The cigarette ash glowed. Faint traces of smoke were blown into the air-conditioning ducts. Simon was so silent, that her awkward badinage seemed to hang in the space between them. A full five minutes might have passed before he bothered to answer her. The cigarette had been stubbed out, although he immediately lit another.
"We're both tired," he said, and lapsed into silence once again.
In the distance a row of soft-edged lights signaled the outskirts of Manaus, buildings on either side of the highway only dimly lit and ramshackle. It seemed, in the leveler of the night, to be nothing more than a seedy frontier town. Once an army outpost, the discovery of rubber, "black gold," had turned Manaus into the fabulous White City, sitting deep in the Amazonian heartland, where the turbulent Rio Negro joined the calm waters of the Amazon River, a full twelve hundred miles from the Atlantic Coast.
Rubber barons at the turn of the century, during the years of untold wealth, erected mansions and public buildings to rival those in Paris or Lisbon. When the bubble burst with the importation of cheaper rubber from Indonesia, the White City had gone to sleep, from which only now it was beginning to awaken. Turned into a free port by the government of Brazil, it was thriving again.
"You're here." Simon gave her arm a reassuring pat. Jill felt her heart begin to beat faster and faster as the car turned down streets and swept past parks and open plazas, buildings with arched doorways and windows, and the modern entrances to skyscrapers.
The car drew up before a large, white, surprisingly ornate villa decorated with balconies and slender marble columns, set behind a dense screen of low cut bushes. Lit by softly glowing globes on either side of a massive wooden door, the stark white marble seemed to have an unearthly aura about it. Even the street appeared strange and vaguely surreal in the soft rain, shadowed from the streetlights by plump trees shaped to resemble open umbrellas.
The door was opened at once, and Simon swept Jill into his arms and carried her across the threshold. "Welcome to Las Flores," he said. Standing before them was a plump, middle-aged woman, a wide smile flooding her friendly face.
"Senhora Cordero, my wife." Regaining her feet, Jill was immediately gathered into the bosom of Senhora Cordero who kissed her on both cheeks.
"I didn't think the day would ever come," she pronounced in Portuguese. She stood back and examined Jill with frank, delighted eyes. "Well, you've certainly picked a beautiful one. And so young. Good. Just what we need around here." She put her arm around Jill once again in motherly fashion. "He's a terrible tyrant and never smiles."
"Senhora Cordero is my surrogate parent, and now she's yours, too," Simon announced. "And she runs Las Flores with an iron hand."
"In a velvet glove." Senhora Cordero tucked her arm through Jill's. "Come on, poor thing. You must be exhausted."
They stood in a large, center hall, oval shaped, with ornate columns edging the half dozen doors that led from it. On either side a curved marble stairway led up to the second floor terminating in a balcony, and wings leading right and left. A great crystal chandelier hung low from the ceiling, sending diamonds of white light all around. The hall was white, stark, marble-floored with a gold chair and gold entry table as the only ornamentation.
"Come along," Senhora Cordero said, pulling at her gently. Jill looked back, but Simon was waiting at the open door for the chauffeur to bring in the rest of the luggage.
On the second floor, Senhora Cordero released her arm and walked into the left wing and threw open the first door.
"Here we go," she said and waited for Jill to enter the room. "All waiting for you."
It was a large airy room painted in pale blue with white trim and a white marble floor. There was a blue canopied four-poster bed in mahogany and several ornate chairs and chests. Jill put her bag down on the blue bedspread and stood looking around as the chauffeur entered with her luggage.
"Where's Mr. Todd's?" she asked, confused and feeling vaguely disoriented.
"Of course, here, in his room." The housekeeper opened a door which was directly opposite the bed. "This is your husband's room."
Jill, in the process of removing her jacket, stopped cold. Separate rooms. Of course. She turned away for a moment, aware that dismay and confusion were written all over her face. It took her a few moments to regain her composure, and then she turned and walked briskly into Simon's room, examining it with the concerned air of an understanding wife. Simply furnished with pale, modern wood pieces, and a bed that was wide and low on a base flush with the floor, it seemed austere, the room of a bachelor who spent many of his nights in other places.
