Praise for the steamy new novel in the Essence bestselling Tennyson Hardwick mystery series
FROM CAPE TOWN WITH LOVE
“Gives readers a further peek into the main character’s personality while still preserving his sense of mystery. Tennyson Hardwick is cooler than a glacier, a man’s man who can’t resist women or responsibility but who has a soft spot that he’s not afraid to show. An enigmatic guy like that is hard to resist, so don’t even try. . . . From Cape Town with Love gives your summer so much more promise.”
—Herald-Standard Online (PA)
“Bold, sexy, and engaging, From Cape Town with Love is an amazing novel penned by extremely talented storytellers! Tennyson Hardwick continues to be one of the most superb characters in contemporary literature.”
—Zane, New York Times bestselling author of Total Eclipse of the Heart
“I’ve been a big fan of the Tennyson Hardwick series since Casanegra—and Ten is back and better than ever. From Cape Town with Love has something for everyone: the trademark sex and sizzle, and a nod to James Bond that makes this a high-octane thrill ride. Underwood, Due, and Barnes don’t disappoint.”
—Eric Jerome Dickey, New York Times bestselling author of Resurrecting Midnight and Dying for Revenge
“Heart-stopping and crazy sexy, From Cape Town with Love will keep your pulse pounding through the long night. Tennyson Hardwick is a hero for the 21st century.”
—Paul Levine, author of Illegal
. . . and for the “sizzling”* first novel in the series,
CASANEGRA
“The pace is taut, the dialogue is snappy, and it’s hard not to fall for Underwood’s fallen hero.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Seamlessly entertaining.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A sizzling mystery that will keep you guessing to the very end.”
—Essence*
“Hold on, there’s bound to be some turbulence.”
—The Washington Post
“Flavored noir novel generously sprinkled with steamy erotica.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Easy-flowing narrative style.”
—Black Issues Book Review
“Gritty. Hollywood mystery that’s filled with intrigue.”
—Ebony
“Casanegra is a wild ride through Hollywood, heart-pounding in every way. Smooth, ultra-sexy Tennyson Hardwick is a man readers will want to meet up close. He is all heart and danger, a knight in battered armor. You will love this novel!”
—E. Lynn Harris, New York Times bestselling author of I Say a Little Prayer
“This whodunit, told with a modern urban edge, is an amalgam of styles that carries thick overtones of Raymond Chandler, Walter Mosley, and L.A. Confidential. . . . Unexpected plot twists keep the reader turning pages.”
—Associated Press
“Sizzling hot! Once Casanegra was in my hands, I couldn’t put it down. From the tangled mystery to the action-packed story to the steamy scenes between the sheets, Casanegra was like a movie I never wanted to end.”
—L. A. Banks, author of the Vampire Huntress Legend series
These titles are also available as ebooks.
OTHER WORKS IN THE TENNYSON HARDWICK SERIES
Casanegra
In the Night of the Heat
ATRIA BOOKS
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.simonsandschuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Trabajando, Inc., Tananarive Due and Steven Barnes
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Atria Books hardcover edition May 2010
ATRIA BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your
live event. For more information or to book an event contact the
Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049
or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Underwood, Blair.
From Cape Town with love : a Tennyson Hardwick novel / [Blair Underwood with] Tananarive Due and Steven Barnes.—1st Atria Books hardcover ed.
p. cm.
At head of title: Blair Underwood presents
1. African American actors—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Fiction. 3. African American men—South Africa—Fiction. 4. Cape Town (South Africa)—Fiction. 5. Intercountry adoption—Fiction. I. Due, Tananarive, 1966– II. Barnes, Steven, 1952– III. Title. IV. Title: Blair Underwood presents.
PS3621.N383F76 2010
813'.6—dc22
2010007764
ISBN 978-1-4391-5912-5
ISBN 978-1-4391-5914-9 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-4391-6494-5 (ebook)
To
John Due and Patricia Stephens Due
Eva R. Barnes and Emory F. Barnes
and
Col. (Ret.) Frank and Marilyn Underwood,
with gratitude and love
I like big families myself. In fact, my whole life
has been a crusade for larger families.
—Ali Karim Bey, From Russia with Love
You may know the right wines, but you’re the one
on your knees. How does it feel, old man?
