by Emmy Ellis
Watching Her
Emmy Ellis & Lily Harlem
Watching Her: text copyright © Emmy Ellis & Lily Harlem rev 2019
All Rights Reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Emmy Ellis and Lily Harlem.
Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the authors’ written permission.
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Please note this book is intended for mature readers.
Artwork by Studioenp.
Edited by Studioenp.
Back Cover Information
I never could have guessed the danger that was stalking me.
Or who was stalking me.
Until the only thing that had ever mattered to me was threatened, and then I had to sit up and smell the roses. Torn between a ghost and a man, I found myself on the run.
Instinct had taken over. She was all that mattered.
I couldn’t fail.
What wouldn’t I do?
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter 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
About Emmy Ellis
About Lily Harlem
Chapter One
I supposed someone—a psychologist, perhaps—would say I had issues. Ones that went bone-deep from my childhood, loitering inside me, infesting my once-pure soul with debauchery and sin. They might well be right, but to be honest, I didn’t care for their opinions, their reasons, their need to put me in a specific box.
The sun was hot on my bare legs. It had reached its zenith, all boiling heat and egg-yolk brightness, the sky surrounding it a lurid blue that hurt the eyeballs. I adjusted my sunglasses—all the better to see you with, my dears—and continued looking around. At the men. I’d been choosing for a while now, since earlier this morning after I’d dragged my sunbed to an appropriate area poolside, wondering which one to try my luck with, which one to give the come-on to. Some were with their women, resting after a year of work where they’d slogged their arses off just for this week or two of sun, sand, and possible sex. I said possible, because, you know, being with the same person for a long time meant that kind of behaviour might not be on the cards.
It’s on mine. The full bloody deck; the jack, the king, and the joker.
Hmm. He was there again. The man who’d been in Rome and Paris. Easily recognisable by the very thing he probably thought made him unrecognisable. Absurdly large sunglasses. The cut of his trousers, the type men in the city wore when they were playing at being casual, replacing Savile Row grey and topped with a pastel polo instead of a white shirt.
He was a gentleman with an edge. Slicked-back dark hair, the wax just enough to sculpt his style without weighing it down. A beard, one of those new trendy ones, longish but trimmed. I estimated him to be about thirty-five—not too young and not too old. I’d contemplated approaching him before but had stopped myself. What would be the fun in that? Shagging one of my father’s drones—for that was what he was; why else would he have travelled so far to watch me?—would only confirm that I’d been lying through my teeth for years.
Did it matter if my father knew for sure who I really was?
‘The trust fund isn’t for trotting around the globe, Claudine. It’s so you can do something with your life, become someone.’
‘Someone other than a fuck buddy?’ I smiled at that, enjoying getting on my father’s last nerve and seeing his face crease in disapproval.
‘Do you have to be so crass?’
‘Always.’
He sighed. As usual. ‘Start a business. Anything. Something to take your mind off of the filth that fills it.’
‘Filth? Hardly.’
‘Just do it, Claudine. Today.’
Blooms was set up. What a bloody boring name for a company. Still, it kept Father quiet. Made him think my trips around the world seeking exotic flowers to stock in my future shop in Chelsea were justified. Only, it’d become clear after a few months he’d seen through the ruse. His man there, standing by the bar drinking a juice-based cocktail the colour of the Caribbean sea that stretched into the horizon, had been sent to watch my every move from behind his oversized sunglasses.
He’d no doubt be pleased at being paid to jaunt from country to country following me. Or maybe not. Perhaps St Lucia was not his thing.
I wondered how much trouble he’d gone to in his observations of me. What evidence was he collating for Father? Had he taken notes, photographs? Details of who I’d fucked? Pictures of me with those men?
Curiosity really was a nosy bitch, and I shook my head, as though shaking him from my thoughts, my life. If I pretended the shadow from my past wasn’t there, would that make it so? Would feigning ignorance that he existed mean I could continue as I had been? And why the hell not? I was having a great time; larking about at flower markets, no set time to get up in the morning, sleeping only when exhausted and sated with the day. I didn’t have to worry about anyone, only myself. I was number one in my universe.
What would it be like to put someone else first?
I rubbed my index finger over my thumb tip, fast, as if rolling a pill. It was something I’d always done, from a child. Whenever I’d missed my mother, or when Father had sent me off to boarding school, the action had snuck up on me.
The man glanced over, blushing at being caught staring. Unusual for a spy to become flustered. He swirled the ice in his glass, some of the blueness splurging over the rim and trickling between his fingers. He turned away, and if I could see beneath those glasses of his, I imagined his eyes were narrowed, with him working out how he could fix his faux pas.
You can’t fix what’s broken, as the cracks still remain.
Ironic, that. Father thought I was broken.
I spread my fingers on the towel, forcing them still. I guessed his face was sweating as much as his cocktail glass. His armpits, too. Damp, pungent with that scent only men have.
I shifted a little on the sun lounger then stood
Strolling with languid grace, I reached the spy and stood beside him. He cleared his throat—he was watching me from the corner of his eye—and set his drink on the bar top.
“If you could just let him know that I do visit florists while I’m away, that would be kind of you.” I smiled, even though he didn’t turn his head to face me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He took a sip of his cocktail and continued to stare straight ahead.
Ah, it’s like that, is it?
