Silk Stalkings

Silk Stalkings

Kelli Scott

Yancey Peters is on a mission to
beef up her sexual resumé. Men have told her she’s the kind of woman you marry,
not the kind you fool around with. The problem is, none of the men she’s dated
are ready to settle down. So Yancey decides to transform herself from plain
Jane to hot chick and embark on a sexual exploration of her own.

Diego Ramos is through with
reckless women, done chasing after short skirts, sexy silk stockings and high
heels. Until he meets Yancey, that is. He thought he was ready to settle down,
find a wholesome wife and start a family. Yancey makes him realize he might
have one more carefree fling in him after all.

Unfortunately, Yancey has also caught
the eye of another admirer who wants more than she’s willing to give.

Kelli Scott

Chapter One

The late-model Miata in front of Diego Ramos crossed the
centerline for the second time in the span of as many minutes before swerving into
the left-hand turn lane without using a blinker.

Typical. Probably drunk,
he thought
.
Diego had
just come from towing a BMW to the city impound lot—the driver had been issued
a DUI and hauled off to jail. It was a weeknight, but the owner of the BMW had
stopped off after work for a nightcap that had turned into three or four. Maybe
the driver of the little red sports car ahead of him had too.

Now I’ve seen everything.
Or rather, despite his
headlights cutting through the murky darkness, he could see nothing in the car
ahead of him. Not even the driver’s head.
Oh. There she is.
He assumed
she was a she because
she
drove a total chick car in a color that
probably matched her fingernails—red. She must have had her head between her
legs, kissing her ass goodbye. Excellent use of time, judging by her driving
skills.

A hip-hop beat thrummed from her car, carrying all the way
to the cab of his tow truck. Diego watched her head bob to the music as they
waited for the light in the turn lane to change.
What is she doing?
Applying lipstick, as near as he could tell. When the arrow glowed green, he
waited a few beats before tapping his horn. Nothing.

She gunned her car through the intersection as the arrow
turned yellow. Diego threw his hands in the air, but stopped his truck just
short of the crosswalk. He didn’t need another ticket on his record. He beat
his fingers against the steering wheel while he waited. When the light changed
to green again he eased through the intersection and turned into the parking
lot of the grocery store, as the sports car had.

She whipped her car into a prime compact spot close to the
front doors as he cruised the lot for something roomier that would accommodate
his large vehicle. Diego backed his tow truck into a space alongside the building
adjacent the grocery store, where he could enjoy his dinner in solitude later.
But he could still clearly see her sports car. Not by accident or circumstance.
Diego was drawn to trouble as a nail is drawn to a magnet. Being a wise man
with a fair amount of common sense, he should head across town to a different
store.
She
struck him as dangerous in the best possible way.

And sexy,
he decided when the driver opened her car
door and planted one lethally high-heeled pump on the pavement. What followed
did not disappoint. Good thing he was done with curvy, conceited women with
mile-high legs. He was on the lookout for a round little
chica
with big
brown eyes who could cook like his mother.

No harm in watching the driving-school dropout from a
distance though. So he did. Auburn curls bounced around her head and shoulders
as she hurried into the store. Diego sauntered along behind her, which was a
real treat for him. She wore white thigh-high stockings that stopped a couple
of inches short of her flirty pleated plaid skirt. Bows accented her stockings
a few inches below the hem. On top she wore a plain white cotton dress shirt,
probably so as not to distract from the assets she had going on below the
waist.

He needed a closer look and something to eat. Dinner and a
show.

Little Miss Wild Behind the Wheel bent at the waist to pluck
a hand basket from the stack by the store’s automatic sliding doors. As she
bowed, her skirt stopped just shy of her panties…if she wore panties. Diego bit
his tongue to stop himself from hollering, “
Nice!”

Following her to the produce department, like your
garden-variety pervert, he plucked an orange from the display and sniffed it
for no other reason than to look as if he weren’t following her. He gave the
orange a firm squeeze to decide whether it was a keeper. The orange was. She
wasn’t. But that didn’t stop him from watching her. Hell, a citywide blackout
wouldn’t have stopped him from watching her.

She placed a head of lettuce in her basket. As she leaned in
and reached for a long, thick cucumber, her foot came off the ground and bent
at the knee. The sight reminded Diego of one of those 1940s black-and-white
movies where the gal does the flamingo stance while getting kissed. Even her
shoes looked like reproduction forties footwear—on stilts. Or steroids. They
were dangerously high. No wonder she’d been all over the road—she’d been
driving with a disability.

