Читать книгу The Maddening Model - Suzanne Simms, Suzanne Simms - Страница 6

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.”

“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.”

“Which is where?”

“Successful beyond my wildest dreams.”

He stared at her intently. “What brought you to Thailand, Sunday Harrington?”

She told him the truth. “I want to see the City of Mist.” She met and held his gaze. “What brought you to Thailand a year ago, Simon Hazard?”

“I was looking for something.”

So was she.

“Have you found it?” she inquired.

“Yes.” The samlor came to a halt. “We’re here,” he informed her.

“Where?” she asked as she took his proffered hand and stepped out of the taxi.

“Wat Po.”