“Thank you, Sister.”
Sunday opened the door and got out. She took a deep, fortifying breath, gave herself a quick pep talk and started walking toward the group of men facing Simon on the road.
* * *
Damn the woman!
What the hell did she think she was doing? He had told her to get back in the Rover with the others and stay there. The situation was precarious enough as it was. The head man facing him was negotiating for their safe passage along this stretch of road. The presence of a woman—and Simon was pretty sure none of these bandits had ever seen a woman like Sunday Harrington—was bound to complicate matters.
The brigands were speaking Thai to him and their native dialect to one another—each hill tribe in the north of Thailand had its own language. But he was pretty sure the leader, if not all of the gang members, understood English. There was no way for him to warn Sunday to watch what she said. He could only hope that she would somehow take her cue from him.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” Simon muttered out of the side of his mouth as she approached.
Sunday stopped beside him, turned her face up to his and smiled bravely, but he saw the concern in her eyes. “I wondered what was keeping you.”
“I’ve been talking with these men and their leader, Ho.”
“Ho?”
“Ho,” he said, indicating the small man with the large gun.
Ho. Ho. Ho.
Simon fought a sudden, crazy urge to laugh. This was no laughing matter, he reminded himself. Thank goodness, Sunday didn’t crack a smile.
“Are these men having trouble with their truck?” she inquired innocently, looking past them to where the vintage Ford pickup blocked the highway.
“I’ll ask them.” Simon switched to Thai and inquired, on behalf of the lady present, if something was wrong with their vehicle.
Ho spoke for several minutes, gesturing wildly with one hand and occasionally waving the other—the one with the semiautomatic weapon in it—in the air.
There was a short, brittle pause.
“There is nothing wrong with their truck,” Simon relayed to her.
“Then I’m sure these gentlemen will move their pickup so that we may pass by,” Sunday said, carefully enunciating each word. “For it is written that a brave man does not make war on women or the innocent.”
He’d love to ask her where it was written, but this wasn’t the time or the place. At least she was clever enough to behave as if the head man understood every word she was saying—which he probably did.
Ho spoke again and Simon responded. Then he turned and translated for Sunday. “The leader of this band of men wants to know if we have any of the poppy with us.”
Sunday wrinkled her nose. “The poppy?”
“Opium.”
“Opium!”
Simon quickly reassured her. “I’ve explained that we have no opium.”
“Of course, we don’t have any opium.” Sunday let out a frustrated sigh. “We have nothing but the clothes on our backs. Anyone can see that we’re a simple group of travelers, including a holy sister, journeying to Chiang Mai.”
One of the other native hill men stepped forward and began to ramble in his native dialect. Then he raised his finger and pointed at Sunday. In turn, Ho posed the question to Simon in Thai. The bandits stood and stared at the woman beside him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“They want to know if your hair is really that color red, or if you dye it with the juice of the elephantberry plant.”
Sunday reached up and patted her head. “Of course, this is the real color of my hair.”
Another of the border raiders came closer, grinned a toothless grin and jabbered for half a minute.
“This one is asking if all Americans are as big as we are,” Simon eventually interpreted for her.
Sunday pulled herself up to her full height—the woman really was magnificent at times—and looked down the length of her lovely nose. “I wish I knew how to say yes in their language.”
“I think they get the message,” he said with a touch of irony.
Ho barked a command to his raggedy troops, including the young men who had emerged from the forest, then he circled the pair of them, his eyes never leaving Sunday for a minute. Simon had to admit the guy was making him nervous.
Ho finally spoke. Simon listened intently. Once he understood the bandit’s business, his natural instinct was to slip a protective arm around the woman beside him. In fact, that was exactly what he did.
Sunday glanced up at him. “What is it?”
Simon cleared his throat and prepared himself for her reaction. “This man has made an offer for you.”
She stiffened. “An offer for me?”
Adrenaline was shooting into Simon’s bloodstream. Every one of his senses was on red alert, but he realized the importance of keeping his wits about him and maintaining a poker face. He knew the price they might all pay if he didn’t. “I have told the leader Ho that it isn’t our custom.”
Green eyes darkened to the color of the teakwood forest at sunset. “What isn’t our custom?”
He knew she would ask. “I cannot sell you.”
Sunday was quick to shake her head and even quicker to reply. “You certainly cannot.”
Simon drew her closer. He could feel the ripple of surprise and awareness that swept through Sunday as their bodies touched. She fit him perfectly. It was almost as if the size and shape of his leg, his thigh, his waist, even his chest, had been molded to fit hers.
It was the damnedest thing.
For a brief instant, Simon wondered if they would fit perfectly in other ways, as well. Later, he promised himself. If they got out of this mess alive, he would find out later.
“I have explained that in our country, a man does not sell or share—” he dropped the bomb “—his wife.”
The expression on Sunday Harrington’s face was priceless. It was almost worth the aggravation of the past four days, of dealing with the likes of the Grimwades, of standing out in the pouring rain getting soaked to the skin, of encountering a gang of cutthroats.
“W-wife?” Sunday stumbled over the word.
