From This Day Forward (4 page)

She occupied herself by playing the piano until her fingers ached, and even then she played on, pouring into it all the emotions she couldn't express or even identify. The music consumed her, coiling itself around her, inside her, until she and the music became one. By the time Ines came to announce luncheon, she felt almost completely serene once again.

But her fragile composure evaporated when she entered the dining room to find that Jason Sinclair had chosen today to grace her with his presence for the afternoon meal.

Her face flushed with the memory of what had taken place that morning, Caroline made her way to her customary seat at the long table on legs that had turned to rubber. He stood as she hesitated beside her chair until one of the servants pulled it out for her and they sat simultaneously.

A taut silence stretched between them as the meal was served. Caroline couldn't resist studying him. He seemed to concentrate all his energy and attention on his food, while she was forced to concentrate all of hers on merely breathing in his presence.

Had she really been disappointed when she'd first met him on the pier? She must have been exhausted and nearly blind from her arduous trip up the Amazon.

He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, in a rugged, utterly masculine way. His features were pleasing to look at, despite the fact that his brows seemed to knit together in a permanent frown and his nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken. His was a strong face, a face etched by time and, she suspected, experience. Pain and pride and hatred had moved across that face and left their indelible mark on it.

Without warning, he glanced up and caught her studying him. She looked down quickly, concentrating on her food to keep from staring at him.

To her shame, she realized that she wanted to see him again like that, to run her hands over the hard ridges of muscle that had played upon his back and chest.

"I'm afraid I'm not accustomed to having a woman around," he told her. His voice held a rich, deep texture, like a soft breeze over dry sand, that shivered down her spine.

Caroline glanced up and met the full force of his ice-blue gaze. A tremor pulsed through her body but she refused to look away.

"Especially such a curious one," he added sardonically. "We were clearing some land this morning and I stepped into a sinkhole. It was more convenient to bathe and—"

"You needn't explain," she told him a bit breathlessly, not at all anxious to discuss the circumstances that had led to her happening upon him that morning.

Just the mere mention of it brought the images vividly to her mind, not that they had been far from it all morning.

"You're right, of course, I don't have to explain," he agreed in a tone that conveyed the message, /
am king here and you'd best remember it.
"I was only trying to…
If you want to see the
fazenda
—"

"
Fazenda
?"

As if drawn by a magnet, his gaze flickered downward over her body for the briefest instant. When his eyes returned to hers, a dark fire shone in their pale depths.

"Plantation," he explained, his voice deep and coarse. "If you want to see the plantation, you need only ask and I'll take you on a tour, but I must insist that you not venture forth on your own. My men are no more accustomed to having a woman around than I am."

For a moment, Caroline was unable to speak. She'd been so intent on watching his facial expressions, she
'd
forgot
ten
to reply, though she knew a response was required.

Clearing her throat nervously, she picked up her fork and began pushing her food around on her plate. It gave her something else to concentrate on while she spoke. "But I wasn't alone, and besides—" It was on the tip of her tongue to mention that Ines had evidently been on the
fazenda
for some time. Instead, she mustered as much enthusiasm as she could and said, "I would like that."

He stopped eating and gazed at her, his face a mask of confusion. "Pardon me?"

"The tour," she reminded him. "I would like to see th
e
fazenda
,
if you really meant what you said."

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, staring at her as intently as a scientist would study a specimen under a microscope. His gaze left her face and slid down her throat to her bosom once again.

It took a force of will on her part, but she managed not to squirm as his glance touched her like a caress.

"If you'd like," he said, slowly lifting his gaze back to hers, as if reluctant to do so.

"Shall we go now?" she asked, wondering if he were aware of his effect on her, if he guessed at the tumult he caused inside her.

He laughed, a short sound that was more a snort. "Not now. It's too late in the day. I'll show you the premises first thing in the morning before the sun gets too hot."

She started to protest that she had been active at high noon every day of the journey up the Amazon and the Rio Branco, but something stopped her. She hadn't been able to dispute his authority that first day, and she couldn't now.

It annoyed her that she could not seem to argue with him, but when he turned that proprietary glare on her, that look that brooked no disagreement, her throat tightened and she fell silent against her will. He was obviously a man accustomed to having his own way.

"Tomorrow morning, then," she agreed with a tremulous smile.

"And now, if you will excuse me, madam—"

"Caroline," she interrupted, halting him in the motion of pushing his chair back from the table. "My name is Caroline."

Smiling crookedly at her, he settled in his chair again. It was the first time she'd seen him smile, and the way the gesture transformed his face amazed her. How could he appear so stern and formidable one moment, and the next smile in a way that made him look like a little boy? Perhaps there was a gentle soul beneath that gruff exterior after all.

"I know your name," he assured her, his brow furrowing in concentration. He was studying her again, appraising her.