Upon closer inspection, she didn’t seem drunk. The woman
could probably walk a straight line if pressed by the cops. She deserved credit
for walking at all on heels that high. The rest of her apparel appeared sort of
Catholic schoolgirl gone bad. Very bad. She needed detention.

And a spanking.

His mind went off to a dark place as he imagined turning
Naughty Dotty there over his knee to smack his open hand on the naked milky
flesh of her thighs. Right there in the sweet spot between her hem and her
stockings. Desire sizzled all the way down his spine like a burning fuse. Diego
mentally stamped out the flames before he exploded, imploded or needed to hide
his erection behind a shopping cart.

He’d come in for a salad. Nothing more.
I’m working, for
Christ’s sake.
Diego did not need the kind of trouble that came wrapped in
a package like hers. His “type” was earthy, sweet and natural—starting now. The
girl next door, not the whore next door. He’d had enough of bad girls.
I’m
thirty, for crying out loud.
It was time to settle down and stop getting
his heart tramp-stamped like a passport to sin.
Don’t even get me started on
the ding to my pocketbook.
He’d been conned and outright robbed by the
naughty-next-door type. He’d decided he must have a “kick me” sign on his back,
visible only to hot chicks with very high heels, short skirts and low morals.

He weaved a path to the salad bar to feed his cravings with
a chef’s salad—extra ham, egg and cheese. He needed protein to muster the
strength to stay clear of the danger zone. Along with the healthy salad, he
loaded his to-go container with some bad choices. Heavy pastas, bread and half
a dozen butter pats. He’d pay dearly at the checkout, but better to feed his
desire with food than a mistake.

Diego groaned a few minutes later when he found that the
checkout lane was backed up with late-night shoppers. Spotting his
wet-dream-come-to-life in the shorter express line, he decided to brave the
traffic jam of carts to avoid her.

“Sir…” A floor manager attempted to usher him to the more
logical express line.

Diego raised his hand in protest. “I’m fine here.” An
overflowing cart with a fussy toddler and a stressed-out mother pulled up
behind him, making him feel guilty for holding up the line because he was too
chicken to get within twenty yards of the hottie in high heels.

The manager tilted her head. “We have less wait time in the
express line.”

He patted his back pocket, where he’d stuffed his checkbook.
“I’m paying by check.” The express line clearly stated cash only. Diego played
by the rules. Not always, but starting recently.

She waved him along. “Not a problem.”

The mother of the toddler flashed him a
glare that might kill under certain circumstances. Her kid wailed, leaking
tears and snot that threatened to ruin his appetite.

“Sure.” Diego followed the manager along to the express
line. Stopping way short, he left a good four or five feet between him and the
sex kitten.

Her white shirt was gathered up and tied in a knot near her
navel, giving the impression that perhaps she was wearing her lover’s dress
shirt after an evening of romping. She had her basket on the conveyer belt
directly behind some guy purchasing a case of beer, a carton of smokes and a
smutty magazine—the trifecta of debauchery. The woman ahead of him was
twitching as she bought her weight in lottery tickets. Diego decided to count
ceiling tiles.
One, two, three…

“Some studies indicate that smoking can take an average of
fifteen years off a person’s potential lifespan,” the porn-school dropout in
front of him said to the cigarette smoker.

“That a fact?” he replied.

She went into a soliloquy about her opinion of the
difference between an actual fact and a scientific study. She recited him
Webster’s definition of a fact, along with some facts about facts, including
the origin of the word fact, ending with some trivia about facts.

“What’s a smart girl like you doing in a place like this?” the
purchaser of porn asked the wet dream between them, putting Diego on high
alert.

How dare the guy speak to Diego’s wayward wench simply
because she’d spoken to the creep first?

“Me?” She sneered at porn guy and probably his lifestyle
choices, not that Diego himself hadn’t enjoyed a beer and a gentleman’s
magazine from time to time. The smoking he’d given up long ago. Still sneering,
perhaps at the man’s beer belly or ashtray-like scent, she said, “Buying
groceries.” Turning away from beer-gut guy, she smiled at Diego. “Hi,” she
said, scooting closer to Diego—or farther away from the man with the cheesy
pickup line.

