Dreaming Of... France. Кейт Хьюит
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how he’d talked to her, clumsily, honestly, baring his heart in a way he hadn’t since … even if he’d wanted to. Even if Noelle had made him want to. ‘I suppose,’ he said, his voice so low he wasn’t even sure if Noelle could hear him, ‘I began to think I loved her.’
Noelle said nothing. She looked pale, her eyes wide, her lips pressed together. ‘What happened?’ she finally asked, and Ammar realised he had stopped speaking.
‘She seduced me. I was fourteen years old; I’d never even touched a woman that way. And my father … my father had paid her to do it all—the kindness, the smiles and, of course, the seduction. And then—’ He stopped, hating that he had to tell this part of the sordid tale. ‘When we … when we were going to … she rejected me. Told me she was only pretending to be interested in me because my father had paid her to teach me a lesson.’
Noelle drew back. ‘A lesson?’
‘Everything was a lesson with him,’ Ammar said flatly. ‘A means to an end, a way to mould me into the shape he deemed fit.’
‘And what lesson,’ she asked after a moment, her voice shaking, ‘was that maid?’
‘Never trust a woman, or become close to her. Never show weakness.’ He recited the mantras in a monotone; he could almost hear his father’s harsh voice repeating the words.
‘That’s terrible,’ Noelle said quietly. Ammar said nothing. He agreed with her, but what difference did it make? What difference did telling her make, if he couldn’t change after all? ‘And so,’ she continued slowly, ‘that’s what this is about? You don’t trust me?’
‘I haven’t trusted anyone,’ Ammar said. ‘I haven’t let anyone close, except for you.’ And every time he tried to be close with her, as physically close as he so desperately wanted to be, his mind froze and the memories took over. So he went blank, just as he’d done as a boy, a child, because that was what he did. That was how he survived. It was simple, really. Basic psychology. Yet understanding what he did—and why—didn’t make it any easier to stop. No matter how much he wanted to.
Noelle was silent for a long moment, her head bowed, her hair covering her face. He wished he could see her expression, her eyes. ‘Do I remind you of that maid?’ she asked finally, and he heard the hurt in her voice. ‘Do I look like her or something?’
Ammar sighed, the sound one of both resignation and impatience. ‘Not at all. I’ve never …’ He hesitated, his hands instinctively curling into fists. Noelle looked up, waiting. ‘I’ve never felt about anyone what I feel for you.’
‘Even that maid?’
‘Even her.’
She was silent for a long moment. ‘And on our wedding night?’ she finally asked. ‘And in the hotel two months later? Were you … did you feel this way then?’
Ammar let out a shuddering breath. ‘Yes—’
‘So you didn’t just mean to let me go?’ She sounded sad, but he heard the accusation.
‘It was complicated,’ he said tightly.
‘Oh, Ammar—’
‘No more questions,’ he snapped, and she blinked, looked down. Damn. He wasn’t handling this right but, God help him, how was he supposed to handle it? He felt as if he had just shed every defence, every protection, and it was horrible, all the old scabbed wounds were being ripped open, raw and bleeding. He had to fight the urge to either attack or retreat, not just stand here and take it. Listen to her questions and even answer them. ‘We’ve talked about this enough.’
‘Have we?’
Impatience bit at him. ‘Noelle, I’ve told you more about my past, about myself, than I have to another living soul. And every word is like a drop of blood.’ He forced himself to speak calmly. ‘Could we just take a break from this conversation? For a little while?’ She said nothing and he let out a long, slow breath. ‘Please.’
She gazed at him, her eyes dark and wide. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘Of course we can.’ And relief so deep poured through him that he felt as if his body shook from it. He drew a shuddering breath, managed a smile. ‘We should head back home. I’d rather drive in the daylight.’
‘OK.’ She slid off the rock and, to Ammar’s shock, she reached for his hand. His fingers curled around hers as a matter of both instinct and need. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, and she led the way back to the Jeep.
Noelle walked hand in hand with Ammar, her mind spinning with what he’d just told her. It must have cost him to confess such secrets to her. It must have cost him so much.
They walked silently through the long grass and in her mind’s eye she saw Ammar as she remembered him from her own childhood, a sullen, lanky boy with liquid eyes and a reluctant, beautiful smile. What kind of childhood had he had with a father like that? What kind of life had he had?
The thought of her own father teaching her such a cruel and malicious lesson was unthinkable. Yet Ammar had learned such lessons, it would seem, over and over again. No wonder honest, loving intimacy of any kind was so difficult for him.
She thought of the door knob turning on her wedding night. Ammar flinging her away from him when she’d reached for him that awful evening in the hotel. Kissing her the other night, rolling away from her today. He desired her; she’d felt it, known it. And now she believed it, understood he’d never really been rejecting her. He’d just been fighting his own demons. His memories. And now he’d finally shared them with her, shared the most intimate and revealing thing about himself. For a man intent on being invulnerable it was a pretty amazing thing to do. It was a miracle.
Ammar opened the passenger door of the Jeep and helped her inside. She could feel the tension in his body, saw a muscle flickering in his jaw. She knew he hated her knowing his secrets, hated feeling so exposed.
She laid a hand on his arm, felt the muscles jerk under her touch and then he stilled, his face half-averted.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, ‘for telling me.’
He didn’t speak, just nodded, his face still turned from hers. It would have to be enough.
They didn’t speak on the way home and when they got back to the house Ammar excused himself with work. Noelle wandered up to her bedroom, restless, her mind still spinning.
She spent the afternoon lying on her bed, watching the shadows lengthen on the floor, her mind in a daze as memories paraded through her consciousness, a montage of remembrances that were made even more poignant and bittersweet by this new knowledge.
She saw it all differently now, from Ammar’s perspective. She saw a man who longed for love, yet whose life had forced him to spurn it on every level: physical, emotional, spiritual. And yet still he’d wanted and, more than that, he’d tried. It made her, she realised, love him more.
And she revelled in the freedom of knowing, all those years ago, and even last night, that it hadn’t been her. He hadn’t been rejecting her, not the way she’d always feared. She believed him completely now, knew he did find her desirable. And that knowledge was both thrilling and wonderful.
She felt as if the fear that had dogged and haunted her for so many years had finally fallen away. She was free—free to love Ammar as she knew now she wanted to, love him fully and deeply and completely.
And she wanted to tell him so.
She watched the room darken and twilight settle on the rolling desert hills, casting long violet shadows on the sand. She felt a new sense of both peace and purpose, and with a smile she swung her legs off the bed and went in search of Ammar.
He wasn’t anywhere in the house and so she went out into the garden, now cloaked in darkness. She heard the sound of water slapping the sides of the pool and stopped a little distance away, watched as Ammar cut smoothly and assuredly through the water. He was