"You know precious little more about me than a name," Caroline said, emboldened by the undercurrent of humor she noted in his voice. "Aren't you even a little curious about me? I mean, after all, I am your—"

"My wife. Yes, I know. And perhaps I am a bit curious," he admitted.

"Then why have you been avoiding me?"

His hand clenched into a fist, the only sign of emotion in his otherwise serene manner. "What makes you think I've been avoiding you?"

"Haven't you?" she asked, and she witnessed the most profound emotional withdrawal she had ever observed. It was as if he had recoiled into a hard shell. The barrier between them seemed almost physical.

"I didn't mean to offend you," she muttered.

Jason stood quickly and strode toward the French doors that led to the patio. With one hand braced high against the doorframe, he placed his hat on his head and turned to face her as if he would say something.

Caroline waited expectantly, but he only stared at her with features obscured by the shadow of his hat brim before stepping through the door into the hot Brazilian sunlight.

The profound darkness of the jungle embraced the white-walled fortress that had been stolen from the wilderness. Nightjars trilled close by, their song loud and repetitious. In the distance, a tree rat called, while millions of insects chirped high in the trees. The rush of water from the nearby river pulsed through the quiet like a heartbeat. Not a sliver of a moon nor a single star marred the empty black sky; not a whisper of a breeze stirred the thick, moist air.

Jason Sinclair paced back and forth across the courtyard around which the house was built, finally coming to rest on a heavy stone bench. He reached across the table of the same material and wrapped his hand around a tall bottle.

Out of raw wilderness, he thought. When he arrived here, there had been nothing but jungle. He'd built an empire. He'd chosen a plot of land and had subdued it. He'd broken ground and built a mansion, a fortress. He'd gone as far into the jungle as he dared, farther than anyone had ever gone and tried to make a successful coff
ee
fazenda
.
But he'd done it.

Lifting the bottle to his lips, he turned it up. Whiskey burned a path down his throat in a steady stream, and he gasped with satisfaction at the searing. He lowered the bottle and wiped the back of his hand across the prickly stubble of a day's growth of beard. It wasn't the taste he enjoyed so much as the fiery burning in his gut—and the forgetfulness.

He'd put enough distance between himself and his demons to ensure his peace. He'd surrounded himself with enough jungle so that nothing could topple this little kingdom. And yet, he still didn't feel secure enough. What would it take to make him whole?

A child? Would having his own child and doing everything
right
blot out the past and allow him to live like a normal man?

You'll never amount to anything, you good-for- nothing lout!
His father had told him over and over again.

He'd proven himself, by damn. He'd proven that he could make something of himself. He'd proven his father wrong, but the son of a bitch had gone and died before he saw his worthless son build his empire.

"To hell with him," Jason murmured. "Filthy bastard."

He looked at the half-empty bottle in his hand and snorted.

His father had been a violent, hard-drinking man, who had abused his wife and children until the day he'd died. While his brother, William, had overcome his humble beginnings and made something of himself, all Cullen Sinclair had managed to make of himself was a drunkard. His sudden disappearance twenty years ago had caused much speculation. Some said he'd run off to escape the law or the thugs who had lent him money he couldn't repay. Others said he'd gotten drunk and fallen into the river and drowned. And though he knew none of the stories were true, Jason rather liked the latter. There was a certain poetic justice to it.

"Like father, like son," he laughed, then sobered suddenly. That was the greatest fear of his life, that he would turn out like his father.

He was taking a terrible chance marrying. He might never know what he was capable of if he never had a family.

Would he find out that he was a man capable of the kind of violence his father had exercised, violence against those who were weaker than he? Against the very people who should be able to turn to him for protection?

Why risk it? Was it the loneliness? Was it the idea of having one human being in the world who would love him unconditionally and look at him with something other than contempt or pity or fear?

He turned and glanced up at the closed door on the second floor. She hadn't looked at him with pity or contempt. But then, she didn't know him yet. Give her time. Judging by the intense curiosity and razor-sharp perception he'd seen in those hazel eyes, she'd ferret out every secret in his black heart if he wasn't careful.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring her here. He'd come here to escape the world, to a place where no one knew or cared that he was Cullen Sinclair's son. The last thing he needed was a curious, inquisitive wife to start rattling the skeletons in his carefully sealed closet.

"Caroline Sinclair," he said aloud, rolling the name around on his tongue.

She wasn't what he'd expected at all. She was so damned strong, so self-reliant. He'd expected a much younger woman, a woman he could control and mold into what he wanted her to be, a woman who would stay out of his way for the most part so that he wouldn't ever have to face the demon that dwelled inside him.

Why have you been avoiding me?
she'd had the temerity to ask.

Damned if she wasn't the most direct female he'd ever met. Granted, his experience with women was limited. Contact with the fairer sex in the Amazon jungle was practically nonexistent.