“Hi.”
Four, five, six…
He avoided looking at the
clearly defined outline of her white bra beneath her white shirt and pretended
not to wonder if she wore white panties under her short skirt.
Seven, eight,
nine…

“Is the salad bar here pretty good?” she asked brightly.

Ten, eleven, twelve…
“Yep.” Diego rocked on his
heels.

“I should try it sometime,” she said.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he said, “They charge by
the ounce.”
Shut up, Diego.

Lottery lady exited through the automated sliding glass
doors. The conveyer belt moved forward. Debauchery dude handed the checker a
hundred-dollar bill. “I’ll pick up the tab for the little lady as well.” He
bobbed his head to the left, toward the little lady he’d mentioned.

Diego’s jaw tensed and his fingers curled tighter around the
handle of his basket.

Taking another step backward toward Diego, the sexy siren
said, “No, thank you.”

She was so close that Diego could smell the scent of roses
surrounding her.

“It’ll just cost you a quick beer with me.” He waved another
hundred-dollar bill at her and winked. “In my car.”

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Ew.”

“Listen, pal.” Without stopping to think about the potential
repercussions, Diego stepped around the vixen and into full view of the
insulter. “Unless you want my size-ten steel-toed boot lodged so far up your
ass you’ll need it surgically removed, I suggest you move along. Quickly.”

He did. Without looking back.

Her face flushed with color. The sex kitten, who suddenly
resembled an adorable kitten, if kittens could blush, said, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, thanks,” the checker echoed. “He’s a jerk.”

“No problem.”
Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

* * * * *

Yancey strolled slowly toward her car in the grocery store
parking lot, scanning the area for the creepy man from the checkout line. She
couldn’t run far or fast on four-inch heels—cripes
,
she could just
barely manage to walk in the damn things. With sprinting for safety out of the
question, she held her keys in her hand like a weapon. Death and dismemberment
by key.

Listen. Watch. Feel.
A chill ran down her spine, an
icy chill that did not match the cool of the night air. Yancey turned in a
complete circle, feeling watched by someone in the darkness around her.
Something felt wrong—off.

If all else fails, wait for the hunk with the steel-toed
boots.

He’d followed her into the store, or so she’d thought.
Better him than the creep with a wallet full of hundreds. Mr. Size Ten
Steel-Toed Boot was right up her alley, otherwise she wouldn’t have put on such
a show for him. Just because Yancey wanted to change her good-girl reputation,
that didn’t mean she couldn’t have discerning taste in men. Or maybe that
was
what it meant. Being a slut didn’t come naturally to her, as her last boyfriend
had pointed out right before he’d moved on to easier pickings.

Stopping near the trunk of her car, Yancey tilted her head.
The car looked…funny.

“What the fuck?” she said, then slapped her hand over her
mouth. Looking all around to make sure she hadn’t offended anyone, Yancey
squared her shoulders. “I can say ‘what the fuck’ if I damn well want,” she
muttered.

Poking the car key into the lock, she popped the trunk and
stowed her groceries. A drop of rain landed—
splat
—on her nose. She
considered uttering “what the fuck” again, but Mr. Size-Ten crossed the parking
lot, sauntering toward the shadows where his tow truck sat far away from the
lights.

I’ll bet he has tattoos and scars.
The tattoos he’d
wear on the outside, scars on the inside. He had studs in both ears, in a manly
way. He totally pulled off the look. Not everyone could. She wondered if he had
a stud in his tongue. Might explain why he was so quiet. He was what she’d call
a bad boy. Silent but deadly. Or at the very least, dangerous. Mr. Ten could
help her to cross a few things off her list—twice.

I need to make the first move.
That was on her list.
Along with a one-night stand and breaking a heart.

“Hey,” he called out across the lot. “Miss.”

Yancey whipped around to face him head-on. She pointed to
herself. “Who? Me?”
Smooth. Way to be alluring, Yancey.

Pointing at her, he said, “You’ve got a flat.”

Her hands flew to her chest, patting her bra. No.
All
good in the breast department.

He set his salad on the hood of the truck and approached
her, still pointing. “The car.”

Oh.
Yancey peeked around at the driver’s side of her
car. The front tire was indeed flat. “Crap.” Another drop of rain hit her face.
And Mr. Ten had robbed her of the opportunity to make the first move. She
suddenly had doubts about her ability to break his heart too. A one-night stand
was still a possibility if she could stop herself from begging him for more.