Читать книгу Dreaming Of... France - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 9

AMMAR TANNOUS scanned the crowded ballroom of the Parisian hotel with a coldly dispassionate air, his mouth a compressed line. Somewhere amidst this glittering throng his wife waited. Although waited, he acknowledged, was the wrong word; Noelle had no idea he was here. She might not even know he was alive.

He narrowed his eyes as he shouldered his way through the crowd, noting the way conversations sputtered into silence, followed by the hiss of surprised speculation. The newspapers, he knew, had carried the story of his miraculous escape from a helicopter crash two months ago, although he hadn’t been front page news. He never was. Ammar always kept a low profile; working for Tannous Enterprises required he maintain an intense privacy. Still, some here recognised him.

‘Mr Tannous …’ A thin, nervous man approached him, looking, Ammar saw, not just nervous but scared out of his wits. Ammar tried to place the face, but he had done business with too many people to recall every frightened underling who had experienced the punishing power of Tannous Enterprises’s fist. ‘I was going to make an appointment …’ the man stammered, fluttering his hands in apology. ‘Once I heard the news …’

The news that he was alive. Not very good news for most people, Ammar knew. Now he remembered the man, if not his name. He had a small clothing factory outside Paris and Ammar’s father had become lien-holder. He’d called in the loan just before his death in an attempt to bankrupt the man and cease his paltry competition with Tannous’s own interests.

‘I’m not here about that,’ Ammar said tersely. ‘If you wish to make an appointment, call my office.’

‘Yes … of course …’

Without another word Ammar moved past him. He could have assured the man he wasn’t going to enforce his father’s claim, but the words stuck in his throat. In any case, he didn’t want rumours to start flying, or his business associates and allies to wonder or worry.

All he wanted was Noelle.

It had been her face, the memory of her smile that had driven his survival. When he’d been starving and dying of thirst, wounded and feverish, he’d longed for her. He might not have seen her in a decade, he might have sent her away only months after they’d married, but he intended to find her now … and finally claim her as his wife.

His expression grimmer than ever before, Ammar moved forward through the crowd.

‘Someone is looking for you, and he seems rather ferocious.’

Noelle Ducasse turned at the sound of her friend Amelie’s voice, a smile firmly curving her lips, her flute of champagne held aloft. ‘Oh, really? Should I start quivering?’

‘Perhaps.’ Amelie took a sip of her own drink as she surveyed the crowd. ‘He’s about six foot four with a near-shaven head and a horrible scar on his face. The whole look is rather sexy, mind you, but also a bit fearsome.’ Amelie raised her elegantly plucked eyebrows, clearly curious. ‘Does that description ring a bell?’

‘Not really.’ Noelle gave her friend, always prone to exaggeration, a bemused look. ‘He sounds like an ex-convict.’

‘Maybe. Although his tuxedo is top of the line.’

‘Intriguing.’ Although she wasn’t particularly intrigued. Paris’s social scene was always buzzing. ‘My feet are killing me,’ she said as she deposited her half-empty glass of champagne on a tray held by one of the many circulating waiters. ‘I might call it a night.’

‘I knew those heels would murder you.’ Amelie spoke with gleeful satisfaction; she’d wanted to wear the five-inch silver stilettos that had been seen on the catwalk at Paris’s Autumn/Winter Fashion Week last March. Arche, the high-end department store they both worked for as assistant buyers, would sell them exclusively this autumn.

Noelle shrugged philosophically. ‘All part of the job.’ Arche liked to have its junior buyers out and about in Paris’s social scene, modelling Arche fashions and looking glamorous. After five years, Noelle was tired of playing at being a pretty young thing, but she knew it was all about paying her dues. In another few months she’d be up for a promotion to senior buyer of women’s wear, instead of focusing just on shoes and accessories.

‘You can’t leave yet,’ Amelie protested with a pout, ‘it’s only eleven.’

‘And I have work tomorrow. As do you, I might add.’

‘What about your ferocious admirer?’

‘He’ll just have to admire from afar.’ A flicker of curiosity rippled through her—a shaven head and a scar? Really? In this crowd of preening socialites it seemed unlikely. Still, all she wanted now was her bed and a hot drink. And a good book. Her scary suitor would have to live with disappointment.

She waved her farewell to Amelie, who had already moved on to the next crowd of social-climbers. Standing alone amidst the circulating crowd, Noelle suddenly experienced a sharp pang of loneliness, the kind she’d tried not to let herself feel in the ten years since she’d walked out on her marriage and rebuilt her life—a life she’d chosen, even if it bore no resemblance to the kind of life she’d expected to have. She liked Amelie and all of her other friends, but they weren’t kindred spirits. Soulmates. But then she’d given up on that idea long ago.

Sighing, she pushed any recriminations, as well as that irritating pang of loneliness, to the back of her mind. She just wanted to go home. In bed with a book and a hot drink she’d feel better. And at least she’d be able to shed these ridiculous shoes.

It took her a quarter of an hour to work her way through the crowd, knowing she needed to stop to smile or chat with various guests. She’d just reached the deserted foyer of the hotel when she heard a voice behind her.

‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’

Noelle froze. She didn’t have to turn around to know who was speaking to her. She hadn’t heard that low, rumbling growl of a voice in ten years. He still, she acknowledged distantly, spoke with the cautious reserve of a man who chose his words with care and didn’t say many of them.

Slowly she turned around and faced her former husband. The first sight of him in the shadowy foyer jolted her to the core. His hair was cut close, almost a buzz-cut. A long, livid scar of puckered reddened flesh bisected his right cheek, starting in his hairline and snaking all the way down to his jaw. He was, she knew then, the ferocious admirer Amelie had told her about. Ammar. She should have considered such a thing, she supposed, although in truth she’d never have expected Ammar to be looking for her. He’d never looked for her before.

‘And I almost didn’t recognise you,’ she said, keeping her voice crisp even though her knees were near to buckling just at the sight of him. He seemed taller and darker and bigger than before, although that was surely an illusion. She’d just forgotten the effect his presence had on her, the way he held himself so still and yet with such authority. The way his mouth thinned and his eyes narrowed—so different from the man she’d thought she knew. The man she’d fallen in love with. She gave him as level a look as she could. ‘What do you want, Ammar?’

‘You.’

Her heart thudded hard in reaction to that simple statement. She’d asked him once before what he’d wanted, if he wanted her. Then the answer had been a resounding and devastating no. Even now, ten years later, the memory made her burn with painful humiliation, the remnants of the utter heartbreak she’d felt at the time. ‘How interesting,’ she said coolly, ‘considering we haven’t even spoken in a decade.’

‘I must talk with you, Noelle.’

She shook her head, hating how autocratic he sounded. Still. ‘We have nothing to say to each other.’

He kept his gaze steady on hers, solemn and fierce. ‘I have something to say to you.’

She felt a sudden, hot clutch of emotion in her chest, a burning behind her lids. Ammar. She’d loved him so much, so long ago. She hated that she felt even a remnant of it now. And whatever he wanted to say to her … well, she didn’t want to hear it. She’d opened herself up to him once before. She would not do so again.

He stepped closer, and she saw how gaunt he looked. He was powerfully built, every limb corded with muscle, yet clearly he’d lost a significant amount of weight.

‘You heard about my accident,’ he said, and she realised she’d been staring at him quite openly.

‘Yes. My father told me. And about your miraculous rescue.’

‘You don’t sound particularly pleased that I survived.’

‘On the contrary, Ammar, I was glad. No matter what happened between us, I’ve never wished you ill.’ For too long she’d wanted him back. But she wasn’t about to succumb to that ridiculous temptation now, not even for a moment. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said stiffly. ‘Your father.’ Ammar just shrugged.

Noelle stared at him, wondering just how he had come to this moment. She knew the bare facts: two months ago her father had rung to say Ammar had been killed in a helicopter crash, along with his father. He hadn’t wanted her to find out through the media, and while Noelle had been grateful for that she hadn’t even known how to react. Anger? Sorrow? It had been ten years since their marriage had been annulled, and even longer since she’d seen him, yet the pain of their failed relationship had hurt her for years.

Mostly she’d just felt numb, and then as the weeks had passed she’d probed the dark tangle of emotions underneath that comforting numbness and found the main feeling in that confusing welter was regret, a sense of loss for what she’d once believed they could have had together, the happiness that had been stolen away with such sudden cruelty.

Then a few weeks ago her father had rung again, told her Ammar was alive. He’d been rescued from a deserted island by a few men in a fishing boat and was returning to lead his father’s business, Tannous Enterprises. The regret Noelle was just coming to terms with suddenly solidified into the still-raw anger she’d been nursing all along. Damn Ammar. Damn him for breaking her heart, for rejecting her all those years ago and, most of all, for coming back now to stir up the painful emotions she thought she’d buried.

Now she pushed it all down and gave him a steely glare. ‘Like I said, we have nothing to say to each other.’ With her head held high she pushed past him.

Ammar reached for her arm. His fingers circled around her wrist, the heat of him seeming to sear her skin. Noelle stiffened, knowing he was too strong for her to attempt to pull away.

‘Wait.’

‘It appears I have no choice.’

Ammar let out a rush of breath. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘Then start speaking, because you have thirty seconds before I make a serious scene.’ She glanced pointedly at the lean brown fingers still encircling her wrist. ‘And I’d rather not have a bruise.’

Ammar dropped her wrist so suddenly her arm fell back against her side. She felt as if she should bear a mark from where he’d touched her, a painful red weal, but there was nothing. ‘It will take more than thirty seconds,’ he said tersely. ‘And I have no intention of conducting a conversation in the foyer of a hotel.’

‘And I have no intention of going anywhere with you.’

Ammar said nothing, just studied her, his head cocked, his narrowed amber gaze surveying her from top to toe. ‘You’re angry,’ he finally said, an observation, and she let out a quick, humourless laugh. The last time she’d seen him she’d been crouching on the bed in his hotel room, holding back sobs, wearing only her underwear. He’d told her, very coldly, to leave. Yet even as that memory made her insides writhe, she quickly dismissed it. Ancient history. She wasn’t angry; at least, she shouldn’t be. She definitely shouldn’t still feel this hot rush of bitterness and hurt.

