Louisiana Stalker (6 page)

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.”

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.”

“But why would he—you mean, you think he's having me followed?”

“I won't know until I talk to him,” Clint said. “The address?”

She gave it to him.

Simon Devereaux's office was in a business section of Baton Rouge. Cappy may not have wanted him to talk to her husband because he didn't believe her, but Clint needed to eliminate the man for his own benefit.

When he came out of Cappy's place, he found young Henri waiting there with his carriage.

“Lift, sir?”

“Where have you been?”

“Keeping out of sight, like you said,” the young man answered.

“You did a good job of it,” Clint said. “I didn't see any sign of you when I came out before.”

“I saw the lady's driver head off, so I thought you'd be needing me.”

“Good guess.” Clint climbed into the carriage.

“Where to?” Henri asked.

Clint gave him the address Cappy had given him for her husband.

 • • • 

After a short drive, they arrived at a three-story building. Clint entered and presented himself to an attractive, middle-aged woman seated behind a desk.

“I'm here to see Mr. Devereaux,” he said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don't,” Clint said, “but I think he'll see me.”

“Why do you think that?” she asked, arching her eyebrows at him.

“Because it's about his wife.”

For a moment a look of disapproval crossed the woman's face.

“I'll tell him you're here. What is your name?”

“Clint Adams. Just out of curiosity, what floor is he on?” Clint asked.

She stood and said, “It doesn't matter. Mr. Devereaux owns the whole building. But his office is on the floor above us, so if you'll just wait?”

“Yes, of course.”

She disappeared through a door. Clint looked around. The reception area of the building was better furnished than many high-class hotels he'd been in. Simon Devereaux must have had a lot of money.

The woman came back and said, “Will you follow me, please?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She took him through that doorway and up a flight of steps to the second floor, then led him to a closed door. She knocked then opened it.

“Mr. Devereaux, this is Clint Adams,” she said. “Mr. Adams, Simon Devereaux.”

“That's fine, Maddy,” Devereaux said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you, Maddy,” Clint said.

She stared at him then turned and walked away. He watched. She had a nice shape on her, and might not have been as old as he'd originally thought.

“Mr. Adams?” Devereaux said. “Would you have a seat, please?”

“Sure.”

Clint closed the door, then walked to the desk. The two men shook hands, and then Clint sat.

Simon Devereaux was in his sixties, a well-kept man, six feet tall and fit. The office was expensively furnished in burgundy and gold.

“You told Maddy this is about my wife?” Devereaux asked. “What has she done now?”

“It's not what she's done, sir,” Clint said, “it's what's being done to her.”

“Oh,” Devereaux said, “is this about that business of her being followed?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“How did she convince you to work for her on this?” her husband asked. “It's a figment of her imagination.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don't think so.”

“Why?'

“I've seen the man.”

“You've seen the man following her?”

“Watching her.”

The man studied him.

“Wait a minute,” Devereaux said. “Clint Adams. I know that name.”

Clint didn't say anything.

“The Gunsmith, right?” Devereaux was suddenly very animated. “Cappy's got the Gunsmith working for her?”

“I suppose so.”

“And you believe she really does have somebody watching her, following her?”

“Yes.”

“You've seen him.”

“I have.”

“And you're going to try to help her?”

“I am.”

“And just what is Cappy giving you to do this?” Devereaux asked suspiciously.

“The fact is, I don't like the idea of a man stalking a woman,” Clint said. “It's a matter of principle.”

“I see.”

The man stared at Clint, who simply stared back.

“What do you think I can do to help you?” Simon Devereaux asked.

“Well, you can tell me if you're having your wife followed for any reason.”

Devereaux folded his hands on his desktop and studied Clint a bit longer.

“Do you know what my wife does?”

“You mean, for a living?”

“A living?” Devereaux asked. “She doesn't need to do anything for a living. I'm very rich, Mr. Adams.”

“I know that, sir.”

“What she does, she doesn't do for a living,” the man went on. “She does it because she likes it. Damn her, she likes it.”