HELEN BROOKS: Dreaming Of... France: The Husband She Never Knew / The Parisian Playboy / Reunited...in Paris!

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.

NOELLE stirred slowly to life, like a swimmer coming up to the surface of the sea. Consciousness glimmered, a twinkling, faraway thing. She reached for it, desperate now to seize it, and opened her eyes as if weights were attached to her lids. She lay in a bed and all around her was dark with shadows, and in the distance she heard the drone of an engine, could feel the thrum of it through her body. She was on a plane.

Panic shot through her as she struggled to make sense of what had happened, what little she could remember.

She had been walking to work and someone had grabbed her. Thrown a blanket or bag over her head and taken her in a car. She’d kicked out at her assailant and her fingernails had connected with someone’s face, raking along a cheek. And then someone had said something—in a language she didn’t understand—and she’d felt a jab in her arm and then … nothing.

Terror clutched at her chest, grabbed her by the throat. She’d been kidnapped. Abducted in broad daylight from one of Paris’s best neighbourhoods. Impossible and yet—here she was. On a plane—going where ? And what did her captors want? Ransom? Her family was certainly wealthy enough to consider such an awful possibility. Or was it something else—something worse? Vague images of the modern-day slave trade danced through her mind and she tasted bile. She’d kill herself first, if she had an opportunity.

‘You’re awake.’

Noelle let out a stifled scream. In the near-darkness she hadn’t seen the figure sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. She still couldn’t make out his features, but she could certainly recognise his gravelly voice. Ammar .

‘You,’ she said, and her voice came out in a scratchy, unused whisper. She coughed and Ammar came forward to take the glass of water from her bedside table and hand it to her. Noelle took it, her fingers trembling so much that Ammar kept his hand wrapped around the glass, his fingers overlapping hers, and helped her to drink. She was too tired and too thirsty to resist this small solicitude, yet finally, with an effort borne of desperate fury, she pushed the glass away, spilling droplets on the silk coverlet. ‘You kidnapped me,’ she managed, trying to make it a question, because surely he wouldn’t have done such a thing. Yet here he was, and so was she.

In the shadowy room she could not make out his expression at all. ‘I told you, I needed to talk to you.’

Noelle let out a hoarse bark of disbelieving laughter and leaned back against the pillows. ‘And that makes it acceptable, does it?’

‘You didn’t give me many options.’

‘You didn’t give me many options.’

‘Sometimes,’ Ammar said, ‘extreme measures are necessary.’

‘You take extreme to an entirely new level.’ She shook her head, tried to untangle her emotions. She was shocked, yes, and definitely angry, but was she afraid? No, she didn’t think so. If she were honest, she felt a treacherous tingle of relief that it was him and not some unknown thug. Or even just that it was him. And yet … kidnapped .

‘I’m sorry that extreme measures were necessary in this instance—’

‘Sorry? You talk as if you had no choice but to kidnap me, Ammar. As if I made you do it.’ She closed her eyes, a sudden sorrow added to the welter of feelings inside her. ‘You’re blaming me for what you did. This feels very familiar.’

‘I never,’ he said in a low voice, ‘blamed you for anything.’

She supposed that was true. It had just felt like it was her fault. One minute she’d been married, nurturing dreams of happily-ever-afters, domesticity and children and a little house outside Paris, and the next her husband was barely speaking to her, never mind anything else, with no explanation at all.

‘Turn a light on,’ she said, because she wanted to see his face. Ammar opened a shade on one of the windows, letting in a sudden stream of hard, bright sunlight.

In the unforgiving brightness he looked, Noelle thought, terrible. He was unshaven, the scar snaking down his cheek livid, red and raw. Although he was dressed in a pressed grey polo shirt and black jeans, he seemed more haggard and gaunt than he had last night. Last night—could it really have only been last night that she’d seen him at the charity ball? She didn’t even know how much time had passed.

‘Are we on a plane?’ she demanded hoarsely.

‘My private jet.’

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘To my home.’

‘Alhaja?’ She’d hated the island his father had called home, a prison-like bunker set in gorgeous gardens on a private island in the Mediterranean. She’d spent two lonely months there before she’d finally fled.

‘No. Alhaja was never my home.’ His voice was hard, dark. Noelle saw one lean hand clench into a fist against his thigh before he slowly, deliberately flattened his palm out once more. ‘We’re going to my private villa in Northern Africa, on the edge of the Sahara Desert.’