What she should have done tonight, she saw now, was acted coolly, politely indifferent. Maybe even reservedly friendly. She should have treated Ammar as an acquaintance, not the man who had broken her heart and crushed it under his heel. She never should have shown how much she still cared.

Because she didn’t.

‘I’m not angry,’ she lied. ‘But neither do I see any point in conversing with you.’

‘You don’t,’ Ammar asked, the words seeming to scrape his throat, ‘have any interest at all in what I might want to say?’

She stared at him, saw his mouth was twisted with bitterness, or maybe even sorrow. He looked different, and it wasn’t just the scar or near-shaven head. It was something that emanated from his very self, from the hard set of his shoulders to the deep shadows under his amber eyes to the twisted curve of his mouth. He looked like a man who had endured far too much, who was near to breaking from it all.

For a breathless moment she felt that old savage twist of longing lying latent beneath the knee-jerk reaction of anger. She had the bizarre and yet achingly familiar urge to comfort him, to make him smile. To listen, and to understand—

No. Ammar Tannous had appealed to her curiosity and compassion before. She’d fallen in love with him, or what she thought she knew of him, and then he’d gone and hadn’t just broken her heart but shattered her whole existence. It had taken years—years—to build up this new life, this new Noelle. She wasn’t always sure if she liked what she’d made, who she’d become, but at least she owned it. She owned herself; she was strong, focused, needing no one. And a few minutes’ conversation would never change that. She wouldn’t let it.

‘Go to hell, Ammar,’ she said and walked past him, stumbling once in her ridiculous stilettos before she righted herself and stalked out into the night.

Ammar stared after Noelle’s retreating back—so straight and rigid—and felt a pulse of fury beat in his blood. How could she walk away from him like that? She hadn’t given him more than two minutes of her time, and all he’d wanted to do was talk—

And tell her, his mind mocked, what, exactly? He’d never been good with words, hated talking about emotions. Yet since the crash he’d known he needed Noelle back in his life. From the moment he’d regained consciousness, alone and injured on a tiny slice of deserted beach, he’d thought of her. He’d remembered her playful smile, the way she tilted her head to one side as she listened to him—not that he ever said much. As he’d battled fever he’d dreamed of her, the soft slide of her lips, her husky murmur of assent as she tangled her hands in his hair and pressed against him. He had even, incredibly, imagined sliding himself into her warmth and feeling her close around him, joyfully accepting the union of their bodies. That certainly belonged only 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 it was too late.

She rolled onto her side, tucking her knees up into her chest, hating that she was raking up all these painful memories now. She’d stopped recalling them years ago, although it had taken a great deal of determined effort. One Saturday about three years after her marriage had been annulled she’d gone out with her parents for lunch at a swanky restaurant overlooking the Seine and said firmly, ‘I’m over him now. But let’s not talk about him ever again.’

They’d obliged, clearly relieved to know she was finally moving on, even though they’d been angry and heartbroken on her behalf when the marriage had ended. In retribution, her father had severed all ties with Tannous Enterprises, and in rather childish pique Noelle had been glad. No one had ever mentioned Ammar Tannous to her again; none of her colleagues or friends even knew she’d once been married to him. It had been so long ago, and neither her family nor Ammar’s had ever wanted that kind of publicity. Noelle certainly wasn’t about to offer the information. It was as if the marriage had never happened. She could almost convince herself it hadn’t, until now.

Until Ammar had died in the helicopter crash that had killed his father, and then came back to life. Resurrected not just himself but all the memories and feelings she’d thought she’d buried completely.

She hated feeling anything for him now, even if it was only anger. Yet in the pale morning light she also regretted the way she’d acted last night, like a child in a tantrum. He’d had a near-death experience, for goodness’ sake, and had been very ill. And she’d loved him once, or thought she had. Couldn’t she, in gracious and compassionate understanding, have listened to whatever he had to say? That would have surely shown him she didn’t care any more. And who knew? Maybe he’d only wanted to apologise for what had happened all those years ago. An apology she wasn’t sure she’d accept, but still. It might have been nice to hear it.

Sighing, Noelle rose from the bed. If Ammar approached her again, she decided, she’d listen to him. Briefly. Maybe a conversation could give her some proper closure to their whole sorry relationship, for she had to admit that she hadn’t found it yet, despite many desperate attempts. She surely wouldn’t be feeling so restless and edgy now if she had.

Half an hour later, dressed in a slim grey sheath dress and black patent leather heels, her hair twisted into a sleek chignon, Noelle hurried out of her apartment on the top floor of an eighteenth-century mansion towards the Métro. She was running late and she barely registered the narrow, near-empty street, the only person an older woman in an apron slowly sweeping the porch opposite.

Then she felt a hand clamp hard on her shoulder, something dark thrown over her head, smothering all sight and sound and, before she could even think to scream, she was bundled into a car and speeding away.