From This Day Forward

chapter Two



She couldn't move, couldn't tear her eyes away from his powerful, superb body. Her heart lurched, pounding forcefully against the wall of her chest as her mouth went dry and her face grew hot.

Water gushed from an overhead spigot in a steady stream that pummeled his body with bruising force. His every movement spoke of symmetry and strength. How could she have imagined he was less elegant than his cousin? Despite his larger frame and dwarfing height, he possessed all the predatory grace of a jaguar. His shoulders and arms were powerful enough to challenge an ox, and his broad, muscled back, made darker than his legs by constant exposure to the tropical sun, tapered into a narrow waist and sleek, narrower hips and buttocks.

She made no sound, but he seemed to sense her presence and turned to face her. A light feathering of golden hair covered his chest, growing darker and thicker as it plunged down his flat belly to cradle his sex.

Even after two years of marriage she had never seen a man naked, not completely naked, not like this, never like this. As a medical student, she'd learned the rudiments of the male anatomy; it had always seemed a shameful, embarrassing thing. But here was masculinity in its purest form, stripped of the restraints of civilization.

Her gaze returned to his face and locked with his rigid, unreadable expression before he cursed under his breath and reached for a towel. His movement broke the spell that had possessed her, leaving her dazed and mortified. With a violent jerk on the reins, she turned and plunged into the jungle, not knowing where she was going but trusting the horse to find its way back to the stable.

The horse had barely come to a stop when she leaped from the saddle and ran through the archway onto the patio. There she stopped, gazing around at the deserted courtyard, wondering where to go, what to do, to erase the images from her mind.

Her heart pounded erratically in her breast, not from running, but from some unnamable sensation. Leaning against the stone table before her, she took several deep, calming breaths.

She wouldn't think of it, she would not!

It took her all morning to regain some measure of composure. As long as she stayed busy, she could keep her thoughts from wandering back to the beneficio and Jason Sinclair's nakedness.

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 forgotten 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 the 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 coffee 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.

And just why the hell had she accepted this insane proposition and come to Brazil, unless she too was running away from something?

That thought stilled him, and he squinted his eyes toward that silent door, as if he could see through it all the way into her soul by dint of will.

He'd surrounded himself with fresh, new things. He didn't like antiques and the secrets they brought with them. He didn't like secrets at all, even his own. He gave a snort and decided that thought deserved another drink.

Still, he had to admit she was a beautiful woman, a woman who exuded an aura of sensuality that kept his blood in a constant uproar. His hands ached to feel the texture of her pure, ivory skin, to caress that glorious rich brown hair. He yearned to taste the sweetness of her mouth, hold her body against his, bury himself deep inside her and make her his own.

His hand trembled as he brought the bottle to his lips once again and drank deeply, wincing at the burning sensation that spread throughout his body. Returning the bottle to the table, he held his hand before his eyes and studied it critically—the rough skin, the calluses, the dirty, broken fingernails. He didn't know if he could bear to touch her. There was something fine about her, something elegant and pure. Just looking at her made him feel dirty and unworthy.

She'd been right, of course. He had been avoiding her and avoiding the inevitable consummation of their marriage, the very inevitability of which was a sweet torture, one that he savored even as it tormented him. It gave a special edge to every moment, making him feel more vitally alive than he had in a very long time.

Sweet agony, it was. Sweet agony.

Perhaps she welcomed the respite. He had believed she would, being a woman and naturally timid. At least he'd thought so until she'd come in search of him that morning. Goddamn her timing!

He'd been so stunned by her sudden appearance that he hadn't even had the presence of mind to cover himself. She should have been mortified at the sight of a naked man, but she had absolutely ogled him.

He came to his feet with a brutal curse, flinging the whiskey bottle down onto the patio to splinter into a thousand shards of glass.

The breath tore through his chest with such force that he couldn't move for several moments, and then he began to pace, back and forth across the patio like some caged beast in a carnival.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of shutters at the window on the second floor. She had obviously heard the crashing of the bottle against the brick patio, and now she stood at the window, her body only the whisper of a shadow through the glass. But it was enough to set his blood afire.

She stood there watching him. He knew it, though he couldn't see her eyes. Damn her boldness! Why didn't she turn away and go back to bed and leave him in peace? Why did she stand there like a statue, looking at him, examining him, trying to break through his defenses?

Cursing savagely, he turned away, furious that she had forced him to be the one to break the tableau. A blinding rage shuddered through him as he stalked toward the stairs and bounded up them. When he emerged onto the balcony, Caroline no longer stood at the window. Allowing himself a triumphant smile, he grasped the doorknob and rattled it viciously, more to frighten her than to break into her rooms.

Not so bold after all, he mused, only slightly ashamed of his victory. What did she think? That he'd flown up the stairs to throttle her or ravish her?

Did she think a door would keep him out should he choose to do so?