—Donovan “Red” Grant, From Russia with Love
Suggested MP3 Soundtrack
“Too Hot to Stop” (The Bar-Kays)
“Sihambile” (Mahlathini)
“Give It to Me Baby” (Rick James)
“Pretty Wings” (Maxwell)
“Unhome” (Miriam Makeba)
“Hate On Me” (Jill Scott)
“For the Love of Money” (The O’Jays)
“Good and Strong” (Sy Smith)
“Sexual Healing” (Marvin Gaye)
“Thula Mtwana” (Ladysmith Black Mambazo)
“Zingu 7” (Zola)
“Party Up (Up in Here)” (DMX)
“War Drums (Original Mix)” (EMC)
“African Woman” (Baaba Maal)
“Oya (Aw-Yuh)” (Babatunde Olatunji)
“Natural Born Killaz” (Dr. Dre, featuring Ice Cube)
“Another Way to Die” (Jack White and Alicia Keys)
“Demon Seed” (Nine Inch Nails)
“Welcome to the Terrordome” (Public Enemy)
“Sympathy for the Devil” (Rolling Stones)
“Red House” (Jimi Hendrix)
“Alive” (Pearl Jam)
“Chileshe” (Hugh Masekela)
“I Just Want to Celebrate” (Rare Earth)
“There’s Hope” (India.Arie)
“Lean on Me” (Bill Withers)
“Africa” (Soweto Gospel Choir)
“Agent Double-O-Soul” (Edwin Starr)
FROM CAPE TOWN WITH LOVE
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapt
er Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Watch scenes from From Cape Town with Love while you read.
* * *
Trailer
http://www.simonandschuster.com/multimedia?video=87313458001
* * *
PROLOGUE
THEY CALLED THEMSELVES the Three R’s: R.J., Ramirez, and Reiter. Reiter was female, but not exactly the nurturing kind. I was sitting at a table in a cold, windowless room, in the worst pain in my life. I’d been in the same chair for hours.
Sitting upright wasn’t easy because of the pain.
R.J. stood over me with a folder. He did most of the talking.
“The FBI is writing a book on you as we speak,” R.J. said. “Usually that’s the bad news. But in your case, that’s the good news.”
I couldn’t resist. “Then what’s the bad news?”
“You seen that TV show . . . ? What’s the name?” R.J. asked Ramirez and Reiter.
“What show?” Reiter said.
At first, I thought he was talking about my old series, Homeland. I’d played an FBI agent working with the Department of Homeland Security. But I was as wrong as I could be.
R.J. snapped his fingers. “Without a Trace,” he said. “It’s about people who’ve disappeared, right? One day they’re here, then bam, they’re gone. That’s a fascinating show.”
There was wildness in his eyes.
“You ever heard of the Patriot Act?” R.J. asked me.
I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I wondered again if it was day or night.
“That’s got nothing to do with me,” I said. I wanted to force him to say what he was hinting at. “I’m not a terrorist.”
“But you’re an interesting guy,” R.J. said.
“Fascinating guy,” Ramirez agreed in a singsong voice.
R.J. went on. “And if we decide we want to talk to you for a while, get to know you better, we can keep you around as long as we need to.”
“But nobody wants that,” R.J. said.
“Pain in the ass,” Reiter said.
Cold-steel reality unfolded in my head: I was in an interrogation room in an unknown location. My body felt butchered. I had been promised a long stretch in prison. I had just lost my oldest friend. I had barely survived the night, and a man had died at my hands.
No. Why mince words? I had killed a man. For the first time in my life.
I wondered how many people R.J., Ramirez, and Reiter had killed among them, or what measures they were willing to take when they wanted information. I didn’t get along with most cops already—but they weren’t cops, or anything like it.
I wished they were. I understood the rules with cops. There were no rules at all now.
* * *
Interrogation scene
http://www.simonandschuster.com/multimedia?video=87313457001
* * *
ONE
SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER
NOVEMBER 5, 2008
SOUTH AFRICA
April Forrest’s eyes widened. “Ten . . . what happened to your face?”
In the bosom of beauty, ugly comes as a shock. The swelling and bruises across my face made me look like I’d just been attacked by a prison gang. Might as well have been—although it was just one man. In the swamp.
When April left Los Angeles to teach in South Africa for six months, she’d left me, too. We had passed the one-year milestone right before she changed her mind about us, and an ocean and ten thousand miles had suddenly seemed like a small toll to see her again. I wanted to know what had scared her off—but maybe it was written all over my face.
“Long story,” I said. “I tried, but I couldn’t find flowers this late. May I come in?”
Apparently, long story wasn’t enough to get the door open any wider. April was lithe and fine, with skin the color of ginger.
She was living in a tiny cinder-block house on a street of modest but well-kept homes in a middle-class section of Soweto, outside Johannesburg. In the bright light from the porch, I saw her jaw shift with uncertainty. Her delicate chin and gently swaying braids, adorned with regal white beads at the ends, reminded me of why some men could be driven to beg.
