Dreaming Of... France. Кейт Хьюит

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СКАЧАТЬ said, suddenly unbearably weary. He did not want to fight her. He had not wanted this bitter acrimony at all, and yet he recognised it was at least in part his own damnable doing. ‘You are safe here with me, I promise you. But you are too tired and it is too late for you to go anywhere tonight. Rest. Sleep. We will talk tomorrow.’

      ‘And then you’ll let me go?’

      He stared at her, saw the hungry longing in her eyes, and felt a deep sorrow sweep through him. Once she’d looked at him like that, with such desire and even love that it had both humbled and amazed him. And he’d driven her away from him on purpose. At the time it had felt like his only recourse; perhaps it was once again. Perhaps he sought the impossible. To change. To be loved once more, and truly. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said again, and to his shame his voice choked a little. He turned away from her and after a long tense moment he heard the gentle patter of her feet, and then the creak and click of the door opening and shutting.

      He was alone.

      Noelle slept terribly. Anger kept her awake at first, pacing the confines of her elegant bedroom. Ammar’s house was deathly still, the only sound the whisper of wind on sand outside. She felt as if she’d landed on the moon.

      And surely the evening’s events belonged on a different planet—she still could not credit that Ammar wanted to restore their marriage. I want us to be husband and wife.

      Why did that single statement send an icy thrill of terror and even excitement through her? Or was it simply shock? They’d never been husband and wife, not truly.

      Even now Noelle remembered the ache of confusion and misery she’d felt, waiting for Ammar to come to her on their wedding night. They’d married at her family’s chateau and planned to spend their wedding night in a private wing all to themselves. She’d gone to the bedroom, changed into a lacy and virginal peignoir she’d bought at a very exclusive boutique in Paris and, trembling with anticipation, had waited. And waited. And waited some more.

      Once the doorknob had turned and Noelle had jolted upright from where she’d lain on the bed, desperate for him to come to her, only to hear someone’s—surely Ammar’s— quiet footsteps pad back down the hall. The rest of the night had been spent in a lonely misery of confusion.

      The next day they’d travelled to his father’s home and base, Alhaja Island. Ammar had been horribly remote, barely speaking to her. Hesitantly, Noelle had asked him what had happened and he had said something about a business call, which had made her feel small and unimportant. A business call was more important than his own wedding night?

      There had been no time for a proper conversation, and she’d been too young, too inexperienced and confused for a confrontation. She’d kept waiting for Ammar to change back into the man she knew and loved, but he never did.

      That evening he’d flown to Lisbon for yet another business engagement. She’d remained on Alhaja, waiting for his return. Before their marriage they’d talked about setting up a house outside Paris, near enough the city for work but a good place for children, for family. She’d had it all planned out, the bookshop she would open in the Latin Quarter, the house they would buy, a cottage really, with wrought iron rails and a blue-painted door. She’d pictured it all, her work, her home, her life, all with Ammar. Dreams, she thought now, the old bitterness corroding her soul. Stupid, foolish dreams. She’d waited for two long, lonely months on Alhaja before she realised Ammar had no plans to return. And in a desperate last-ditch attempt to win her husband back, she’d flown to Rome to meet him.

      It hadn’t been easy; she’d had to call her father, coax him into letting her use his private jet. Balkri Tannous did not keep any means of transport on Alhaja, and so she’d been a virtual prisoner with the household staff, a silent, sullen crew. Her father had agreed, surprised yet able to deny her nothing—which Noelle had known—and through several begging phone calls to Ammar’s staff, as well as a helpless-female act with the concierge, she’d contrived to find the name of his hotel and wait in his room dressed only in a silk teddy and stiletto heels.

      What had happened afterwards Noelle could not even bear to think about.

      Yet now, as she paced her bedroom, she felt her anger desert her and leave a welter of confused regrets in its wake. Why did Ammar want to resurrect their marriage? She had assumed all these years he’d completely forgotten about her but, no matter what either of them felt now, she could not pretend that was true. He hadn’t forgotten. And neither had she.

      Noelle sank onto her bed, exhausted by her own emotional wrangling. Anger was so much easier to deal with than doubt, yet she could not even cling to it.

      You loved me once.

      She had. At least, she thought she had, but had she really even known him? How could the tender, gentle man she’d loved have turned into a cold, unfeeling brute as soon as their vows were said? And what of the man he was now, and surely always had been?

      I’ve done too many things already I could be arrested for. One more won’t matter.

      Noelle didn’t want to think what he had meant by that. She’d learned, since the annulment, that Tannous Enterprises was said to be corrupt. She had harboured vague ideas of white-collar crime, had wondered if Ammar had been involved. She’d assumed, in an effort to gain some much-needed distance, that it was just more proof she’d never really known him. More evidence that any consideration or tenderness he’d shown her in those first few weeks had been nothing but a charade.

      Now she wondered. Today she’d seen in Ammar a glimmer of the man she’d once loved, and it terrified her. What if that man—the tender man she’d once loved—was the real Ammar?

      It would be so much simpler if she hated him. If he made her hate him. And surely she had enough reason to … and yet. And yet.

      She didn’t.

      Eventually she fell into bed and a restless, troubled sleep. When dawn broke she felt no more refreshed, and had no more answers.

      She showered and dressed, this time in a pair of jeans and a pale pink sweater she’d found in the wardrobe. They were too big, but not so much that she couldn’t wear them. She cinched the jeans with a wide leather belt and rolled the sleeves up on the sweater. Had Ammar himself bought the clothes for her? It felt strangely intimate to imagine him picking things out for her, knowing her size. Her old size, at least, before she’d surrendered to Arche’s ideal of feminine beauty, which was stick-thin and relentlessly plucked and manicured.

      She opened the shutters on her bedroom window and blinked in the glare of the morning sun. The sky was a hard, bright blue, the desert a stark and endless stretch of sand. She could see nothing but sand and rock and sky. She swallowed hard and closed the shutters again.

      I want us to be husband and wife.

      His voice had invaded her dreams, and all night as she’d tossed and turned she’d endured a procession of memories she’d been trying to banish for years. Those poignant, tender days in London, when Ammar had seemed like a different man. The man she’d fallen in love with.

      Well, he wasn’t that man now. And, more importantly, she wasn’t that woman, that naive girl who believed in love and wanted marriage and babies and a house in the country. She was a different person, stronger, harder and definitely more independent. She’d spent the last ten years building her career and making sure she needed no one. She sure as hell didn’t need Ammar, and some time towards dawn she’d realised the best way to convince him to let her go was to show him just how different СКАЧАТЬ