Dreaming Of... France. Кейт Хьюит
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some kind of future with Ammar, even as her mind insisted she would be leaving in two days? Her heart was ever deceitful and she knew, with a sudden stark clarity, that this was why she had been so emotionally volatile since she’d first laid eyes on him.
She was afraid she still loved him, or at least could love him, if she let herself.
Yet how could you love someone you’d never really known?
She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had no answer to that one.
Ammar rose from the table as soon as Noelle entered the room. She looked pale but composed, the blue sheath dress emphasising the slenderness of her body, the sharp angle of her collarbone, and making her seem fragile. He felt a powerful surge of protectiveness, even as he acknowledged how useless it was. Noelle didn’t need his protection now. She didn’t want it.
All afternoon her scathing indictment of his actions had reverberated through him, a remorseless echo he could neither ignore nor deny.
It took me years to get over our marriage, Ammar, to get over you, and all because you couldn’t bother to tell me what was really going on. You still can’t.
No, he couldn’t. He didn’t yet possess the courage or strength to tell her the whole truth. He didn’t know if he ever would, even as he bleakly acknowledged that Noelle would keep demanding answers. Wanting to know all his secrets—secrets that could only hurt them both.
And he’d hurt her too much already. He had never, he realised, considered that he’d acted selfishly by walking away from Noelle. If he were honest with himself, which he had been, painfully, that afternoon, he’d attributed a kind of self-sacrificing nobility to his actions, considered it one of the better things he had done in his sorry life.
What a joke. What a tragedy.
‘Ammar?’
He focused on her now, saw how she placed her hand on her throat, her pulse fluttering underneath her fingertips. She was nervous. Was she afraid? The thought that she might actually be frightened of him was unbearable.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, starting forward. ‘I was lost in thought. Come, sit down.’ He reached for her hand, surprised and gratified when she took it. Just the feel of her slender fingers in his caused a shaft of longing to pierce him with its impossible sweetness. He wanted her so much. He’d always wanted her, longed for her with a desperation that had scared him, and yet he’d let her believe he didn’t desire her at all, never truly considering the pain it would cause her. Never wanting to. That was how he’d survived working for his father for so long. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Don’t think about the pain you cause. Don’t think at all.
She sat down, slipping her hand from his and reaching for her napkin. After a second’s silence she looked up at him, her eyes so wide and dark. ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’
‘That makes two of us.’ He served her some kousksi bil djaj, a Tunisian speciality with chicken and couscous.
While they were eating, he searched for an innocuous topic of conversation. ‘Tell me about Arche.’
‘Arche?’
‘That was the name of the shop you work for? What do you do exactly?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ She looked a little startled that he would remember, that he would ask. ‘I buy accessories and footwear for the women’s department.’
‘And what does that entail?’ He wasn’t all that interested in women’s shoes, but he liked to listen to Noelle. He enjoyed the way her cheeks flushed petal-pink and her eyes lit from within, turning them almost golden. And they both needed a relief from the intensity of their earlier conversation. God knew he did.
‘I go to all the fashion shows, decide what’s going to be popular each season. Keep an eye on what people are wearing. A lot of it is about predicting trends.’
‘That can be a bit of a gamble.’
‘Yes …’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I predicted that fauxfur ankle boots were going to be big one winter and they were a complete flop. To be honest, I didn’t even like them. They made you look like you had hairy feet.’
She made a face and he smiled, felt himself lighten, just a little bit, inside. ‘Not exactly the look one attempts, I imagine.’
‘No, indeed. I bought a pair and wore them for a season, though.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘All part of the job.’
‘I think you could probably pull them off,’ he said, and saw her flush deepen. He felt a fierce dart of possessive satisfaction that she still reacted to him, still maybe, miraculously wanted him. ‘You’d look good in just about anything.’
She froze and something flashed in her eyes. ‘Not, it seems,’ she said, her voice tight, ‘a silk teddy and stilettos.’
Shock iced through him. She was, of course, talking about that night in the hotel. That wretched, wretched night when she’d thrown herself at him and he’d pushed her away, both for her own protection and his. He took a steadying sip of wine. ‘So what was one of your accurate predictions?’
Her mouth tightened and she looked away. ‘Grey being the new black, I suppose,’ she finally said, and he felt a rush of relief. She wasn’t going to press.
‘You seem to favour dark colours now.’ She’d worn black when he’d seen her at the charity ball, and grey the day after.
‘Dark colours are trendy at the moment,’ she said flatly. ‘And I need to stay with the trends.’
‘I liked seeing you in bright colours.’
She gave him a sharp look. ‘I’m different now, Ammar. I know you think we can somehow pick up where we left off—not that I’d even want to, but in any case we can’t. I’m a completely different person.’
And she was intent on reminding him at every opportunity. Funny, how he was the one trying to make small talk now. It had always been Noelle before, drawing him out with her jokes and laughter, her innocent chatter. He’d loved it, even if he hadn’t always known how to respond. ‘How?’ he asked as mildly as he could. Deliberately he arched an eyebrow, managed something he hoped was close to a smile.
She stared at him. ‘How?’
‘Yes, how. How are you so different?’ He genuinely wanted to know. ‘How have you changed?’
She narrowed her gaze. ‘I’m not as naïve as I once was. Or as innocent. And I don’t believe in fairy tale happy endings, either.’ Every statement sounded like an accusation, a judgement. Ammar glanced away.
‘I see,’ he said quietly.
‘And how have you changed?’ she asked, a strident note of challenge in her voice. Ammar felt that familiar flare of anger. She sounded mocking, like she didn’t believe he had changed. That he could.
‘Well, there’s this.’ He gestured to the scar on his face. ‘And I’m thinking about keeping my hair short. They cut it all off when I was feverish—I suppose it was filthy. But I’m finding it very easy to manage.’
She stared at him and he knew she was torn between a sudden, surprised amusement and a deeper frustration. ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’
‘Somehow,’ he said, his voice now carrying an edge even he heard, ‘I don’t feel like baring my soul to you when you look like you want to bite my head off.’
‘You’ve never bared your soul to me. You’ve never shared anything with me.’
He felt his fingers clench into an involuntary fist. ‘It didn’t feel that way this afternoon.’
Noelle gave a snort of disbelief. His fist tightened, his fingers aching. ‘You call that baring your soul? Ammar, you were speaking in riddles, telling me you realised