Louisiana Stalker

by J. R. Roberts

  “To what?”

  “Well, first my girls, then me, and then my husband’s money. Now I can’t get rid of him.”

  “So you want me to do it?”

  “If you can dissuade him along the way, that would be great,” she said, “but that’s not my primary concern.”

  “Then what is?”

  “I’m being stalked.”

  Join the club, he thought. It was the first time he’d thought about the man following him since the day before.

  “By who?”

  “I told you,” she said, “a man.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “No.”

  “Or what he wants?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know he’s stalking you?”

  “Because he’s always there. Every time I turn around. He doesn’t seem to be making a secret of it.”

  “Do you think it has something to do with your business?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or your husband’s business?”

  “It could.”

  “Is he being stalked, too?”

  “No.”

  “Have you told him you are?”

  “Yes, I have,” she said. “He just thinks I’m imagining things.”

  “What about the second man?” Clint asked. “Does he know about him?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “Oh, I see,” Clint said. “And is he going to know about me?”

  “Maybe . . . if I have to tell him.”

  “Well, if I decide to help, I’ll want to talk to him, see what he knows.”

  “Very well, but I’ll be paying you.”

  “I’ll remember that . . . boss.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Maybe,” he said, “maybe I will if you show me the upstairs.”

  She turned in her chair and looked up, then looked back around at him.

  “You want to see the upstairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s just my bedroom.”

  “I like galleries,” he said. “Especially the one in the front.”

  She stared at him for a few moments, then shrugged and said, “Oh, all right. Come on.”

  She took him to an outer stairway so that they ended up on the back gallery.

  “This do anything for you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “I like the one in the front.”

  “Okay, come on.”

  The upstairs turned out to be as he’d suspected, all one room, her bedroom. She led him through it to the front, but before she could open the French doors to the gallery, he said, “Wait.”

  “You said you wanted to see.”

  “First I want you to see,” he said.

  “See what?”

  “Tell me if you see your stalker on the street,” he said. “If you spot him, let me know where he is. Then I’ll step out and have a look.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “All right.”

  She opened the doors.

  “Do it casually.”

  “All right.”

  She stepped outside, leaned on the railing, looked both ways, then looked up, as if she were just taking the breezes on her face. It felt like rain to Clint, like any minute.

  She came back in.

  “There’s a man there, but it’s not him.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Well, no, I haven’t ever seen his face.”

  “Then how do you know this isn’t him?”

  “He has a distinctive build, sort of blocky. Plus when he sees me looking at him, he always steps out into the open.”

  “Then who is this?”

  “Lee Keller,” she said. “He’s the man I told you I thought might help me.”

  “And he became a problem.”

  She nodded.

  “So you’ve got two men stalking you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, where is he?”

  “Off to the right, across the street, and several doors down.”

  “All right,” Clint said. “Wait here.”

  He stepped out onto the gallery and looked around. The breeze on his face told him there was definitely rain coming, and probably a lot of it. He looked left first, then up, then looked off to the right where she said the man was. He saw someone standing in a doorway, but he didn’t step out, he stayed put. But Clint could see his blocky size.

  He turned and went back in.

  “Okay, I got him,” Clint said. “You wait here.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to try and end it right now,” Clint said. “Stay inside, don’t go out on the gallery. In fact, stay in this room until I get back.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Do you have a gun?”

  “I do,” he said, taking the Colt New Line from the back of his belt.

  “That little thing?”

  “It’s not the size of the gun that matters,” he said. “But don’t worry, if the job goes on from today, I’ll start wearing my holster and Colt. Now stay here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He went downstairs.

  SIXTEEN

  Clint went down the way he had come, the outside stairway in the back, and then worked his way to the front of the building. He risked a look out onto the street. The neighborhood was quiet and there was no foot traffic to speak of. He could see the doorway in question from where he was, but he didn’t know if the man could see him.

  He had come around the right side of the building, which had been a mistake. He decided to go back the way he had come, and work his way around to the left side. From there he walked down the street, away from the man in the doorway, then crossed over. On the same side of the street now, he kept as close to the buildings as possible and started making his way toward the doorway. If he could catch the man, he could end the whole business right there and then for Capucine.

  He had moved the Colt from the back of his belt to the front. Now, as he approached the doorway, he put his hand on the gun, ready to draw it if the man was armed.

  Finally, he was one doorway away and he moved quickly. When he got to the doorway in question, it was empty. The man must have seen him coming.

  He looked at Capucine’s building and saw her out on the gallery. That was what had happened. She had come out to see what was going on, and had tipped the man off by doing so.

  Shaking his head, Clint crossed the street and walked back to the building.