Simon added after a brief pause, “Besides, you are worth far more than two pigs.”
Her mouth opened and closed several times, before she managed to sputter, “Two pigs?”
“Indeed, I’ve told Ho that in America, a woman such as yourself brings a great dowry of many pigs, many water buffalo and many fine sheep to her marriage,” he elaborated.
He was right about one thing: the bandit who called himself Ho understood English. He stopped Simon and questioned him about what kind of sheep were raised in America. Were they similar to their own mountain goats?
To make matters worse—he hadn’t thought it was possible—it began to pour. The rain came down in sheets, plastering their clothes to their bodies. Sunday’s sweater and jeans soon clung to her in a most revealing fashion.
“I’m soaked through,” Sunday announced to the assemblage as if she were the Queen of Sheba. “We must return to our vehicle and continue our journey to Chiang Mai.” Then she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
“You’re cold, darling,“ Simon said, drawing her closer.
Her teeth began to chatter in earnest. “I’m freezing, darling.“
Ho made a dismissing gesture with his hand and finally announced in Thai, “You may go.”
Simon wasn’t one to usually question his good luck, but he found he had to know. “Why are you allowing us to pass?”
Lowering his semiautomatic rifle, Ho smiled an inscrutable smile and said in Thai, “The lady is correct. A brave man does not make war on women and innocents.” Then he ordered his men to move their truck.
“Thank you,” Simon said politely in the same language.
Ho walked away with a bandit’s swagger. Then he stopped and peered back over his shoulder. “Are you certain you will not take three pigs
for the woman?”
Simon responded in the same language, “It is a most generous offer, but I cannot part with her.” He shrugged. “She has bewitched me.”
“This is a rare female,” the bandit observed.
“Rare, indeed.” Then Simon turned and, without a backward glance, urged Sunday toward the Range Rover.
“What did he say?” she whispered.
“He said we can go.”
“And?”
He kept his arm around her shoulders and hurried her along. “And he upped his offer to three pigs.”
Sunday glared at him.
“Don’t worry. I turned him down flat.”
“Very funny,” she snapped, wiping the rain from her eyes. “By the way, you can thank me anytime.”
Simon frowned. “Thank you for what?”
She gave him a look that was rich with meaning. “For saving your precious hide, cowboy.”
“Good grief, surely you don’t think—”
“I certainly do.”
He wasn’t about to let Sunday Harrington assume she’d saved his rear, or any other part of him, for that matter. Once a woman got that kind of hold over a man, she never let him forget it.
“I was doing fine until you interfered.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out again. “You went against my orders. I told you to stay put.”
“I thought it might help to create a diversion,” she said.
“Help?” Simon realized he had the strongest urge to either choke her or kiss her. Maybe both. “Is that what you call it?”
“Well, what do you call it?” she challenged.
“Stupidity.”
“It wasn’t stupidity,” Sunday retorted. “You were one against—” she counted on her fingers “—seven or eight.”
“So you thought you’d improve the odds?”
She sunk her teeth into her lower lip. “Something like that.”
Simon stopped dead in his tracks and faced her. “So, by virtue of your height, your red hair and your green eyes, you thought to create a diversion and, somehow, rescue me from seven or eight men armed with machetes and semiautomatic rifles?”
“When you put it like that,” she allowed, “it sounds idiotic.”
“It sounds idiotic because it is bloody idiotic!”
Sunday blinked several times in quick succession. “Why are you yelling at me?”
Was he yelling?
He was. “Because I’m mad. Because you scared the living sh—daylights out of me back there.” He brought his hand up to cup her chin. “Because I want to kiss you so bad I can taste it, and I can’t because we have an audience watching every move we make.”
Sunday stood there in the pouring rain and gazed up at him.
Simon shook his head and brushed the strands of dripping hair away from her face. “You crazy little fool.”
She smiled tremulously. “Maybe. But I’ll tell you the same thing I told Colonel Bantry.”
“What’s that?”
“Let’s get the hell out of Dodge City.”
“I couldn’t have said it better, myself,” Simon admitted as they made a dash for the Range Rover.
Eight
“Like rats deserting a sinking ship,” Sunday grumbled to herself as she left her hotel room to meet Simon.
It had been several days since the incident involving the armed bandits on the road. She was rested, refreshed, dry and ready to visit Chiang Mai’s famous night market.
Apparently, she was the only one.
The same evening they had reached the northern Thai city, Millicent and Nigel Grimwade had jumped ship. They hadn’t even bothered to change their clothes or stay for the night in the hotel accommodations Simon had arranged for them. In fact, the young Australian couple had insisted upon being dropped off at the airport so they could hire a charter flight to take them back to Bangkok.
“Good riddance,” Sunday muttered, swinging her leather handbag over the shoulder of her red dress.
Sister Agatha Anne, of course, had reached her intended destination with their arrival in Chiang Mai. She had gone directly to the clinic run by the Sisters of St. Agnes, along with the crate of medical supplies.