Two or three loose dogs I’d seen outside the gate were barking at me from the unlighted street. Two yipped harmlessly, but one sounded like thunder. A week before, I’d killed a German shepherd in the Florida swamp. The memory of the dog’s last yelp, and his master’s last labored breath, still iced my blood.
“You look like you almost got murdered, Ten. What happened?”
“The T. D. Jackson case.” My investigation into the death of football star T. D. Jackson had taken me places that were hard to put into words. Dad had told me that an LAPD officer who had been through my ordeal might have been considered like an OIS, Officer Involved Shooting, and sent to counseling. “Like I said, April . . . long story.”
April’s look told me that I was failing my first test since our breakup. In her place, I might close the door on me. Dying hope flashed hot in my chest. I knew it then: I shouldn’t have come to see April without calling her first, like my father and Chela told me before I left.
“Ten, I can’t . . . I’m not alone.”
She’s already with somebody else? A foreign rage tightened the back of my neck. I didn’t know if I was more pissed at her for moving on, or at myself for flying across the world to witness her new life up close.
When an older woman appeared behind April in the doorway, I wanted to hug her. April was boarding, so she was living with her hostess! The woman looked about fifty-five, but her skin was so smooth that she might have been ten or fifteen years older. Bright silver hair framed her forehead beneath her colorful head scarf. The slope of her nose and sharp cheekbones reminded me of Alice. Beauty, timeless. Another woman. A different time. Despite the severity of her frown, the stranger’s face forced me to stare.
“I’m sorry it’s so late, Mrs. Kunene,” April apologized. A faint living-room light was on, but the woman might have been asleep. It was ten P.M. in Johannesburg, late for an unannounced visitor. I hadn’t thought about the hour when I jumped into the taxi at the airport and told the driver to go to the address April had given me. A lot had changed since the last time I was in South Africa.
The streets were so dark, I had no idea how the driver found his way.
“This is my friend Tennyson. From the U.S.”
April said friend as if it was the whole story. I could barely smile for her hostess—not that a smile would have helped my face. Mrs. Kunene looked like she was trying to decide if she should call the police right then, or wait for me to look at her the wrong way.
After a twenty-two-hour flight via Amsterdam, I couldn’t fake pleasantries with a hostile stranger. “Come away with me for a long weekend,” I said into April’s ear, not quite a whisper. I’d planned a more elegant approach, but the sight of April’s face had drained my memory. My palms were damp, like my virgin friends used to say in high school.
April touched her ear, coaxing away a strand of hair. “Ten . . . slow down . . .”
A broad-shouldered man with snowy white hair appeared next, wearing only his slacks, rou
sed from bed. Mr. Kunene might be my father’s age, but his motion was agile and his face was as smooth as his wife’s.
“April, this man is your friend?” he said. “He looks like a tsotsi!”
I admired his lyrical accent despite the insult: He’d just said I looked like a gangster.
April planted her foot in the doorway to keep the door from slamming in my face. Her foot was as firm as her voice was gentle: “Yes, yes, he’s a good friend. It’s all right.”
“Is he drunk?” Mrs. Kunene called, stepping back. The rolled r’s in the woman’s accent were music. She made drunk sound like a state to aspire to.
“Sir and madam, I am not drunk,” I said. “Please accept my apologies for stopping by so late. I have to talk to April right away.” When they heard my reasonableness, and my American accent, some of the alarm left their eyes.
I pointed out the gate, where the tattered taxi that had brought me waited, a dingy gray VW Citi Golf that had once been white. One of the back taillights was missing, and the other glowed dimly. The driver sat inside, awaiting my verdict. The yipping dogs still barked, but the larger one had moved on. April saw the taxi and realized delays were costing me.
“I’ll be right here on the porch,” April said to her hosts, and slipped outside before they could object. The white curtains fluttered at the window as they watched us.
On the porch, I had an impulse to pull April close—but I followed her lead and kept a two-foot distance. If I tried to touch her and she flinched away, no words would rescue us.
“Sorry, but she’s a minister,” April explained, hushed. “They’re strict with boarders.”
Good. I hoped they ran the house like a damn nunnery. “I need a face-to-face conversation with you,” I said.
April’s eyes fell away, and my throat burned. A month ago, April would have fussed over my bruises, planting her soft lips on mine.
“Let me take you somewhere beautiful,” I said. “Don’t we deserve time, April?”
“Yes, but . . . I’m working until Saturday.”
From Cape Town with Love Page 1