From Cape Town with Love Read Online Free Page A

said again, near tears. “I’m sorry, Ten.”
    Now I was the one who couldn’t meet April’s eyes. The bright colors all around stung me, their celebration quietly mocking. I reached across the table and took April’s hand, grateful when she held on. Her palm melted into mine. I stared as our sad fingers danced.
    I was wrong about the ghost at our table: It had been Alice all along.
    Since I had booked us two cottages at the B and B, taking nothing for granted, I was surprised when April gently held my hand after I walked her to her cottage’s doorstep. She squeezed, a silent invitation to the Garden of Eden. Just before I got cast out.
    My hand burned inside April’s. My stomach had sloshed acid since we left the restaurant, but not from the food. April’s hips swayed toward the pink-crimson bougainvillea blossoms guarding her door, and my eyes followed.
Forget all that bullshit I just said about you,
April’s hips said, soothing me.
This is how I really feel.
    â€œDo you want to spend the night?” April said, taking my other hand.
    A mercy fuck. I understood the concept, had even administered a few, but had never been offered one. Night skies hid most of the beauty around us, and in the dark I was just very far from home. I could hear Sipho’s voice in my head, insisting that I walk away with my pride. If she was horny, she could buy a damn dildo.
    â€œWhy would I come this far to be anywhere but with you?” I said instead. She smiled, ignoring the pained rumble I had never heard in my own voice.
    April dug through her too-big woven purse, looking for her room key.
    My agent, Len, once told me that he’d ended up drunk on champagne, puking in the men’s room when he went to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding right after college. Walking into April’s cottage, I was sure I should know better, just like I’d told Len.
    The rooms were small, hardly big enough for the high queen beds that were their centerpiece. April’s buttocks flared out when she leanedover to turn on the gourd-shaped light on her nightstand. I would miss April’s ass; it was a minor miracle. She rarely wore a bra, since her breasts were small and perfect. Through the thin white cotton of her tank top, her nipples’ black pearls stared back at me in the thirty-watt light.
    April sat beside me, her hand on my knee. “It’s hard for me, too, Tennyson.”
    â€œYou seem to be doing all right.”
    â€œI’m not,” she said. “I smell you on my pillow—even here. I see people everywhere who look just like you. The way you flew to South Africa will probably always be the most romantic thing anyone ever does for me. Thank you for trying so hard. I’ll never forget it.” I shrugged, tired of the postmortem. “I miss you, Ten.”
    I didn’t say
I miss you, too.
Talk of missing me pissed me off. I played with the strap of her tank top, sliding it from her bare shoulder.
    â€œWhat else do you miss?” I said, on cue. She could have been a client.
    April slid her hand to my thigh, kneading hard. She knew exactly how to get my attention. Suddenly, April’s cruelty was sexy. I felt taut arousal below my navel. Most of the heat baking my skin was pain, but I wanted her.
    April pulled my T-shirt up, and I ducked to help her glide it over my head. The fabric stung when it snagged my bruised chin, but I hid my wince.
    My chest offered a new array of bruises. On one side, my ribs were battered purple.
    â€œGod, Ten . . . ,” April said. Her eyes flooded with tears.
    â€œShhhhhh,”
I comforted her. “Don’t do that. I’m all right.”
    â€œYou just went through hell, baby . . .”
    I just got to Hell, baby.
    April lightly traced the trail of welts and marks on my chest with her fingertip. Pain sizzled, mingled with longing. People who like to be whipped are looking for the feeling April’s finger gave me