Suzanne Simms - The Maddening Model

The bartender raised his hand and pointed. He was pointing in the direction of Simon’s table.

She turned. Without the sun at her back, without the dark glasses obscuring her features, Simon saw her clearly for the first time. She was stunning, but not in any conventional sense of the word. Her hair was too red. Her eyes were too green. Her cheekbones were too prominent. Her nose was too aristocratic. Her mouth was almost too perfect.

He had seen that face before.

His gaze dropped to her slender shoulders, her generous breasts, her slim waist, her long, long legs.

He had seen that body before. He could swear it.

She walked toward him, stopped in front of his table and looked down her nose at him. “Are you Simon Hazard?”

He refused to alter his expression. “What if I am?”

“I believe we have an appointment, Mr. Hazard.”

“An appointment?”

“For three o’clock.”

He resisted the urge to glance at his watch. “Is it three o’clock already?”

“Five minutes past,” she said, consulting the slim gold band on her wrist.

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” he muttered dryly.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” He snorted and drained his glass to the last drop. “Having fun?”

Apparently, she chose to ignore his attempt at making a witticism. “Are you Simon Hazard?”

He might as well confess. “The one and only.”

She thrust out her right hand. Simon wondered if he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. “I’m Sunday Harrington,” she informed him.

Sunday. He supposed, with a name like that, she’d heard them all.

Sunday, fun day.

Sunday in the park with George.

Solomon Grundy buried on Sunday.

Sunday afternoon.

Sunday school.

Sunday’s child.

Never on Sunday.

“Sunday Harrington?” The name rang a bell. He studied the initials on her handbag: a stylized, intertwining S and H. Then it suddenly dawned on him. “S. Harrington stands for Sunday Harrington.”

“Brilliant deduction.”

He bit off a brief and rather crude expletive. The legs of his chair hit the floor of the Celestial Palace with a resounding thud. “I assumed the S stood for Sidney or Sheldon or Stanley.”

“You assumed incorrectly.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not a man.”

She seemed to be biting the corners of her mouth. “I’m not a man. I would think that was obvious, even to you.”

It was.

“You’re my client.”

“I’m your client.”

Bloody hell, she was his client.

That’s when he recalled reading in the newspapers—it had been a few years ago now—about a fashion model who always dressed in pink or purple or red, despite conventional wisdom that redheads should avoid those colors.

That’s when Simon Hazard remembered the last time he’d seen this woman. She had been larger than life, literally, and she had been wearing several tiny scraps of purple material that left little, if anything, to the imagination.

Simon blew out his breath expressively. As a matter of fact, the first and last time he had seen Sunday Harrington, she had been wearing next to nothing....

She’d made a mistake.

A big mistake.

A huge mistake.

“There must be some mistake,” she said, swallowing hard.

A small, mocking smile appeared on the man’s lips. “You can say that again.”

“But you’re a—” She was too polite, Sunday reminded herself, to say he was a two-bit cowboy, an unshaven slob, a disreputable character and very possibly a drunkard, besides. She took a deep breath. “But you’re an American.”

He flashed her that smile again. “Born and raised in the heartland of the U.S.A.—Minneapolis, Minnesota.”

“You’re not Thai.”

“I would think that was obvious, even to you,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Sunday stood a little straighter, not that she had ever been one to slouch. “I assumed you would be Thai.”

“You assumed incorrectly.”

The situation was getting awkward. “I thought my secretary made my requirements clear. I want someone who speaks the language, understands the customs and knows his way around this country.” The man just sat there. “What I want, Mr. Hazard,” she said, no longer mincing words, “is the best.”

There was a flash of straight, white teeth. “Lady, that’s what you’ve got—the best.”

What she had, Sunday realized, was a problem. And a big problem, at that. From where she stood—and he sat—it was apparent that Simon Hazard was tall, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged and handsome as sin...if a woman was partial to the rugged he-man type, which, thankfully, she was not.

He stuck out like a sore thumb from the tips of his scuffed cowboy boots to the top of his head. His hair was blue-black and long at the nape; it was damp from the heat and formed dark curls that brushed against the collar of his denim shirt every time he moved his head. She wondered when he had last had a haircut.

There was at least a two day’s growth of beard on his chin. His jaw was chiseled granite and decidedly uncompromising. His nose—possibly his best feature—was a throwback to some patrician ancestor. His eyes were dark, somewhere between brown and black. They were bright, intelligent and unclouded by the alcohol he had consumed.

Unfortunately, his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them, and there was no doubt he had an attitude. His body, his face, his expression, his eyes all spelled one thing: danger.

Sunday’s heart sank.

“I don’t think this is going to work, Mr. Hazard.” She permitted herself a small sigh. “You can simply return my deposit and we’ll go our separate ways.”

“Can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Drank it.” He indicated the glass of brown liquor on the table in front of him. “Beer.”

“You drank the entire deposit?” She was shocked, and she made no attempt to hide it. “But I sent several hundred baht with the messenger only this morning.”

His eyes narrowed. “It seems you haven’t done your arithmetic, Ms. Harrington. A hundred- baht note is the equivalent of only four American dollars.”

Sunday didn’t know what to say. “Oh—”

“And, in case you also didn’t notice, the prices around here are inflated for a farang. “

She still didn’t know what to say to him. She finally managed to inquire, “A farang? “

“A stranger.” Simon Hazard leaned back in his chair again and balanced his weight on the spindly rear legs. “Besides, you won’t find anyone better.”

“That is a matter of opinion.”

“ That is a matter of fact.” He stroked his jawline. “Tell me something.”

She waited for him to go on.

“Why would a woman like you want to travel into the hinterlands of Thailand, anyway?”

“Business,” she said.

“Business? What kind of business?” Suspicion was thick in his voice. “It better not have anything to do with the poppy.”

Sunday drew a blank. “The poppy?”

“Opium.”

Her mouth dropped open, whether in surprise or outrage, she wasn’t sure. “You think I’m involved with drugs?”

“I don’t know what to think, do I?” He gave her a stony stare. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“I assure you, Mr. Hazard, my business is strictly legitimate,” she retorted, bristling.

He shrugged but said nothing.

Her temper flared. “Keep the damned deposit, then. I’ll find someone else.”