She didn’t think she’d ever been in a more remote place.
Silently she followed Ammar into a low, rambling building of sandstone that blended almost entirely into its desert surroundings.
He stopped in the foyer, turned to her with that blank expression she despised. For a moment, in the helicopter, she’d felt a flicker of sympathy for him, knowing he must hate flying in helicopters since his crash. Sitting there so tautly with his eyes clenched shut, Ammar had looked like a man in the throes of a desperate agony.
And now? He looked as stony and remote as the desert surrounding them, and yet still, irritatingly, she felt that flicker. A yearning compassion she couldn’t keep herself from feeling, even though she desperately didn’t want to.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked and, even though she knew she should resist any solicitude, Noelle nodded.
‘Starving.’
‘If you’d like to refresh yourself, there is a bedroom for you upstairs. And clothes, if you wish.’ He glanced at her creased dress. ‘You cannot wear that for ever.’
‘It depends on how long you intend to keep me here,’ Noelle answered bluntly and his expression tightened, eyes narrowing, lips thinning.
‘We can discuss that at dinner.’
‘Fine.’ Noelle lifted her chin. She was strong enough to accept his hospitality—ha—and still keep swinging. With a jerky nod, she turned on her heel and headed upstairs.
She found a sumptuous bedroom behind the first door she opened, with a wardrobe full of clothes and an en suite bathroom with a sunken marble tub and an array of luxurious toiletries. After the day she’d had, she was ready for a good long soak.
Yet once she’d immersed herself in steaming, fragrant bubbles, Noelle felt her resolve—and her anger—start to slip away. She kept seeing that look of yearning on Ammar’s face when he’d woken up, when she’d caught him off guard. She felt the same yearning in herself, a longing for the way he’d been. The way she’d been, with him, so long ago.
That was not going to happen.
She couldn’t start thinking that way, wanting that way. Not after he’d hurt her, not after he’d revealed what kind of man he was—
Do you really know what kind of man he is?
Refusing to answer that question, or even think it, Noelle dunked her head under the water and started to scrub. Too bad she couldn’t scrub away her thoughts. Or that flicker of yearning that threatened to fan into something far more dangerous.
Ammar paced the dining room just as he’d paced the cabin of the plane. He came to his desert retreat for solitude and safety, a place where the rest of his life never intruded, yet he was finding neither tonight.
Should he let her go? The thought had been flitting around in his mind like an insistent insect since Noelle had suggested the very thing. If he let her go, Ammar knew, she would never come back to him. She would never love him again.
And the same thing might happen if you make her stay.
He closed his eyes. He’d felt hopelessness before, God only knew; he’d felt hopelessness for most of his life. Yet it hurt so much more when you felt hope first.
‘Hello.’
He whirled around to see Noelle standing in the doorway.
‘Come in.’ He cleared his throat, took a step forward. He felt tension twang through his body so he felt like a marionette, all awkward, jerky movements. He no longer knew how to be natural with her, but then had he ever? Being natural, he thought with a sudden bitterness, was not natural to a man like him. Yet there had been moments, miraculous, tender moments, where he’d felt himself lighten with the sheer joy of being in her presence. Smiling, even laughing, at her enthusiasm for life, her silly jokes, her sudden laughter. He missed that. He missed the man he’d felt he could be with her by his side.
She walked into the room and he saw she was wearing a caftan he’d ordered for her, along with all the other clothes. It was a pale spring green shot through with silver threads and, though it was basically a shapeless garment, it still somehow managed to emphasise her slender form, her graceful posture. Her hair was still damp from the shower and twisted up in a careless knot, her face flushed from heat—or anger. At that moment it didn’t matter. All Ammar knew was that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
‘I’m glad—’ he began, wanting somehow to articulate how lovely she looked, but she cut him off, her voice flat.
‘I want my clothes back.’
