The Maddening Model

Three

“The Temple of the Reclining Buddha,” Simon translated as they entered the grounds near the Grand Palace with its complex of exotic buildings, dozens of pagodas and distinctive gilded spires.

Sunday stopped, put her head back and stared up at the colossal golden Buddha resting on its side. “Why, it’s...it’s...huge!”

“One hundred and fifty feet long, and fifty feet high,” Simon informed her.

Sunday had never seen anything like it before. “It’s magnificent!” she exclaimed.

He agreed. “Yes, it is. There are nearly four hundred Buddhist temples in the city of Bangkok, and countless statues of the Buddha. The Emerald Buddha is the most revered. The Golden Buddha is the most valuable—it’s solid gold and weighs more than ten thousand pounds. But the Reclining Buddha is the most unusual.”

Sunday was no expert, but she’d done her reading before traveling to Thailand. “I thought the Buddha was always depicted in a meditative sitting position.”

“Usually, but not always. That’s the primary reason the Reclining Buddha is considered unique.” Simon reached for a stick of incense and lit the end in a brazier at the base of the statue. A thin trail of scented smoke spiraled up from the altar toward the ceiling. “The statue is gold leaf over plaster. The feet are inlaid with gemstones representing the one hundred and eight attributes of the Buddha. And why the reclining position? It’s the final stage of the Buddha’s passage to nirvana.”

“To heaven,” Sunday murmured.

“To heaven,” he echoed.

They stood in silence for several minutes, and then left the temple to stroll among the guardians—huge stone warriors standing at attention before the royal buildings—the saffron-robed Buddhist monks, those who had come to offer their prayers and homage, the merely curious and the tourists.

Sunday glanced at Simon out of the corner of her eye. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I told you. I wanted to take you someplace where we were less conspicuous.”

She snorted softly. “There isn’t anyplace where a man like you and a woman like me are going to be inconspicuous.”

“You have a point,” he conceded.

“I had to face facts a long time ago,” she admitted to him. “I wasn’t going to be cute.”

“Did you want to be cute?”

“Yes. For a week or two, anyway.” She laughed at the short-lived girlhood dream. “But I quickly realized I was never going to be cute or dainty, petite or fragile. I was never going to pass unnoticed in a crowd. I was always going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

She knew Simon was watching; she could feel his eyes on her. “How old were you when you reached this conclusion?” he asked.

“Thirteen.”

He grimaced. “An awkward age.”

“Especially awkward for a girl who stood a head taller than anyone else in her class at school,” she related with an emotional detachment that had come with experience and maturity.

“So—” he shrugged “—you were tall.”

“It was more than that,” she confessed. “I had the neck of a giraffe. My shoe size was a ten, extra narrow. And I was covered from head to toe with freckles.”

“You may have been an ugly duckling, but you turned into a swan in the end,” he said appreciatively.

She deftly changed the subject. “When did you realize you were different?”

“Am I?”

She laughed out loud again. “Of course, adolescent boys want to tower over everyone else, don’t they?”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t realize I was different.”

“Why not?”

“My family.”

“Explain.”

“All the Hazard men—that adds up to nearly a dozen if we count uncles, cousins, nephews and brothers—are tall.”

They both knew there was more to it than height. It was height and a commanding presence.

She was genuinely curious. “Don’t you have any women in your family?”

Simon frowned. “Only those we’ve convinced to marry into the clan.” He went on. “My nephew, Jonathan, married a brilliant Egyptologist just before I left the States.”

Surely any nephew of this man’s would still be a boy. “Your nephew would be how old?”

He thought for half a minute. “Thirty-seven. Maybe thirty-eight by now.”

Sunday was baffled. “How...?”

“It’s one of those generational-gap things,” he said inconclusively.

She arched one eyebrow. “What is a generational-gap thing?”

Simon lifted his massive shoulders, and then dropped them again. “My father married five times and had five sons. Avery is the oldest. I’m the youngest. There’s a thirty-year gap between us. Avery’s two sons, Jonathan and Nick, are both older than I am.”

“I see.”

They walked past another group of delicately carved pagodas, a traditional Thai garden with immaculately trimmed trees and shrubs, huge stone urns of colorful flowers and life-size statues of elephants and water buffalo.

“As a matter of fact, it’s thanks to Jonathan that I’m in Thailand,” he said at last.

“Did he vacation here, and then entice you with tales of his travels?”

“Not exactly.”

She waited, assuming he would tell her more.

He did.

