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