He’d had his housekeeper take them while she was in the bath. He realised now how that might have made her feel even more vulnerable, and cursed himself for not thinking of that before. ‘They’re being laundered. You can have them back as soon as they’re dry.’ He’d regarded her stark grey dress and black tights with a sorrowful bemusement; the woman he remembered from ten years ago had worn bright clothes, cheerful colours. ‘There is a wide selection of clothes at your disposal, in your room.’ In addition to the caftan, he’d bought sweaters, shirts, jeans, even a few dresses, all in the bright colours he liked—and thought she did.
Noelle shrugged, the thin cotton of the caftan sliding off one shoulder. Ammar’s gaze was drawn instinctively to the movement and he felt his insides tighten with long-suppressed desire. Desire he’d never acted on, yet longed to—had always longed to, even now. Her skin was the colour of almonds, creamy and golden with a slight spattering of freckles. ‘None of them fit,’ she said. ‘They’re two sizes too big.’
‘I thought I remembered your size.’ He saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes, like sunlight on water, that he would have ever known such a thing.
‘I’ve dropped a few sizes.’
‘You’ve lost weight—’
‘I’m thinner,’ she corrected, and he frowned, because Noelle had always been slender. Now that he was looking at her properly, he saw how skinny she looked, the bony angles of her elbows and collarbone jutting out even under the voluminous folds of her clothing.
‘Come eat,’ he said and, with her mouth pressed into a hard line, she followed him to the table laid intimately for two.
This wasn’t, Ammar acknowledged, going to be easy. Yet he didn’t want to let her go. He couldn’t. Hope, he knew, was too heady a possibility. Yet what would it take to unbend her? Make her not just listen, but want to listen?
Grimly, he realised he had no idea.
Noelle stepped further into the room, deep with shadows and flickering with candlelight, suppressing the sudden hot flare of awareness she felt at the sight of Ammar’s admiring glance, quickly veiled. If he hadn’t wanted her when she’d been wearing a silk teddy and stilettos, he could hardly want her now, in this tent-like caftan.
In any case, it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t want. She was only here because she was hungry. And she needed to convince Ammar to return her to Paris.
‘Please sit.’ He pulled out a chair and, deciding there was no point in being ungracious, Noelle accepted and sat down. Ammar laid a napkin in her lap, his fingers barely brushing her thighs, yet even so she felt another flare of desire low in her belly. Never mind what he felt, she still had the same instinctive response to him. Lust and longing. Hopeless. How could she feel it now, after ten years, when he’d brought her here by force?
Resolutely, she pushed such thoughts away. Absolutely no point in dwelling on anything but a determination to get out of here.
‘May I serve you?’ he asked, so scrupulously polite, and it reminded Noelle of when they’d been dating in London. They’d got caught in a downpour and she’d brought him back to her flat in Mayfair, hoping he’d stay the night. She’d had a shower while he waited; she’d been far too shy to ask him to join her.
When she’d emerged, swathed in a dressing gown, her hair still damp, he’d asked, in that same serious, polite way, May I brush your hair? She’d nodded, and he’d so carefully, so gently, brushed her hair with long, sensual strokes. She’d had to keep herself from trembling throughout the whole exquisite ordeal, longing to lean back against him, for him to turn her around and take her in his arms. They’d kissed twice so far, that was all. Sweet, aching kisses that had made her want so much more. And for a moment she thought it would finally happen. Her hair finished, he’d laid the brush aside and his hands had slid slowly, deliberately along her shoulders, down her arms, as if he were learning her body. Noelle had remained completely still, mesmerised by his touch, but she could not keep from gasping aloud when Ammar pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the bared nape of her neck. She’d never experienced anything so romantic, so erotic, and so very sweet. They’d remained there for an endless, aching moment, his head bowed, his lips against her skin, and then he’d let out a shudder and stood up. Before Noelle could even say anything he was, in his solemn, restrained way, bidding her goodnight.
