be spending all my profits on transportation, if I had any profits."
"No, I mean why grow coffee so deep in the jungle?"
"Because no one had done it before," he replied without hesitation.
"But no one has leaped off a cliff and survived either."
It seemed a perfectly logical observation to Caroline, but Jason studied her as if she were some strange animal that had crawled out of the jungle and had the nerve to challenge him. Irritation showed plainly on his handsome features.
"Haven't you ever wanted to do something just to prove you could do it?" he asked, gazing across his domain once again. "I subdued the jungle and planted seeds that took root and became coffee trees. I built a home—"
"It seems more like a fortress to me," Caroline couldn't help interjecting.
Jason straightened in his saddle as if preparing to defend his position. "I suppose it is a fortress of sorts. It keeps the jungle out."
She withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the perspiration on her face and throat, determined to remain calm despite the growing ire she sensed in her companion. "Are you sure that's all you want to keep out?"
She studied the kaleidoscope of emotions that moved across his expressive face. Anger showed clearly in the set of his jaw and the fire in those pale slate-blue eyes.
"You ask too damned many questions." He pointed toward a grove dotted with white blooms, diverting her from the subject at hand. "I grow trees that are a combination of Arabica and Robusta. They bloom like Arabica which grows best in the mountains, but they're stronger like Robusta which can grow anywhere. That's why I decided to develop my own strain. The coffee is uniquely mine in flavor, aroma, and smoothness."
"I know. Your coffee always demands the highest price on the market," Caroline said admiringly. Not only was Jason's coffee of the finest quality, his consistently high yields had made the Sinclair Coffee Company one of the most successful companies in New Orleans. "This part of the plantation is as flat as Louisiana bottomland."
Jason studied her, suspicion showing plainly on his handsome face. "It's very similar in composition, too. It's strong but fragile. It's hard to explain. You can't treat it harshly. But if you're kind to the land, it'll be kind to you. It's a simple rule more planters would do well to learn."
"You couldn't possibly grow pure Arabica here," Caroline said, thinking aloud. "Fungus would take it over. But by combining it with Robusta.... How very interesting."
"You needn't patronize me, woman," he said sharply, an angry glint in his eyes.
"My name is Caroline," she told him patiently, as if she were speaking to a child, "and why would you think I'm patronizing you?"
"Aren't you?"
"Why, no. I was completely sincere. I've seen what happens to the coffee when it reaches the market in New Orleans. Is it so hard to believe that I might be interested in how it's grown?"
"There's no need," he assured her, his manner, his expression, cold and remote. "I don't expect it."
Caroline watched in mute amazement as he spurred his horse into a canter. She considered his words. What had they meant? That she was not allowed a thought or opinion or interest except those approved by him?
What an extraordinary man! He obviously had little experience with women—educated, outspoken ones at least—if he believed he could dictate her very thoughts.
Caroline caught up to her husband. He saw her and pulled back on the reins, slowing his horse to a brisk walk. They moved down a narrow path that cut through one of the orchards. The scent of coffee and sweet blossoms enveloped them.
Caroline closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She loved the aroma of coffee beans. In New Orleans, she'd always volunteered whenever Derek needed someone to run a message or voucher to the warehouse, just so she could experience the sweet, tantalizing smell. Besides, it made her feel more a part of the company to actually see and smell the product that kept them solvent.
"The trees bloom year round in this climate," he explained, "so there are trees with berries ready to be picked and trees with young blooms in the same grove."
"How much does each tree yield?" she asked.
Jason eyed her curiously. Though apparently doubtful of her sincerity, he couldn't seem to stop himself from talking about a subject that had dominated his life for the last fifteen years. "A pound of coffee per year per plant is a good yield."
"That doesn't