“I don’t know the whole story,” Simon began. “I don’t think anyone does, with the exception of Jonathan, and he’s real closemouthed about it. All I heard is that his old nemesis finally caught up with him in a back alley here in Bangkok several years ago. Jonathan was fished out of the khlongs the next morning by a friendly local, and spent a month in the hospital recuperating from his dip in the canals.”

Sunday was stunned. “Someone beat him up?”

“Somebody beat him to a bloody pulp.” Simon paused and stared off into the distance. There was something implacable about the way he stood there, something unnerving in his eyes and in the square set of his jaw. She wouldn’t want to be this man’s enemy. She wouldn’t want to be Jonathan Hazard’s old nemesis, if Simon ever caught up with him. “Not literally to a bloody pulp,” he said finally. “There wasn’t a visible scratch on him. All his injuries were internal.”

She tried to swallow and found it impossible. “He must have been badly hurt.”

“He was half-dead.” Simon shook his head from side to side. “Make that closer to three-quarters.”

“Is Jonathan all right now?”

“Good as gold. Right as rain. Has been for ages.”

She was relieved.

“Anyway, what impressed him about Thailand was the warmth and hospitality of its people. He wasn’t used to that in his line of work.”

Sunday’s hand fluttered to her breast. “Is Jonathan—” she lowered her voice to a whisper “—a spy?”

“Was.” Simon walked on. “At least, that’s the rumor.”

“He’s your nephew and you don’t know for certain.”

“I never asked. He never said.”

“Men!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Even if she tried to explain it, he would never understand. Sunday threw up her hands. “Men!”

* * *

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.”

Simon rubbed his hand back and forth along his chin. “I will give you one hundred baht for the piece of paper.”

The man appeared stunned. “But it is worth many times that, and I have a wife and six children to feed and clothe.”

“I thought you said you had five children.”

The man became animated. “There is my sister’s son who came to visit my home a year ago and now will not leave. I did not count him before.”

“Two hundred baht.“

“My eldest daughter is of marriageable age. I must be able to afford the temple offerings and the wedding feast.”

“Three hundred.”

Sunday opened her handbag and dug around for a moment. Simon assumed she was searching for another tissue. Instead, she brought out a fistful of money and said to the man, “I will give you one thousand baht for the map.”

His eyes darted from Simon to Sunday and back again. “But...”

Simon heaved a sigh of defeat and indicated his consent. “One thousand baht it is, then.”

The small man handed over the map and accepted his money in exchange. He bowed several times and intoned, “May enlightenment be yours, most generous lady, and yours, sir.”

Then he turned and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

“You paid too much,” Simon told her.

“That is a matter of opinion.”

“The paper is worthless.”

“Very probably.”

He knew she was no fool. “Then why give the man a thousand baht for it?”

“For the same reason you were going to give him three hundred,” Sunday answered.

He sat and he waited.

She went on to explain. “Maybe the man really does have a wife and five children to feed and clothe.”

Simon crossed his arms and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Six. Don’t forget his sister’s son.”

Sunday lifted the weight of her hair off her neck in a graceful motion that caught—and held—his attention. “Let’s look at what we got for one thousand baht, shall we?”

He grunted. “Why not?”

The scrap of paper was carefully unfolded and smoothed out flat on her lap. “It’s appears to be a map.” She pointed to the bottom of the page. “And these are some kind of symbols.”

“The man said it was a map and a riddle.” Simon studied the crude drawing first. “I believe I recognize this area.” He indicated a serpentine line down the middle.

Sunday’s red eyebrows, the same color as her hair, drew together. “What is it?”

“The river Pai.”

She raised her eyes to his; they really were the most incredible shade of green he’d ever seen. “And where is the river Pai?” she asked.

He concentrated on his answer. “In the north.”

“Anywhere near where we’re headed?”

“Yes.”

“How near?”

He wouldn’t lie to her. He wasn’t sure he could. “Very near. Not far from Mae Hong Son.”

She wrinkled up her forehead again. “Mae Hong Son?”

“The City of Mist.”

She gnawed on her lower lip. “That is amazing.”

“Amazing,” he repeated, unable to keep the sardonic tone from his voice.

Her chin came up. A faint color rose in her cheeks. Perhaps her skin had once been covered with freckles, but it was like peaches and cream now. “You sound a little...skeptical.”

He was more than a little skeptical; he was a lot skeptical. “That’s because I am.”

“Why?”

“It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“What is?”