  • • •

  The man watching Capucine was indeed named Lee Keller. He made his living with his hands and his gun. He’d heard that Capucine Devereaux was looking for help, and went to see her. She had hired him, but by then he was obsessed with her. He wanted her, and he started hanging around her, making no bones about the fact that he was crazy about her. She wasn’t having it, though, and had finally fired him, because he had not done the job. His lust for her had robbed him of his ability to do so.

  And he hadn’t been able to shake it off. He wasn’t working now; he was just watching her, waiting for his opportunity to step in and make her his. And he was making no secret of it. Whenever he could, he let her know he was there.

  When he saw her on the gallery the first time, he’d stepped out of the doorway. Then another man appeared. Was this someone else she was hiring now? He didn’t know the man on sight, and he ducked back into the doorway so the man couldn’t see him.

  But it was easy to see that the man was trying to get a look at him. When he withdrew from sight, and then Capucine came back out on the gallery, it wasn’t hard to figure out what the man was planning to do.

  Keller decided not to have a showdown with this man until he knew who he was. So he left the doorway and
walked hurriedly up the street.

  By the time Clint Adams had come out onto the street, Keller was already gone.

  • • •

  Clint went up the stairs, met Capucine as she came out onto the back gallery.

  “What did I tell you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wanted to see what was happening. I saw him run up the street, but I didn’t want to call out to you.”

  “It didn’t matter,” he said. “You’d already tipped him off that something was up. He decided not to wait to find out what.”

  “Do you think he knows who you are?”

  “I hope not,” Clint said. “I’d like to keep that our secret for a while.”

  “So what should we do now?”

  “I think we have to be ready to spend a lot of time together.”

  She pulled at the tie on her robe and said, “I think that can be arranged.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Capucine’s body was completely different from Jeannie’s. Most notably different were her breasts, which were large, with pendulous undersides, and large, turgid brown nipples. She stripped her robe off, and the filmy garment beneath it, which left her naked. She cupped her breasts in her own hands, popping the nipples with her thumbs.

  “I’m not a whore, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she told him. “I just very much enjoy sex.”

  “So do I,” he said, “but I’m not sure this is wise.” He was thinking about what Jeannie had said about Cappy getting him into her bed.

  “Don’t tell me that little whore Jeannie wore you out?” Cappy asked. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who . . . tires easily.”

  He knew she was trying to play on his ego, but that wasn’t the reason he went ahead. He was simply faced with a nude body he could not take his eyes off of. Where was the harm? She may have been married—he didn’t usually dally with married women—but it certainly didn’t sound like a solid marriage.

  As he moved toward her, she dropped her hands. He slid his hands beneath her breasts, feeling their weight and the smoothness of her skin. Her nipples poked out at him, easily the longest nipples he’d ever seen on a woman. He lifted her breasts to his mouth so he could kiss her, lick and suck the nipples while she sighed and dropped her head back.

  Her scent was not as sweet as Jeannie’s; it was more subtle and mature. While he pressed his face to her breasts, she reached between them for his belt.

  “Wait,” he said, stepping back.

  She gave him a puzzled expression as he looked around. Eventually, he settled on a place to set his gun where it would be within easy reach.

  “Let’s lock these doors,” Clint said. They locked both the front and the back French doors, and then locked themselves in an embrace, settling into a deep kiss that went on for a long time. It was so obvious how much Capucine enjoyed kissing. She was in no hurry to pull back, and allowed her hands to roam over him as they kissed. Finally, the heat of her body was what pushed them apart. He had to get out of his clothes, so they both went to work and quickly stripped him naked. Then another long embrace, this time with his hard cock trapped between them.

  He slid his hands down her back to her ass, which was smooth and majestic. He gripped it tightly, pulling her to him, then skid one finger down the crack, which formed a deep cleavage that gripped his finger so tight it gave him other ideas.

  She reached between them, gripped his hard cock, and used it to tug him to the bed. But instead of pushing him down on the mattress, or lying on it herself, she went to her knees in front of him, holding his cock in her hand. She licked it, first the head, then the shaft, wetting it thoroughly before finally taking it into her mouth.

  She sucked him avidly, holding him with her hands on his butt and bobbing her head back and forth. He started moving his hips in unison with her movements, and she moaned as his cock slid in and out of her mouth.

  Eventually, he felt he had to pull free of her mouth or it would all be over much too soon. He reached for her, pulled her to her feet, and pushed her down on the bed. Instead of joining her, however, he kept her near the edge of the mattress and knelt down. He tossed her legs over his shoulders, then leaned in and breathed her scent before diving in with his mouth and tongue.