Now she glanced up at him, waiting patiently for her response while she lost herself in all these aching memories. She was tired of them, exhausted by the emotions they made her feel. Regret. Sorrow. Longing.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He ladled couscous and stewed lamb on her plate, and Noelle glanced around the room, spare and spacious, with an understated elegance in its few pieces of mahogany furniture. A pair of French windows were shuttered against the night, and she wondered where they led. She’d opened the shutter on her bedroom window after her shower, but the only thing the moon had illuminated was the endless, undulating desert and a long drop down to the sand.
For a short while she said nothing while she ate hungrily. ‘So,’ she said finally, stabbing another piece of meat with her fork, ‘why won’t you return me to Paris?’
Ammar didn’t answer for a moment. In the candlelight he looked so serious, his eyes dark, his movements controlled and restrained as always. Noelle glanced at the scar snaking down his cheek. Amelie had been right; it did look sexy. He looked sexy, but then he’d always been sexy to her, sexy and gorgeous and infinitely desirable. Even now, when he had lost weight—like she had—and still bore the scars of his accident, she could not deny the pulse of longing she felt for him. Her body remembered how he felt, the solid strength of him, corded muscle and callused skin. Even now, with all that had—and hadn’t—happened between them, her body remembered and wanted more.
‘I would like,’ Ammar said, thankfully breaking into the torment of her thoughts, ‘for you to stay here for a little while.’
Noelle jerked her gaze from its revealingly leisurely perusal of his body back up to his face with its implacable expression. ‘Stay here? For what, a little holiday?’ Her voice was sharp with sarcasm but Ammar simply nodded.
‘Something like that.’
‘Ammar, you abducted me—’
He clenched one hand on the table. ‘So you keep reminding me.’
‘You think I can just forget it? I told you I had nothing to say to you, and I still don’t. I want to go home.’ To her shame, her voice trembled and she felt tears crowd under her lids. She wasn’t even sure why she was near to crying: because she wanted to go home or because a tiny, treacherous part of her wanted to stay? How shaming. How pathetic. She bit her lip and looked away, not wanting him to see how close to tears she was, but she could not keep a shudder from ripping through her.
‘Noelle—’ His voice caught on a note of near-anguish and he reached one hand out to her, as if he would comfort her. How ridiculous was that, to be comforted by her captor? And yet she still longed for him to touch her, could almost imagine the warmth of his hand on her skin. She averted her head and he dropped his hand.
‘Please, Ammar.’
‘I cannot.’
‘You can,’ she insisted, angry now. Anger felt stronger, simpler. ‘You brought me here; you can let me go. You just don’t want to, and I have absolutely no idea why.’ She glared at him, and Ammar gazed steadily back.
‘I brought you here because I want to be with you,’ he said, choosing each word with care.
Noelle blinked. Stared. Her mind seemed to have slowed down, snagged on his meaning. He wanted to be with her? ‘What—’
‘I want us,’ Ammar said, ‘to be husband and wife.’
CHAPTER THREE
AS SOON as he said the words, Ammar felt they were wrong. It was too soon; he shouldn’t have revealed so much. He should have waited until she had relaxed a little, trusted him more. Yet how? How? He didn’t know what to do other than issue orders, bark commands. And demand obedience.
Now her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open and she stared at him in what could only be described as horror.
‘That,’ she finally managed in a choked gasp, ‘is impossible.’
Ammar felt the old instinct kick in. Defend. Deny. Don’t ever admit any weakness. And hadn’t he just done that, telling her he wanted to be married? Husband and wife?
Pathetic, romantic notions she obviously scorned. He sat back in his chair, his body rigid, everything in him fighting the awful sense of exposure he felt. ‘Not,’ he said coldly, ‘impossible.’
‘Impossible for me,’ Noelle retorted. She looked angry now, angrier even than when she’d realised he’d had her kidnapped or told her he wouldn’t take her back to Paris. Her cheeks were flushed and underneath the caftan her breasts rose and fell in ragged breaths. ‘I have absolutely no desire to be married to you again, Ammar. To be husbandand wife.’ He heard the contempt she put into the words and fury fired through him.
‘This isn’t about what you desire.’
