Suzanne Simms - The Maddening Model

“No.”

“No?”

“We’ve got a deal, Ms. Harrington. Signed, sealed and delivered. You pay. I guide.”

He was right. She had received an agreement through the mail and she’d signed it.

Sunday permitted herself another small sigh. If she wanted to do business, if she wanted to see the crafts produced by the hill tribes, if she wanted to visit the City of Mist, if she wanted to experience the closest thing to heaven on earth, it was, apparently, going to be in the company of this cowboy.

“All right, we still have a deal, Mr. Hazard,” she said, holding out her hand.

He moved surprisingly fast for a big man. His chair was upright and he was on his feet, pumping her arm, before she knew it. “Business is business,” he said.

Sunday looked around the bar. “Is this where you usually conduct your business dealings?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the Celestial Palace,” he countered in a hard, dry voice.

As if on cue, a fight broke out between two sailors at the bar. There was the sound of breaking glass and voices raised in anger. The bartender shouted, “Stop! Stop!” and pounded the bar with his fist, but no one paid him any heed. Somewhere, a girl let out a shriek.

“The Celestial Palace isn’t exactly a slice of heaven,” Sunday observed judiciously.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Where are we going?” she inquired as he took her by the elbow and steered her toward the door.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters.”

“We’re going someplace where we’re less conspicuous. Someplace where we can talk and not have half the people in the room eavesdropping on our conversation. You never know who might be in a watering hole like this. Thieves. Smugglers. Pickpockets.”

With long-legged strides, Simon Hazard took off down the street. Sunday was nearly running to keep up with him. “I thought you said there was nothing wrong with the Celestial Palace.”

He threw her a sharp glance. “‘Before you trust a man, eat a peck of salt with him.’”

“I beg your pardon.”

“‘The road up and the road down is one and the same,’” he stated cryptically.

Sunday’s handbag—one of her own popular designs—slipped off her shoulder. She pushed the leather strap up her arm and kept going. “What does the road have to do with anything?”

“‘Answer a fool according to his folly.’”

“I’d settle for a simple, straightforward answer,” she muttered under her breath.

“‘It is not every question that deserves an answer.’”

“Tell me, wherever did you—”

“Monks.”

“Monks?”

“I spent my first year in Thailand—in Prathet Thai—with Buddhist monks,” he told her as if that would explain everything.

It explained nothing.

He hailed a passing samlor, a three-wheel taxi that was a common sight in Bangkok, and gave instructions to the driver in Thai. Then, off they went through a labyrinth of narrow streets, dodging people, animals and other vehicles alike.

Simon Hazard leaned toward her and remarked conversationally, “Bangkok—Krung Thep—is a paradox.”

Bangkok wasn’t the only paradox, Sunday thought.

He went on. “It is both ancient and modern, Eastern and Western, sacred and profane. Skyscrapers have grown up alongside buildings of traditional Thai architecture. Contemporary shops of every type and description are next to the famous Floating Market, its boats bobbing on the khlongs, or canals, as they have for centuries.” He pulled the bill of his hat down to shade his eyes from the tropical sun. “Bangkok is a city of six million souls. It is a city teeming with myriad sights, sounds and smells.”

“ Krung Thep means ‘City of Angels,’ doesn’t it?” she said, recalling what she’d read in her Fodor’s Guide to Thailand.

“That’s the shortened version. Bangkok has the longest place name in the world. The literal translation is ‘Great City of Angels, Supreme Repository of Divine Jewels, the Great and Unconquerable Land, Grand and Illustrious Realm, Royal and Delightful Capital City...’” His voice trailed off. “There’s more, but I think you get the idea.”

“Yes, I think I do,” she said, sitting back in the taxi. “How long have you been in Thailand, Mr. Hazard?”

“Simon. A little over a year. And you?”

“Three days.” She took a silk fan from her handbag, opened it and wafted it back and forth in front of her face. “I confess, most of that time has been spent in my hotel room recovering from jet lag and trying to adjust to the heat.”

“This is the hot season.” Something flickered behind the man’s eyes. “The good news is it’s cooler up in the hills where we’re going.”

“What’s the bad news?”

“The central plain of Thailand lies within the ‘rain shadow’ of the Burmese mountains.”

“Meaning—”

“It’s wet.”

Sunday tried not to wrinkle up her nose. “Wet?”

“It rains a lot.”

“I’m not made of spun sugar, Mr. Hazard. I won’t melt.”

“Simon,” he reminded her.

“Simon.”

He seemed to be choosing his words with care. “Then there’s the king cobra.”

Sunday cast him a sidelong glance. “What about the king cobra?”

“It can grow to be eighteen feet long—” Simon spread his arms wide “—and weigh twenty pounds.”

She shrugged. “In other words, it’s a big snake.”

“The largest of all venomous snakes. Fortunately, the king cobra doesn’t like to be around people.”

“Lucky for us.”

“As a matter of fact, very few cobra bites are reported,” he assured her.

“More good news,” she said happily.

Simon’s expression was deadpan. “Probably because none of the victims survived for more than an hour unless they were treated with antivenin.”

Sunday wasn’t about to be frightened off. “I promise I’ll be very careful where I step.”

There was a short pause. “I feel it’s also only fair to warn you about the elephants.”

“They’re big, too, aren’t they?”

Simon didn’t appear to be amused. “If four tons of enraged animal—ears flapping, trunk raised, tusks aimed at your breast—charges at an unexpected sprint, you won’t be making jokes, Ms. Harrington.”

“Sunday.”

“Sunday.” His mouth curved humorlessly. “You haven’t seen rage until you’ve seen an elephant in musth. “

She had to ask. “What is musth? “

“It’s a state of sexual arousal in male elephants that can last for days, sometimes weeks or even months. The bull’s testosterone level may increase sixtyfold.”

Sunday was nonplussed.

Simon continued. “The first rule of the forest is never take an elephant for granted.”

It seemed like a reasonable rule to her.

“Then there’s the dung,” he added.

“Dung?”

“Elephant manure.”

She made an impatient noise. “I know what dung is.”

He arched one dark eyebrow. “An elephant defecates as often as twenty-eight times a day.”

She hadn’t known, of course. It wasn’t the kind of information considered useful in the fashion world. “It must make for a great deal of dung.”

“Unflappable,” Simon announced.

“What is?”

“You are.”

She stopped fanning herself for a moment and knitted her eyebrows. “Was this some kind of test?”

“You might call it that.”

“I take it I passed.”

“With flying colors. Like I said, you’re unflappable.”

“Not unflappable. Determined.” She folded her lips in a soft, obstinate line. “It’s the only way I know how to be. It’s got me where I am today.”