Simon raised his eyes upward in a silent plea for patience. “We’re headed for the City of Mist. A stranger appears out of nowhere and offers to sell us a map that will lead to great riches. And, lo and behold, it just happens to be of the area around the City of Mist.” He unfolded his arms and pushed himself up straight on the bench. “The man must have heard us talking back at the Celestial Palace, Sunday, and then decided which of his many maps to try to sell us.” He gave a smirk. “Nice little racket he’s got going.”

“You think the map is a fake.”

“I know it’s a fake.”

She caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “I might agree with you, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We never spoke of the City of Mist until after we’d left the bar. So how did the man know which map to offer us?”

How was he supposed to know? Maybe it had been sheer dumb luck.

If he was smart, Simon realized as he sat there, he would return the woman’s deposit now and save them both a whole lot of aggravation.

“I don’t know. And frankly I don’t care.” He got to his feet. “It’s time to escort you back to your hotel, Ms. Harrington. You’ll want to make an early night of it.”

“Why?”

“Because we’ll be making an even earlier morning of it tomorrow.”

“How early?”

“Six o’clock.”

He could tell she wasn’t thrilled by the news.

She folded the silk fan and returned it to her handbag, along with the map. “I assume—” she sniffed “—you mean I should request a six o’clock wake-up call.”

“Nope.”

Her head came up. “I have to be ready at six?”

“Ready and waiting outside your hotel with the one suitcase you’re allowed to bring along.”

That definitely got her attention. “One suitcase?”

Simon realized he was almost enjoying himself. “And you’d better be able to carry it, yourself. There won’t be any porters handy where we’re going. By the way,” he asked as he hailed a passing samlor, “what hotel are you staying at?”

“The Regent.”

He should have known. “Only the best, huh?”

“Only the best,” she said, as if she was measuring out her words.

A half hour later, the taxicab pulled up in front of the most luxurious hotel in Bangkok. As she stepped from the small three-wheeled vehicle, it finally dawned on Simon where he had seen Sunday Harrington before. He snapped his fingers together. “Now I know.”

She hesitated, and glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Now you know what?“

“Where I’ve seen you before.” The details came to him. About seven years ago. Her likeness, purple bikini and all, had been splashed across every newspaper, television show and billboard, nationwide. Record sales had been set. For a week or two, there had been talk of little else. “The cover of Sports Illustrated, swimsuit edition.”

“You have a good memory for faces,” Sunday said as she disappeared into the Regent.

It wasn’t only her face that Simon remembered.

Four

The past had caught up with her.

Sooner or later, it always did. She just hadn’t expected it to be here or now.

She hadn’t expected it to be Simon Hazard.

She refused to apologize, of course, for what she’d done, what she’d been. And she didn’t explain. There was no reason to. She’d had an incredibly successful career as a model, and for that she would always be thankful.

But she was not a “babe,” and she was not a “bimbo.” She was not a body and a face without a brain. She was not a piece of meat. She was not a “loose woman.”

She was a talented designer, a business owner and a mature woman of thirty. Yet, to most people—men, in particular—she would always be the girl in the sexy purple bikini.

“That darn swimsuit is going to haunt me forever,” Sunday muttered under her breath as she crossed the lobby of the Regent and headed for the elevators.

Simon Hazard was right about one thing: she had been an ugly duckling. Gangly, buck-toothed, freckled, self-conscious, awkward and uncoordinated—that described her perfectly at the age of fifteen.

At sixteen, miraculously, she’d blossomed. As a result, she had signed a lucrative contract with the biggest modeling agency in New York. While everyone else in her high school class back in Cincinnati was worrying about what to wear to the prom, Sunday had been in Paris, modeling haute couture for the most expensive and prestigious French designers. She had gone full steam ahead from that day on, and she’d never looked back.

Not once.

From the beginning, she’d insisted on wearing only three colors: pink, purple or red. The look became her trademark, and was soon heralded as one of the cleverest marketing tools in the industry.

At the age of twenty, she’d graced the covers of every major fashion publication from Elle to Vogue. She had been making the incredible sum of fifty thousand dollars a day.

At twenty-two, she’d been chosen to appear on the cover of the annual swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. Sunday and her tiny bikini would go down in history. It became the most talked-about and the bestselling edition of the magazine, ever. For a while, no matter where she turned, Sunday saw herself in those three ridiculously tiny triangles of purple spandex.

She’d gone into modeling with her eyes wide open, but she hadn’t counted on the insatiable appetite of the paparazzi and the tabloid press. Any supermodel-cum-celebrity was considered fair game by one and all. Without her consent—even without her knowledge—her life became an open book. One reporter had tracked down some of her former classmates from high school. After all, inquiring minds had wanted to know.