She laughed, the sound hard and sharp. ‘Obviously not, since you drugged and dragged me here—for God’s sake!’ She rose, throwing her napkin down on the table. ‘This is the most absurd conversation I’ve ever had. Did you actually think, for a single second, that I would consent to being married to you again when you had to bring me here by force? When you completely and utterly rejected me in the worst way possible just months after we were married? Why on earth would I ever want a repeat of that heartbreak?’ Her eyes flashed and her body trembled. Thunder and lightning. A storm right here, between them.
Ammar stared at her, his body pulsing with an anger he could not suppress even as he bleakly acknowledged she was right. He could not deny a single thing she’d said. ‘We said vows,’ he said tautly.
‘Vows you broke the same day we spoke them! Where was the love in leaving me alone, waiting for you on our wedding night? Or how did cherish come into bringing me to that wretched island of your father’s and leaving me there for two months?’ Her voice broke and he thought she blinked back tears; her eyes were luminous with them. ‘You hurt me, Ammar,’ she whispered. ‘You hurt me terribly.’
Ammar didn’t answer. He couldn’t; he had no words. He never had the right words, yet he hated that he had hurt her. The thought that he’d caused her so much pain—enough that it still made her cry years later—was unbearable; he forced it away, along with all the other thoughts that he couldn’t face. There were, he knew, far too many of them. ‘Then let me make it right,’ he said. The words felt unfamiliar, awkward, and yet he meant them.
‘How?’ She swiped at her eyes, angry again.
‘By giving our marriage a second chance.’
She stared at him, her eyes wide, like a trapped animal’s. Then she looked away. ‘Our marriage,’ she said flatly, ‘never was. Annulled, Ammar. Like it—we—didn’t exist.’
‘We did exist.’ Sometimes he felt as if his time with Noelle, his self with Noelle, was more real than anything before or after. Yet he was not about to admit such a thing to her now.
She shook her head, her anger replaced by a weary bewilderment. ‘Why do you even want such a thing? You didn’t want to be married to me before. Why now?’
‘I always,’ Ammar said, ‘wanted to be married to you.’
Her mouth dropped open and she looked as if she wanted to argue. Again. He looked away, fought the rush of painful fury he felt at revealing such weakness.
‘I cannot believe that,’ Noelle said flatly. ‘I won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because—’ She pressed a trembling fist to her mouth, her eyes still so heartbreakingly wide. ‘Because it doesn’t make sense.’
He knew it didn’t. He felt the weight of all the things he hadn’t told her, things he was afraid to tell her because he knew she would look at him differently. She would hate him, perhaps far more than she thought she did now.
‘None of this makes any sense,’ she whispered.
Ammar stared down at the table, took a deep breath. ‘You loved me once.’
Silence. He looked up and saw her staring at him with such confused sorrow that it made everything inside him burn and writhe. Why had he said such a thing?
‘Yes, I did,’ she finally said. ‘Once. But you destroyed that, Ammar, when you rejected me without any explanation. You refused to come to me on our wedding night—or any night after. Do you remember?’
He clenched his jaw so hard his whole head hurt. ‘I remember.’
‘You ignored me day after day, left me to rot on that wretched island without so much as a word of explanation. And then,’ she finished, her voice breaking, ‘when I came to you and tried to seduce my own husband, you sent me away in no uncertain terms!’
Every word she spoke was true, and yet still they made him furious. He rose from the table, laying his palms flat on its surface as he faced her and her accusing glare. ‘Clearly there is no point in continuing this conversation. You may return to your room and we will talk again tomorrow.’
She let out a harsh sound, something caught between a sob and another sharp laugh. ‘What is this, Ammar, The Arabian Nights? Am I to be fetched day after day into your presence until I finally break down and agree to your ridiculous demands?’
His head throbbed and he forced himself to speak calmly. ‘If I remember correctly, Scheherazade gained her own happiness at the end of that tale.’
‘And was threatened with death every day!’