She returned slowly to her own room, realizing that the housekeeper was anxiously awaiting words of approval.
"Everything looks marvelous," Jill said, not knowing what other words to use.
The housekeeper beamed. "Would you like something to eat? After that long trip?"
"No, please. You've been so kind to wait up like this."
Senhora Cordero gave her a spontaneous hug before leaving, and then Jill was alone, staring through the open door to her husband's room. A marriage of convenience. He had gone to Chicago prepared. He knew without a doubt that his errand would be completed, that he would return with a bride whose bed he would not share. Her face burned with remorse. What had been the hurry? She had been railroaded, plain and simple. She wondered what might have happened had she talked to a lawyer about her uncle's will.
She went over to the door between their rooms and slammed it angrily shut. It was only after that, that Jill was able to calm down. Spilled milk. She was an adult. She had made the decision and would have to live with it.
She undressed and went into the pale tiled bathroom, shiny with new fixtures, and ran a bath for herself. Later, when she stepped out of the tub and toweled dry, she felt more reasonable. After all, she was in Manaus. She was where she wanted to be.
Still, when she pulled her nightgown out, the one bought specially for her honeymoon, the truth really hit her. A bride without a groom. A bride in name only. Nevertheless, Jill slipped into the gown and looked at herself in the mirror. It curved silkenly over her figure. Her hair, thick and shiny, lay loose about her shoulders.
She felt a strange, feverish flush on her cheeks as she wondered suddenly, what she would do if he came to her. But he wouldn't. Separate bedrooms had made it quite clear.
She lay down in bed, drawing a soft sheet over her. The house was cool, air-conditioned. Long thin blinds lay across her curtainless windows. She shivered suddenly. Chill Chicago exchanged for this strange, chill welcome.
The room was bathed in the half-light of sunrise, picking its way through the slatted blinds. Jill awakened with a start, a faint sound drawing her out of a troubled sleep. She had the odd feeling that someone was watching her. Slowly, through partially opened lids, she checked her room. There, at the open door between their rooms, she found her husband, bare-legged, wearing a blue terry cloth robe. He was not aware that she had stirred. He stood, unmoving, his face immobile, staring at her. Then slowly he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving the door open.
There was something about the expression on his face, at once serious and thoughtful, that touched her. She threw the sheet off and stepped out of bed. Without putting on slippers, she walked silently across the cold marble floor to his room. It was only there at the door that she hesitated for a moment. He stood at the window, his back to her, his broad shoulders and slender hips evident even under the robe. She had first seen him in exactly the same position five days before, the sun picking out copper threads in his hair. Now, it fell in thick, unruly curls about his ears.
"Simon?"
He turned and seemed surprised to see her there. He did not move as he had in the boarding house, the efficient executive on the run. "I thought you were asleep," he said.
She moved rapidly across the room, almost afraid that he might somehow turn her back. "I was."
He looked down at her, his eyes first roaming her face,
and then sliding down her long neck to her breasts, small, pink-tipped behind the pale tracery of lace.
"Did I wake you up?" he asked, his voice husky.
"Something did."
They remained watching one another, feet apart, the air between them like a barrier slowly breaking away.
"I'm sorry." Simon reached across and took her hand. "I suppose I made too much noise dropping the other shoe."
"I'm glad you did," Jill murmured. Their words, spoken, masked other meanings. His fingers, curled about hers and tightened. "Bed comfortable?"
"Yes."
He suddenly pulled her close, and tipped her chin up with his hand. "Welcome to Manaus, Mrs. Todd."
Her words came out in a whisper. "Glad to be here, Mr. Todd."