  She gasped as his tongue touched her, first entering her, then moving up and down her moist slit, wetting it and finding her hard little clit. He flicked it with his tongue tip and she jerked, as if receiving small electric shocks.

  She reached down to hold his head in her hands as he continued to lap at her, Finally, he felt her legs trembling and then she was flopping about on the bed, trying to push his mouth away from her, but he continued to lick and suck at her while she was climaxing, knowing how much more sensitive she was during that time.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” she cried out, and then instead of trying to push him away, she pushed herself away from him, skittered back on the mattress, and rolled herself up into a ball.

  “Jesus,” she gasped, “where did you learn to do that?”

  “I picked it up over the years,” he said, stroking her back.

  “God, it was so good . . . it was . . . almost painful,” she said. “I didn’t want you to stop, but you had to stop.” She unfurled her body and looked at him. “Did you learn that from some whore?”

  “I’ve never been with a whore,” he said, and then added, “well, I’ve never paid for one. Let’s put it that way.”

  “If you can do that to a woman,” she gasped, “I can see why you wouldn’t need a whore. They must line up at your door.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “if I had a door, but I move around a lot.”

  “No home?” she asked.

  “None to speak of.”

  “Never had a wife?”

  “No.”

  “Ever come close?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Once.”

  “What happened?”

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her breathing returned to normal, and she reached out for his cock, which was still semierect.

  “Your turn,” she said. “Help me turn down the bed so we can do it right.”

  Together they pulled down the quilt and sheet, then got in the bed together. They cuddled and kissed for a bit, until his cock was standing at full mast, and then she pushed him down on his back and straddled him. First, she rubbed her pussy over his shaft, wetting it with her juices. Finally she lifted her hips, held him with her hand, and settled down on him, taking the length of him into her steamy depths.

  “Ahhhh!” he said as her heat engulfed him.

  She leaned over, hung her breasts over his face so he could lick and suck them, then leaned down farther to kiss him and say, “Stay with me, Mr. Adams. I like a nice long ride.”

  He let his hands glide up and down her back and said, “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

  EIGHTEEN

  There were two stalkers in Baton Rouge.

  Lee Keller was Capucine Devereaux’s stalker. But before he could continue, he needed to identify the man who was apparently spending the afternoon with her. The man who might know that would be her driver, Simmons.

  Keller knew where Simmons spent his afternoons when Capucine was at her pied-à-terre. There was a small saloon several blocks away. Simmons would park his carriage out front, and then go inside and nurse two beers for the afternoon.

  Keller found the saloon. It was called Casey’s. As he entered, he saw Simmons sitting at a table alone, half a mug of beer in front of him. In the past Keller had observed Simmons through the front windows. He usually sat alone, and rarely talked with anyone. So getting into a conversation with him would take some doing. Fortunately, Keller had done his research on the man.

  “Simmons” was a British name. Keller knew that Capucine was Irish. There was enough of a
similarity there for the two of them to have found each other in the United States.

  Keller went to the bar and ordered a beer. The saloon was sparsely populated, and would probably stay that way until early evening. Keller nursed his beer and was able to watch Simmons through the mirror behind the bar.

  He waved the bartender over.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Can you tell me who that fella over there is?”

  The bartender looked.

  “I don’t know, but he comes in here a lot and sits there alone.”

  “Always alone?”

  “Yup,” the bartender said. “Never talks to anyone.”

  “That’s strange,” Keller said. “Drinkers usually talk to each other. Do you think he’d talk to me?”

  “Beats me. Why would you wanna talk to him?”

  “Like I said, drinkers usually talk to each other.”

  “He only ever drinks beer,” the bartender said. “I wouldn’t exactly call him a drinker.”

  “Well,” Keller said, “nobody else in here looks worth talking to.”

  The bartender looked around at the other three or four customers and said, “You’ve got that right.”

  “By the way,” Keller asked, “do you know who belongs to that carriage outside?”

  “Sure,” the bartender said, “the fella we’re talkin’ about.”

  “What a coincidence,” Keller said.

  • • •

  When Clint left Cappy’s pied-à-terre, his legs felt weak. The woman was insatiable, and might have convinced him to stay in bed all day, but he needed to get started.

  She watched him dress and teased him with her bare breasts before he finally made his escape. She told him she would be there each and every afternoon, in case he wanted to get in touch with her.

  “Alone?” he asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.”

  “I will be alone, and very lonely,” she said, “until you come back.”

  “I’ll need your husband’s address, Cappy,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “I’ll need to talk to him about your problem,” Clint said.

  “But why?”

  “I need to convince myself that he’s not behind your troubles.”