‘I am not threatening you,’ Ammar said, suddenly unbearably weary. He did not want to fight her. He had not wanted this bitter acrimony at all, and yet he recognised it was at least in part his own damnable doing. ‘You are safe here with me, I promise you. But you are too tired and it is too late for you to go anywhere tonight. Rest. Sleep. We will talk tomorrow.’
‘And then you’ll let me go?’
He stared at her, saw the hungry longing in her eyes, and felt a deep sorrow sweep through him. Once she’d looked at him like that, with such desire and even love that it had both humbled and amazed him. And he’d driven her away from him on purpose. At the time it had felt like his only recourse; perhaps it was once again. Perhaps he sought the impossible. To change. To be loved once more, and truly. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said again, and to his shame his voice choked a little. He turned away from her and after a long tense moment he heard the gentle patter of her feet, and then the creak and click of the door opening and shutting.
He was alone.
Noelle slept terribly. Anger kept her awake at first, pacing the confines of her elegant bedroom. Ammar’s house was deathly still, the only sound the whisper of wind on sand outside. She felt as if she’d landed on the moon.
And surely the evening’s events belonged on a different planet—she still could not credit that Ammar wanted to restore their marriage. I want us to be husband and wife.
Why did that single statement send an icy thrill of terror and even excitement through her? Or was it simply shock? They’d never been husband and wife, not truly.
Even now Noelle remembered the ache of confusion and misery she’d felt, waiting for Ammar to come to her on their wedding night. They’d married at her family’s chateau and planned to spend their wedding night in a private wing all to themselves. She’d gone to the bedroom, changed into a lacy and virginal peignoir she’d bought at a very exclusive boutique in Paris and, trembling with anticipation, had waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Once the doorknob had turned and Noelle had jolted upright from where she’d lain on the bed, desperate for him to come to her, only to hear someone’s—surely Ammar’s— quiet footsteps pad back down the hall. The rest of the night had been spent in a lonely misery of confusion.
The next day they’d travelled to his father’s home and base, Alhaja Island. Ammar had been horribly remote, barely speaking to her. Hesitantly, Noelle had asked him what had happened and he had said something about a business call, which had made her feel small and unimportant. A business call was more important than his own wedding night?
There had been no time for a proper conversation, and she’d been too young, too inexperienced and confused for a confrontation. She’d kept waiting for Ammar to change back into the man she knew and loved, but he never did.
That evening he’d flown to Lisbon for yet another business engagement. She’d remained on Alhaja, waiting for his return. Before their marriage they’d talked about setting up a house outside Paris, near enough the city for work but a good place for children, for family. She’d had it all planned out, the bookshop she would open in the Latin Quarter, the house they would buy, a cottage really, with wrought iron rails and a blue-painted door. She’d pictured it all, her work, her home, her life, all with Ammar. Dreams, she thought now, the old bitterness corroding her soul. Stupid, foolish dreams. She’d waited for two long, lonely months on Alhaja before she realised Ammar had no plans to return. And in a desperate last-ditch attempt to win her husband back, she’d flown to Rome to meet him.
It hadn’t been easy; she’d had to call her father, coax him into letting her use his private jet. Balkri Tannous did not keep any means of transport on Alhaja, and so she’d been a virtual prisoner with the household staff, a silent, sullen crew. Her father had agreed, surprised yet able to deny her nothing—which Noelle had known—and through several begging phone calls to Ammar’s staff, as well as a helpless-female act with the concierge, she’d contrived to find the name of his hotel and wait in his room dressed only in a silk teddy and stiletto heels.
Êîíåö îçíàêîìèòåëüíîãî ôðàãìåíòà.
Òåêñò ïðåäîñòàâëåí ÎÎÎ «ËèòÐåñ».
Ïðî÷èòàéòå ýòó êíèãó öåëèêîì, êóïèâ ïîëíóþ ëåãàëüíóþ âåðñèþ (https://www.litres.ru/kate-hewitt/the-husband-she-never-knew/) íà ËèòÐåñ.
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