His arms enfolded her, and for a second, before crushing her mouth with his, he gave her an odd smile. "Glad?" The word seemed forced out of him. She leaned into his hard body, the folds of terry cloth fragrant with bath powder, her arms tight about his neck. His hands roamed the length of her back and then settled, his right holding her tight, his left cupping her breast, caressing it, pressing the nipple, the very act a pressure button that burst her whole body at once into an exquisite, searing, uncontrollable flame. She felt herself melt against him, as their mouths parted and their tongues, like flames ignited, met and mingled.
He picked her up, his mouth still against hers, and carried her to his bed. She was hardly aware of it as he slipped the gown from her body and exposed her naked form. He stared down at her for a wild moment, as if memorizing every inch of her nakedness. She reached out and pulled him down, the wantonness of her act sending a delirious tremor through her body. His mouth expertly explored hers. She gave little answering cries of delight as she realized she was on the threshold of an ecstasy she had never known before.
His mouth was on hers. Their tongues explored. She felt drunk, throbbing with love. He must have felt it, too, as he raised himself to look down at her in the rosy morning light. She reached out and traced her finger along his cheekbone.
"Less than a week ago," she sighed and stopped.
"Less than a week ago, what?"
"Everything was gray, bleak."
"The weather you mean."
She smiled and pulled him close. "Of course. The weather. And now everything I ever dreamed of." Once again she stopped. Everything, but this man most of all. And a week before she had not even known of his existence. "Don't ever stop," she breathed. "Make love to me forever and ever."
He pulled away suddenly. She reached out for him, but was shocked by the mocking smile on his face.
"Everything you ever dreamed of?" He reached for the gown which lay at the foot of the bed. "Put this on," he added in rough, certain tones. "You'd better get back to your room."
For a moment Jill lay there, stunned. Her body, her mouth, still bruised from his lovemaking, refused his words. She watched him retreat to the window. Of course, she understood at once. She had been acting the common pickup. He probably knew plenty of those. She had been allowing a complete stranger to make love to her, and she had liked it. She wanted more. She wanted it never to stop. It had nothing to do with love. She did not love him. He did not love her. It was all very simple. He was very expert and he had unlocked her passion. Love had nothing to do with it.
From the cruel way in which he had looked down at her, Jill knew it to be true. He had told her right at the start that he did not believe in romantic love. It was quite obvious that he would not have her any other way, either.
She smiled faintly. He was a gentleman, was Simon Todd. He had honor. His wife, whom he did not love, and whom he had married for convenience, must remain chaste.
She sat up and slipped the gown over her head. "Are you afraid of me?" she taunted, stepping onto the cold floor. She went over to him and putting her hand on his arm, forced him to face her.
He looked her over slowly, his eyes expressionless. She had never given a thought to her appearance. She wore no makeup. Her hair must have twisted into black snakes while she slept. She had probably come to him looking a fright and still had tried to seduce him as any common streetwalker might. And he was a man after all, willingly seduced. She felt sudden disgust for herself and for him, yet she let him examine her, almost forcing him to admit he was afraid.
His copper tinged locks had failed over his forehead in a way that made him look wildly handsome in spite of the anger she felt toward him. She even thought, for an aching moment, of throwing herself at him. Her body still informed her that it wanted completion, that only lovemaking could put it to rest. She had merely to tell him that she wanted him desperately and that he could make up his terms and she would keep to them. But something in his manner was hardening, even as his dark gaze seemed to swallow her up.
"Senhora Cordero was right," he said. "You're very beautiful. Never more beautiful than at this moment. You were made for the tropics. You seem to be blooming before my eyes. What won't happen when you've been here a week, a month!" He reached out and slowly brushed his fingers through her hair. "A soft, black cloud. One has to beware of soft, black clouds. All sorts of things can be hidden in them. Dangerous things." His fingers closed about the back of her neck. He held her too tightly, as if he would squeeze the life from her if he could. He pulled her close and she went willingly. She felt his warm, sweet breath upon her face as he whispered to her, "Big, guileless, innocent blue eyes that tell nothing and apparently know everything." His mouth was against hers again, his fingers still pressing her neck. Yet, when she parted her mouth in an ecstatic groan, he tore away. "Very luscious little angel's mouth just meant for kissing." His free hand slipped down to her breast. "Every silken part of you meant for caressing." He paused, his hand still at her breast. She felt dizzy with expectation and mesmerized by his words and his voice.
