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.”
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