Dreaming Of... France: The Husband She Never Knew / The Parisian Playboy / Reunited...in Paris!
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 Rhône 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 là?’ 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