The Maddening Model. Suzanne Simms
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.