Dreaming Of... France: The Husband She Never Knew / The Parisian Playboy / Reunited...in Paris!. Кейт Хьюит
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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.
Ammar led her out of the house to the soft-topped Jeep he’d driven round to the front of the property. Noelle slowed, gazing around at the sweep of desert, endless in every direction.
‘So who sold you this piece of real estate?’ she asked, and Ammar let out a rather rusty laugh.
‘He told me there were ocean views from the top floor.’
Now she laughed, just a little bubble of sound that still made Ammar’s heart sing. And reminded him that he still had a heart. ‘I guess you were disappointed.’
‘There is a small oasis about forty kilometres from here,’ he told her as he started up the Jeep and headed away from the villa. There were no real roads, just old Bedouin tracks in the sand. It would be a bumpy ride.
‘Seriously, though,’ Noelle said. ‘Why the desert? Why not a private island in the Med like your father?’
Ammar felt his hands tense around the steering wheel. ‘I’ve been like my father in too many ways,’ he said after a moment, his tone, he knew, cold and steely. He felt Noelle stiffen. She didn’t want to hear about that. God knew, he didn’t want to talk about it. Yet it remained between them, a heavy, palpable thing. At some point words would have to be said. Secrets confessed, shame admitted. ‘In any case,’ he added lightly, ‘I’ve never liked Alhaja Island. I chose to live in the desert because it’s the exact opposite. Space, freedom.’
‘A sea of sand,’ Noelle observed. ‘You can still feel trapped.’
He glanced across at her and saw she was looking out at the sand, endless undulating