Suzanne Simms - The Maddening Model

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Simon wasn’t sure when he first became aware that they were being followed. It had started with a slight niggling sensation at the back of his neck, a mere pinprick of awareness.

Instinct.

The men in his family had an instinct for trouble. It was a kind of sixth sense, an inexplicable talent for spotting a disaster before it happened. Maybe it was the reason so many of them had made danger their business.

By the time they’d left the Temple of the Reclining Buddha, Simon was certain.

Three paces behind them.

Small wiry man.

Thai.

Dressed in dark trousers, white shirt, brown sandals.

Black hair. Black eyes. Nondescript features. Nevertheless, Simon had seen him somewhere before.

The Celestial Palace.

“Damn!” he swore, making a production of removing his hat, taking a linen handkerchief from his back pocket and mopping the perspiration from his forehead.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” Sunday remarked, retrieving a tissue from her handbag and blotting her upper lip.

“Yes. Let’s grab some shade,” he suggested, reaching for her hand and urging her toward a stone bench beneath a copse of trees. He wanted to see what the man shadowing them would do next.

“I thought I knew everything there was to know about what heat and humidity can do to a woman’s disposition, but I was wrong,” Sunday said, taking a silk fan from her handbag.

She waved the fan back and forth in front of her. It created a slight breeze that carried her scent to his nostrils.

Simon breathed in deeply. Sunday Harrington smelled of exotic incense, tropical heat, warm silk and...roses, of all things. It took a great deal of self-control—more than he thought he had, for a minute—not to bend over and nuzzle her neck, or to bury his face in the inviting cleavage between her breasts.

Son-of-a-gun! Maybe he’d been gone from home too long. Maybe his vow of celibacy, however temporary or sensible under the circumstances—he was living like a Buddhist Monk—was backfiring after more than a year. One thing was certain: he’d better get a grip on himself.

“I promise it will be cooler up in the mountains,” Simon said, clearing his throat.

“I hope so.”

He was aware that she sat there quietly, calmly, observing everything around her. She had the ability to sit utterly still, to simply be. It wasn’t a trait he often saw in Westerners.

He was also aware of their shadow. The man had paused some twenty feet away and was making a pretense of studying the rock garden.

“It’s very peaceful here,” Sunday finally said.

“Beneath the noise, the pollution, the traffic of Bangkok, there is a sense of serenity. Most people believe it’s the calming influence of Buddhism.” Simon removed his cap again and ran his fingers through his hair. “However, appearances can sometimes be deceiving.”

“Everything isn’t always what it seems to be.”

“ Or everyone,” he suggested.

“You mean like the man who’s been tailing us since we left the Celestial Palace?”

He was taken aback. “How did you know?”

“For our own safety, we women have had to develop a sixth sense about that kind of thing,” she said. “I must say, he looks harmless enough. I wonder what he wants.”

“Probably your handbag.”

“I can’t imagine why. It doesn’t match his outfit,” she teased, flashing him a smile.

“Here he comes. I’ll do the talking. You keep an eye on your purse,” Simon warned.

“I hardly think a purse snatcher would try to strike up a conversation first,” she said.

The man halted several feet from them. He bowed politely and said to Simon in excellent English, “If you were guests in my humble home, I would offer a glass of water to you and to your lady.”

“A glass of water would be greatly appreciated,” Simon responded with the same excruciating politeness.

The newcomer’s expression was enigmatic. “‘The man who possesses a good wife, possesses a good thing.’”

Simon looked at him with steady eyes. “The lady is not my wife.”

He tried again. “‘The man who has good health is young.’”

Sunday leaned toward him and murmured in his ear, “Are you healthy?”

Talking out of the side of his mouth, he said to her, “As a horse.” He turned his full attention back to their shadow.

“‘A coward turns away, but a brave man’s choice is danger,’” the man said this time.

“‘A living dog is better than a dead tiger,’” Simon responded with the same degree of inscrutability.

“‘The day is for honest men, the night for thieves.’”

Beside him, Sunday made an impatient sound. “Don’t tell me this man spent a year living with the monks, as well.”

The Thai gentleman turned to her and responded, “Indeed, I did, gracious lady. It is our custom.”

“Almost all Thai males spend at least part of their adolescence in a Buddhist monastery, taking vows of celibacy and poverty,” Simon explained. “Some decide it is their karma. They end up becoming monks. The rest return to the outside world.”

“Do you all learn to speak in proverbs?”

Simon ignored her.

But the stranger answered, “Truth is truth.” Then he lifted his hands beseechingly, with the palms up, and continued pleading his case. “You must understand, sir, that I have a wife and five children to feed and clothe.”

Simon put his hands together and interlaced his fingers. “You have many responsibilities.”

“A great many responsibilities. So many that I cannot leave my family and journey to the north.”

“It is a long journey, and the road leading up the mountains is difficult.”

“Just a little while ago, you said the road up and the road down are one and the same,” interjected Sunday.

Simon didn’t look at her, but he said through clenched teeth, “It has also been said that there are two days when a woman is a pleasure—the day one marries her and the day one buries her.”

That had the desired effect. It shut Sunday up.

“I regret that my station in life—I am but a lowly clerk—prevents me from giving it to you as a gift,” the man stated.

Simon was very careful not to react.

The Thai gentleman went on. “It is said that you were a stranger among us. Yet you learned to speak our language and understand our ways. You are no longer a farang. “

“Thank you.”

“You are a businessman.”

“I am a businessman.”

“Then you will not miss the few insubstantial baht that I must regrettably ask in exchange. It is worth a fortune to one who is enterprising.”

He was enterprising, all right.

“Only a few men see the world that can be theirs for the asking. You are one of these men, are you not, sir?”

Simon inclined his head slightly. Flattery: a very old and useful tool in negotiations.

The man stepped into the shade of a tree, dived into his pocket and brought out a small silk pouch. He carefully opened the top and withdrew a piece of paper which appeared to be old and yellowed.

Simon was curious, in spite of himself. “What is it?”

“It is a riddle. It is a map.”

“Where will this map lead me?”

“It will lead you to happiness and riches.”

Simon didn’t move a muscle. “Could you be more specific?”

“It will take you to the Hidden Buddha of the Heavenly Mist,” the map seller claimed.

Simon allowed his skepticism to show. “I have not heard of this hidden Buddha.”

An inscrutable smile surfaced on the man’s ageless features. “Then it is well named, is it not?”

Simon was far from convinced. “Possibly.”

Reassurance was immediately forthcoming. “All that I have said is true.”