Even Colonel Bantry had abruptly changed his plans. He’d made the announcement only this morning at breakfast. He’d run into an old school chum from his days at Harrow, someone he referred to as “Bunky.” Anyway, Arthur Bantry had decided to remain with his friend rather than continue with them to the City of Mist.
“Like rats from a sinking ship,” Sunday repeated as she walked toward the front lobby of the modest hotel.
After all, Simon had to make a living, too. No doubt he had counted on the fares that he would be paid for driving the Grimwades and the Colonel for the next several weeks. Instead, she was going to be his only passenger.
Money was the problem. She had a lot of it, and Simon had very little.
“How can I broach this delicate subject without damaging his sizable male ego?” she pondered aloud.
“Whose sizable male ego?” came a familiar masculine voice from behind her.
Her face heated. She turned around. “Simon.”
“Sunday.” His eyebrows drew together in a classic frown. “What delicate subject and whose sizable male ego?” he repeated.
She dismissed the whole business offhandedly. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing?” His tone was one of disbelief. “Somehow, I think it must have been something.“ He gently scolded her. “After all we’ve been through together in the past week, this is no time to start having secrets from each other.”
She wanted to have her secrets. She didn’t want him to read her mind or know her every thought. Good grief, some of her thoughts had been rather private and very personal!
The truth was, Simon Hazard made her nervous. He made her self-conscious, and aware of him in a way that no other man ever had.
He put his hand on her shoulder with apparent casualness. “Sunday—?”
“Money,” she blurted out.
He looked baffled. “Money?”
She swiftly nodded her head. “Dollars. Francs. Rupees. Deutsche marks. Bahts.“
“I think I get the idea. What about money?”
She stifled a sigh. “I’m worried you won’t have enough.”
“Enough for what?”
Sunday wet her lips with her tongue and drew in a deep breath. “Things.”
He appeared puzzled. “What kind of things?”
“Food. Gas. Lodging.”
“You’re starting to sound like an exit sign on the expressway,” he said dryly.
She cleared her throat. “I know you must have been counting on the fares from the Grimwades and Colonel Bantry, and now that they’ve up and left you high and dry—”
“Good riddance...at least to the Grimwades,” he said, echoing her sentiments. “I didn’t mind the Colonel. He was a bit stiff, but that type usually is.”
Sunday gave him a speculative glance. “But you won’t get paid,” she told him.
“Nope.”
“You don’t seem worried about it.”
“I’m not.” He paused, then added, “You know what they say about money.”
“It’s the root of all evil?” she ventured.
“Actually, the original quotation was, ‘love of money is the root of all evil,’” he said, correcting her. “My personal motto is easy come, easy go.”
Sunday stopped, turned toward him and planted her hands on her hips. “That’s all you have to say after what you’ve been through this week—Easy come, easy go?”
“It’s only money, Sunday,” he stated, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, if there’s one thing I’ve learned as a tour guide, it’s to expect the unexpected.”
Speaking of the unexpected, there was something different about Simon tonight. Sunday finally figured out what it was. “You’re not wearing your USN cap.”
>
Simon combed his fingers through soft black curls and expressed aloud what she’d known all along. “I need a haircut.”
“Surely they have barbers in Chiang Mai.”
“They do. But the barbers here only know one way to cut hair.” The flicker of a smile came and went. “I’m afraid I’ll end up looking like a monk.”
“No matter what was done to your hair, you wouldn’t look like a monk,” she blurted out as they continued on their way.
“Remind me to ask you later what you mean by that,” he said as they reached the lobby and the street beyond. “Are you ready to shop till you drop?”
“I’m ready.”
“Then we’re off.”
Once they’d reached the entrance to the marketplace, which had booths and makeshift stalls lining both sides of the narrow, ancient street, Simon issued a warning. “If the price seems too good to be true, it probably is. This place is infamous, for its five-dollar Rolex watches, ‘instant’ antiques and cheap designer clothes.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” she replied.
The night bazaar of Chiang Mai was another world altogether: a world of glowing brass lanterns, of exotic fruits and flowers, of embroidered cloth and wall hangings depicting fierce dragons, rare birds and the now-extinct Chinese tiger, of pungent odors wafting from open-air food stalls, of people jabbering in languages Sunday had never heard before, of squawking chickens and bleating farm animals and screeching monkeys, of tinkling chimes and hand-carved wooden water buffalo bells, of the tawdry and the breathtaking.
Sunday didn’t know where to look first—at an artisan working her loom or at a rack of sterling silver chains, the links interwoven so closely that the necklace she picked up felt like liquid silver in her hand.
They moved on to the next booth. “These were originally used by Thai rice farmers,” Simon explained as she examined the drawstring bags made of fabric and trimmed with cowrie shells.
At yet another table, Sunday studied a richly embroidered and beaded baseball cap. There was a sequined elephant on the front, and another on the bill. “This is wonderful,” she exclaimed.
“It’s called Kalaga,“ Simon told her. “It’s native to the remote northern hill country. The original tapestries were encrusted with rare gemstones and told stories of love, royalty and often elephants, a Thai symbol of luck.”
The Maddening Model (Hazards, Inc.) Page 6