From Cape Town with Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

cooling corpse. Both of us dozed, but neither of us slept for long. I could feel April’s microscopic hairs brushing against my skin. Since I couldn’t have April, her nearness chafed me. I wanted to leave so badly that I could barely lie still.
I love you, Alice.
Ugh. I was afraid I would vomit.
    When the first pale sunlight peeked beneath the door, I checked April’s face and found her eyes closed. She was asleep, or pretending to be; either one was fine. I kissed her forehead and climbed out of bed. Silent as a cat burglar, I found my clothes and dressed.
    I left a note of apology on her table, explaining that I would slip her plane ticket to Johannesburg under the door.
Thank you for helping me understand,
I wrote.
    The room reeked of us. April’s sweet, sharp scent, like no one else’s.
    I couldn’t glance at April’s nakedness one last time before I walked away.

THREE
    SOON AFTER DAWN, I was driving toward the airport to look for a standby flight when I remembered the scrap of paper in my back pocket, a glimmer of good karma. I had planned to spend the day touring wineries with April, but instead I was leaving her stranded at our B and B. I’d left money for cab fare along with her plane ticket, but I didn’t expect her to be happy when she got up and realized I had cut our trip short.
    Rachel Wentz’s telephone number was a promise of diversion—and insurance against running into April at the airport. April and I might be friends again one day, but I needed to shake
I love you, Alice
out of my head.
You twisted, stupid-ass motherfucker.
If I flew straight home, I knew I would beat myself up all along the way. No thanks.
    I pulled to the side of the road near the entrance to a winery on Route 44 and dialed my iPhone. I don’t always pull over when I make a call, but I had nowhere else to go. The near-empty roadway was flanked by towering oaks, and the mountains and valleys around me burst with green life in the golden tendrils of the morning light. I could almost smell wine in the air.
    â€œWho the hell is this?” said the woman who answered in Rachel Wentz’s room, her voice angry and wide awake. “It’s six o’clock in the morning.”
    I almost hung up. Since I’d called a hotel switchboard, she would never know it was me.
    â€œThis is Tennyson Hardwick. I—”
    â€œWe were looking for your call yesterday.”
    â€œI’m calling now.” My interest in the job was circling the drain. After the night I’d just had, I would have a low tolerance for Rachel Wentz.
    â€œWhy should I let you within ten feet of one of the biggest movie stars in the world?”
    Go fuck yourself.
It was right at the tip of my tongue. Instead, I looked at my watch, still set to Los Angeles time. “It’s nine o’clock last night in L.A., but you might be able to catch my agent, Len Shemin, on his cell—”
    â€œBodyguards have agents?” Her New York accent suddenly became pronounced. She liked being a character, and abrasiveness was her routine.
    â€œI prefer Close Protection Services,” I said. “But I’m an actor, too.”
    â€œRight, you live in L.A., so of course you are.” The woman laughed, overly amused. I don’t like being laughed at, but it changed her tone. “Okay, so I’ll give Len a call. I’ve already got his cell and home numbers. How do I reach you?”
    I told her, and she hung up without saying good-bye.
    Ten minutes later, she called back. My phone rang before I could finish a cup of Caturra coffee I’d picked up from a roadside café. I’ve been Len’s client for more than a decade, and I’ve never reached him that fast. But I’m not Rachel Wentz.
    â€œYou may be a godsend, Mr. Hardwick,” she said when she called back; whatever Len had said had sealed the deal, given me instant respect. My caller ID beeped to announce that Len was