Dreaming Of... France: The Husband She Never Knew / The Parisian Playboy / Reunited...in Paris!. Кейт Хьюит
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if she’d turned a spotlight on his soul. ‘And now?’ she finally whispered.
His throat ached, the words drawn from him so reluctantly, yet he knew he had to say them. She needed to hear them. ‘I want to be that man again.’
She said nothing, but Ammar saw the sorrow in her eyes, turning them dark, and she gave a little shake of her head. He rose from the table. He’d had enough. Enough of this awful intimacy, of feeling so exposed. Enough of her accusations and judgement. ‘Enough,’ he said out loud, his voice hard and flat. ‘We have discussed this enough.’
‘We haven’t even begun—’
‘I am finished.’ He threw his napkin on the table as he turned away from her. ‘I will arrange for my helicopter to transport you to Marrakech. You can leave tonight.’
Noelle watched Ammar walk from the room with long, angry strides with a sense of incredulity. Leave tonight? He was letting her go, then. He’d given up. She was free.
So why, sitting there alone, did she not feel jubilant? Or at least relieved? Amazingly, aggravatingly, she felt worse than ever. Carefully Noelle folded her napkin and laid it on the table. The house was as still and silent as always; did Ammar ever make any noise? Where had he gone?
He’d been furious, she knew that. She’d made him angry, and she saw now she’d done it on purpose because she was afraid. Afraid of giving in and letting herself feel anything for him again. So she’d pushed and pushed, asking for answers but really driving him away. And yet, now that she had, she wished she hadn’t. She wished … what?
She was afraid to acknowledge what she wished for. So afraid. She shouldn’t even be asking herself these kinds of questions. What she should do, Noelle knew, was walk right out of here. She’d get on the helicopter to Marrakech, a plane to Paris. She’d never see Ammar again.
The thought gave her a piercing pain, a direct stab to the heart. She didn’t want that. She closed her eyes, pressed the heels of her hands hard against her sockets. Why couldn’t she want that? Why couldn’t she be strong enough to walk away?
What about being strong enough to stay?
That thought felt like a thunderbolt from the sky, striking her heart, splintering her convictions. What was she thinking? Wanting?
I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t know what that means, what hope there is for us, but I don’t want to leave.
But what would happen if she stayed?
She felt her stomach hollow out and adrenalin course through her veins. Her heart began to thud with both anticipation and fear. Terror, really, because to contemplate such a thing would be to open herself up to the kind of devastating pain and heartache she had felt once before, and had since arranged her whole life to never feel again.
How could she even think of it?
How could she not?
Slowly Noelle rose from the table. Her heart was beating so hard and fast now it felt like a drumming through her body, an ocean roaring in her ears. Her legs were weak and wobbly as she walked from the room. She was going to find Ammar.
And then?
Slowly she walked through each empty room. She even found the disguised door and peeked in the study, surprisingly unlocked, but he was not there. She saw papers scattered on his desk, an open laptop, and turned away. In the music room she saw the French windows were ajar and she knew he must be outside, in the garden. With her fingertips she pushed the door open wider and stepped out into the night.
It was completely dark except for a swathe of light given by a sliver of moon, and it took her several moments to see enough to put one foot in front of the other. The little seating area where they’d spoken earlier was empty, but she saw a narrow stone path winding its way between the flowers and shrubs and she took it. She felt as if her heart, with its relentless pounding, was leading her onwards. Her heart, trembling thing that it was, would guide both her steps and words.
The path led to a private courtyard, with one wrought iron little bench. It was a pretty little space, or Noelle imagined it would be in daylight. Her breath caught in her chest and her heart beat harder as she saw Ammar sitting on the bench, his shoulders bowed, his head in his hands.
In the distance she heard the sound of an engine coughing to life, the whirr of propellers. So he really did expect her to leave. And she should leave, if she wanted to stay safe. Strong. It was so obvious, and yet …
She took a step towards him. He looked up and in the darkness she could not make out his expression at all, yet she felt his desperation and hunger like a palpable thing; it was the same thing she was feeling.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she said, her voice little more than a croak. She cleared her throat, forced herself to sound stronger. To feel it. ‘I want to stay.’
AMMAR didn’t answer. For one endless charged moment the silence strained between them and Noelle braced herself for yet another awful rejection. What had she been thinking, risking herself again? Opening herself up to all sorts of pain?
Then in one fluid movement he rose from the bench and crossed to her. Noelle didn’t have time to respond or even think as he took her in his arms and kissed her with a passionate force that thrilled her to her core.
His lips captured hers, hungry, demanding, relentless. Her mouth parted and her hands clutched his shoulders, drawing him closer. She’d needed this. Craved it, for it was only with Ammar that she felt her body and heart open up, everything in her reaching for him, pleading …
And then he pulled away, just a little, yet still leaving her bereft. He rested his forehead against hers, just as he had the first time he’d kissed her, his breath coming out in a shudder. Noelle tensed; it felt like an apology, a rejection. Trying not to tremble, she stepped away from him.
‘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