"Afraid of you?" he asked. "A charming, childish question, but I'll answer it anyway. You're like the jungle to me. If I wanted to explore you, and I don't, I might find parts of you that are too wild to be tamed. That would be interesting, wouldn't it? Maybe I'd be afraid. At the moment, there's not one part of you I can't control." He laughed.
Jill pulled away from him and reached out and slapped his face. She stormed back to her room, scarcely realizing what she had done. Before she could close the door behind her, Simon was with her, his hands gripping her shoulders. She could see the red mark on his face, but it appeared to be to him no more than an insect bite.
"Let's clear the air," he said, his voice icy calm. "You're a luscious, ripe piece of fruit, ready for picking, but I'm not going to be the one to do it."
"What are you implying?" Jill asked. "That I'm to find someone else?"
He laughed but did not reply, the laugh the cruelest she had ever heard.
"First I'm the Amazon you want to explore. Then I'm a ripe fruit ready for picking, but you won't be the one to pick it. What next? You must want love. Everyone wants it."
His mouth formed into a thin line. "We made a bargain in Chicago, as I recall. I'm a man who sticks to his bargain." He loosened his grip on her shoulder and pushed her toward her bed. "Go to bed. I think we've had enough for one night."
Jill could not resist a biting last remark. She was wound up and being told to go to bed like a child was the last thing she wanted to hear. "I understand," she said, her voice chilly with contempt. "If you want to make love, you'll find someone somewhere else. That's fine with me. Perhaps you have someone already that you haven't bothered telling me about. I wish I had known. I might have told Derek not to give up hope." She was sorry as soon as the words were out. She turned to look at Simon and was stunned by the expression on his face. He glared at her, his mouth thin ribbons of anger, his eyes, sudden secret chambers of unhappiness. He seemed completely transformed, as if she had found a hidden raw nerve and exposed it. He was in front of her with a step. His fingers gripped her shoulders so tightly that she drew in her breath with pain. She tried to tear herself away.
"You're hurting me," she whispered. "Have you gone mad?"
But his voice, when he spoke, was quite calm and steady, a man used to controlling himself.
"Lest you think I've gone mad, let me make myself understood. I recall your words quite clearly. In fact, they've been imprinted on my brain. 'But I don't love you, Mr. Todd. I could never love you.' Yet a few moments ago, you wanted what we had in there to go on and on. What was that? Romantic love? Of course, according to you. The next thing you'll want would be all the accoutrements of married life. Fidelity. Declarations of undying love. Children. A family room." He laughed. "Not for Simon Todd." He released his grip, but only for a moment. "Get that straight. What I do with my life is my private business. What you do with yours is also my business. I don't know who this so-called Derek is, but don't ever mention his name to me again." He picked her up in one swift movement and carried her to her bed. He reached for the sheet. For a second, before drawing it over her, he looked down at her, his face a marble mask.
"We're married by the terms of your uncle's will. But I'm laying down the rules by which we'll live. According to world outside, we met, we fell in love, we married. According to my personal ethics, I'm resuming the life I lived before my trip north. I'm sure you know what I mean, and I expect you'll get used to it, after a while." He dropped the sheet across her body and strode out of the room.
The door closed behind her. She heard the faint, searing click of the lock, as if to underline his words.
"Never," she whispered fiercely. "This marriage will be run the way I want it, or it will never run at all."
She buried her face in her pillow. What did she want? She was deathly afraid of the answer.
Chapter Six
Rain! An insistent tapping at her window, even before Jill opened her eyes. Morning in Manaus. A tropical rainstorm. A rainstorm that would never end, and a fitting climax to a wedding night that never was.
Snuggling deep under her warm cover, Jill never wanted to get up. Her room in Chicago, in the winter, was warmer than this air-conditioned paradise.
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