#####

After a while, the terrible noise abated and Caroline released the sigh that had been wedged in her throat. She waited, listening, her back against the closed bedroom door. Though her eyes remained dry, sob after wretched sob racked her body. She trembled so violently she feared she might be ill.

Soon she heard his booted footfalls retreat from the outer door, and her body sagged with relief.

What had she done? She'd married a madman! And now she was trapped here in the remotest Amazon.

Trapped. Defenseless.

The jungle may seem cruel, he'd written, but there is no senseless violence in the jungle, except that wrought by man. Man is truly a beast to be feared above all others.

Shivering, she went to stand at the open bedroom window, gazing down at the night-shrouded jungle, wondering if Jason himself were a beast to be feared above all others.

####

Caroline paced back and forth just inside the stable, waiting impatiently for Jason to arrive. After awakening to the crashing sound on the patio below her window and taking part in a silent battle of wills with Jason—a battle she had lost miserably—she hadn't been able to get back to sleep.

That moment of fear had kept her awake all night. He'd wanted her to fear him, she realized in the early hours of the morning as she tried to sort out all that had happened since she arrived.

Was he displeased with her, or would he have treated any woman with the same contempt and anger? She didn't know how to approach him, how to reach the man inside, but in those dawning hours, she'd decided he was worth the effort, even if he did sometimes frighten her with his rages.

So she had dressed just before dawn and come to the stable, determined that he wouldn't slip out without her today. Whatever it was that made him so angry, that made him lash out at her, she would make him face it. There was only one way to do that, and that was to confront him and not let him intimidate her. As appealing as the idea of remaining safely locked away in her room might be, she had to face him and carve out a place in his life or she might as well pack her bags and leave now.

She didn't have long to wait. Jason strode into the stable dressed much as he had been that first day—tan breeches tucked inside knee-high boots, ivory shirt stretched across the broad muscles of his shoulders.

At sight of his master, the large bay stallion that had been standing sedately while the young groom, Julio, saddled it, began to whinny and toss its head in recognition.

Jason regarded Caroline casually, then walked past her without a word and began murmuring softly to the horse, petting the animal with surprising tenderness. How could he be so gentle with an animal and so harsh with his own wife?

"He's ready to go this morning, patrao," the groom said with a smile, and the talk between the two men quickly turned to coffee cultivation.

Caroline had learned quite a lot about the other side of the coffee business while working for the

Sinclair Coffee Company—receiving cargoes, packing for resale. If she could somehow learn about coffee planting and harvesting, she would be able to converse knowledgeably with her husband about the one subject that seemed to consume him.

Caroline made a mental note to ask her husband if there were books on the subject in the library. Or maybe she could find someone on the fazenda willing to teach her.

Jason approached, interrupting her thoughts, and Caroline smiled sweetly at him, hoping to disconcert him and succeeding. His bemused frown turned quickly into a scowl, but that instant of dismay satisfied her—for the moment. If he thought he could intimidate her by prowling around beneath her window all night and lunging at her like a wild beast, he would soon learn otherwise. He'd taken her by surprise last night. It wouldn't happen again.

Jason walked past her into the yard. The groom followed, leading the horses, and Caroline trailed behind. Jason took the reins of the bay stallion and swung effortlessly into the saddle.

The groom helped Caroline mount and she hurried to catch up with her husband, drawing alongside him as they started down the path she had taken yesterday to the beneficio. Her whole being quickened at that memory, and she forced her mind away, concentrating instead on her surroundings.

Lovely banana and palm trees grew along the path, but the absolute cleanness of the jungle floor still amazed her, as it had on her journey up the Amazon. Unlike the forests around the Mississippi River, undergrowth was virtually nonexistent here in the Amazon Valley.

"It's so isolated here, so primitive," she said, a bit in awe. "You could almost forget the rest of the world exists."

"Almost," he replied, and Caroline couldn't help wondering at the bitter smile that curved his lips.

As they rode slowly, the complete isolation of the jungle closed in around her and she wondered how he endured it. Did he even feel the loneliness?

I am so far removed from civilization here, he'd written, that sometimes I forget what it was like to have a casual conversation or to walk down a busy street and hear the sound of carriages passing by.

Yes, he felt it. But she wanted to hear him say it. She wanted him to talk about himself, to share something of his thoughts and feelings so she could reconcile this reality with those lovely, often poignant letters.

"You've been here so long. Don't you ever get lonely?" she asked.

He gazed sidelong at her, as he gave his horse's neck an affectionate pat. A corner of his mouth turned upward in a half smile as his turquoise gaze traveled the length of her body in a slow, calculated perusal that brought hot color to her face.

"Well, I suppose that's why you're here," he said, wheeling his horse around and plunging down the narrow path.

Speechless for the second time in her life, Caroline watched her husband ride away until he disappeared around a bend in the path. A slow smile curved her lips.

"Maybe the man's not made of stone after all," she said aloud. This could prove to be a very interesting morning.