LITMIR.BIZ

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the worst now.

      When I was with you, I was the man I wanted to be.

      He’d spoken from the heart when he’d told her that, meant it utterly. Those few months in London were the happiest of his life. He’d been twenty-seven years old and most of his life had been a barren, loveless landscape, like living on the moon. Cold and lifeless … until Noelle. Until she’d woken him up, gave him glimpses of the kind of life he’d never dreamed he could have. And he’d lived in that dream for two months, not thinking of the future or reality at all until his wedding day, when his father had woken him up with the cold, hard truth.

      She’s just a woman, Ammar. You will show your wife her place. And if you don’t, I will.

      He’d been furious, powerless and completely trapped. The only thing he’d felt he could do was walk away from her.

      And it was easier for you, wasn’t it, keeping your secrets? She never had to know the truth of who you are. What you’ve done, what you’re capable of.

      Ammar closed his eyes, the recriminations pouring through him, a scalding river of regret. The past tormented him even as he ached to forget it, to forge a future where he was different. Where he was with Noelle.

      When I was with you, I was the man I wanted to be.

      He needed to be that man now.

      Slowly, his body aching, he rose from the blanket. He walked around the oasis, the sun beating down so the tranquil surface shimmered like a metal plate. The air was still and drowsy with the heat of mid-afternoon; nothing moved. Halfway round he saw her, sitting on a flat rock that jutted out towards the water. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her chin resting on top, her hair tumbling about her shoulders and hiding her face. She looked, he thought, as lovely as ever, and completely miserable.

      He stopped a few feet away, but she didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. He had no idea what to say. Life had not prepared him for moments like this.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said. It seemed as good a place to start as any. He was sorry.

      She glanced at him, her expression guarded. ‘What are you sorry for?’

      Was this a trick question? Ammar hesitated. He was sorry for so many things. Sorry for walking away from her all those years ago, without even explaining why. Sorry he’d had to walk away, that he’d felt trapped and hopeless. And sorry—desperately, painfully sorry—that his past still tormented them both now, that he was afraid he would never be free of it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘for hurting you.’

      Her face hardened, and so did her voice. ‘How did you hurt me, Ammar?’

      He felt the first familiar flicker of anger. What was this—a test? Clearly there was a right answer and he had no idea what it was. ‘Why don’t you tell me how I hurt you,’ he asked evenly.

      She raised her eyebrows. ‘Turning the question back to me? How very neat.’

      He felt himself grit his teeth and forced his jaw to relax. ‘I don’t want to fight.’

      She let out a shuddering sigh and shook her head, her hair tumbling about her shoulders once more. The sunlight caught gleaming strands of gold and amber amid the deep chestnut brown. ‘I don’t want to fight, either,’ she said quietly. ‘But I can’t …’ She trailed off, biting her lip, and Ammar felt everything in him freeze.

      ‘Can’t what?’

      She just shook her head and looked away, and Ammar thought, I’m losing her. I’m not sure I ever really had her, but what I might have had I’m losing now.

      He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, as if he were suffocating in his own silence. He didn’t know what to say. What words she needed to hear.

      The truth.

      The answer was so simple, so blindingly obvious, and so awful. He didn’t want to tell her the truth. He couldn’t stand being so vulnerable, so utterly exposed, and having her look at him in hatred or pity or even revulsion—

      She let out a soft, sorrowful sigh and rose from the rock. ‘Let’s go back,’ she said without looking at him and Ammar clenched his fists.

      ‘Wait.’

      She stopped, looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes dark and wide. Waiting, just as he’d asked. Ammar took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, summoned what strength he could. ‘I can’t,’ he said, and she stared.

      ‘Can’t what?’

      The same question he’d asked her, and she hadn’t answered. Neither could he. He felt as if his soul were being scraped raw, his skin peeled away. He hated this. ‘I want you, you know that, physically, but … when we … something happens …’ He stopped, a vein beating in his temple, a familiar fury longing to cloak him with its protection. No. Anger was a cover-up for fear. He had to see this through.

      Her eyes widened, her mouth parting softly. ‘What …’ She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘What are you saying?’

      Where to begin? He stared at her, the softness of her hair and the fullness of her lips, the perfect creamy innocence of her, and he had no idea what to say. How to start. ‘My life has been very different from yours,’ he said flatly, and her gaze flew to his, clearly startled.

      ‘Tell me,’ she said quietly, and he let out a shuddering breath. No excuses now, even if talking about this was the worst form of torture. It brought every memory and fear to the fore, made him feel afresh the raw humiliation and helpless anger he’d felt before, as a boy. He sure as hell didn’t want to feel that with Noelle.

      ‘Ammar,’ she said, and his name sounded, strangely, like an affirmation, an encouragement. He could do this. With her, he could do this.

      ‘I told you about my father. How he had … very definite ideas about what a son, a man, should be.’ She nodded, alert and listening. ‘Everything was a lesson with him, a way to learn.’ He saw her frown, just faintly, and knew she didn’t really understand. How could she? He knew he could give her details, examples—horrible, painful examples—but he didn’t want to tell her about how his father had broken every belief about love he’d ever had, broken him. He didn’t want to gain her pity along with her understanding. He couldn’t bear that. No, he’d just cut to the relevant part. The part about Leila.

      ‘There was a maid in my father’s house,’ he began, ‘on Alhaja. She was very pretty, but more than that, she … she seemed kind. When …’ his throat closed up and he swallowed hard ‘… when things had been particularly difficult for me, she always offered a kind word. Listened to me, not that I ever said much. I suppose I saw her as a friend at first, but more than that.’ Even now he remembered 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

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