“I’m sure you don’t.” I nodded at the waiter, who knew my usual, seeing as I’d been staying here for a week.
He brought it to me, a Tequila Sunrise, and placed it on a coaster that resembled an old-fashioned postcard, which had a painting of Victorians on the beach in the nude.
“Thank you, Alberto.”
I’d fucked him last week.
After taking a sip, I returned my attention to the spy. He seemed to have gone a tad redder in the cheeks since I’d last looked at him.
“So, how much is he paying you?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Oh, come on now. You know very well who I’m referring to.” I did like to play games, but sometimes they bored me. If he could just cut to the chase…
“Sorry, no clue.”
He shrugged then reached for a canister that held paper straws that reminded me of the swirly poles outside barber shops. Into the drink it went, the end between his full lips.
“Okay.” I dashed my tongue out to wet my mouth. “We’ll do this your way.” Moving closer, I whispered, “Should I just fuck you, get it over and done with so that you can report back saying his daughter will go with anyone, even you, one of his employees?”
He coughed, a sharp little sound, and lifted his sunglasses so they sat on top of his head. They balanced precariously on his hair. His eyes, the colour of winter moss, widened.
Had I read him wrong?
“Listen,” he said. “Fucking you isn’t in my…diary.”
I allowed myself a small smile. “Oh.”
“And even if it was, well, you put it about rather a lot, so…”
“Soiled goods not your thing?” I tilted my head. “Or does the idea of a woman with experience frighten you?”
“Look, go back to what you do best, will you?”
“Ah, so you admit I do it well, yes?”
He tapped his sunglasses so they fell down and hid his eyes again, shutting himself off. He moved away, shifting along the bar a bit, his jaw rigid. He was angry, obviously unable to deal with someone who said it like it was. I could have fun with him, watching him squirm, teaching him to come out of his shell, but honestly, I wasn’t sure if I could be bothered with the challenge. The hassle.
Alberto stood before me now, a wicked grin filling his face and a twinkle in his eye that showed he was holding back laughter. “Someone has turned you down, si?”
“It appears so.” I took a slug of Tequila Sunrise, the alcohol swimming through my body and deadening my muscles.
“Fool, eh?”
“You tell me, Alberto.”
“Yes, a big fool. I’ll say that to him, no?”
“Do whatever you like, darling.”
I waved absently, as though what Alberto did was of no consequence, but I found myself wanting him to tell Father’s gofer that he was missing out, that he’d get the fuck of his life if only he’d let himself go. A part of me also wanted some leverage, some bargaining chip for when I got back home…eventually.
‘Daddy, your man, he really knows the ropes in bed. Ropes, get it…’
A wince, a scrunch of the nose. ‘Really, Claudine, I didn’t bring you up this way…’
Alberto was in conversation with the man. Deep conversation, Alberto all but digging his elbows into the bar, the tanned skin whitening from the force. His companion had finished his drink—only a tiny triangle of fluid remained at the bottom of his glass, paler blue, diluted by melted ice. The base was wet, a puddle forming, and a slither of it wandered off towards Alberto’s elbow. He jerked, swiping the dampness away. I wished I could hear what they were saying. Unfortunately, their voices were too low.
The spy gave me a supposed covert glance, and once again he looked as though he could kick himself for being caught. Had he been watching me properly for the past few destinations, he’d know I had eyes in the back of my head.
Alberto nodded, gave my tits a quick glance, then backed off to pick up a cocktail shaker. He busied himself making another blue drink, and the man took a deep breath, as though warring with himself.
I’d confused the hell out of him.
Walking away from the bar, my drink in hand, I returned to my lounger. I picked up a book and acted like any other holidaymaker. Here to catch the rays, to relax and unwind. I didn’t care what the spy decided to do—it made no odds.
Alberto was back talking with him, nodding, shaking a cocktail then pouring it into a fresh glass.
Restless, I got up again and, while they weren’t watching, sauntered off into the hotel.
He’d blown his chance.
Back in my room, I sat on the balcony with my book propped on my thighs, peering over the top, down at the pool. I wished I didn’t have to peer, that the balcony had railings or maybe even that trendy glass and steel. But it was stonework painted a lurid terracotta and had a flowering bougainvillea creeping over the edge. The spy was on his third drink, taking it slower this time, and I wondered what Alberto had said to him.
It was on the tip of my tongue to shout, to hang my top half over the balcony and invite the spy up to my room, but I didn’t bother. If he wanted me, he knew where I was. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry, if the man on the next balcony was anything to go by.
I glanced at my watch. Two-forty. “Good afternoon.” I turned to my right.
“Good afternoon.” He stood and draped his hair-coated forearms over his balcony.
He appeared to study a white yacht on the distant waves, but I knew his peripheral attention was entirely on me.
“Here alone?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
“Yes. You?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Want some company?”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” Finally he looked at me, his dark gaze settling on my body.
“Then I’ll see you in five.”
Chapter Two
Alberto handed me another cocktail. I needed it. Nathan, the guy in the room next door, had become a little tiresome, pestering me as to whether we could get together again. Dinner? Walk on the beach? Day trip to the Falls?
As if…
I sighed and shut the image of him out of my mind. “You know something, Alberto,” I said loudly so Spy Man could hear. “You haven’t asked me for another date, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. There’s nothing worse than a man fawning all over you, expecting to hog all of your time.” I turned to Spy Man, staring at the hairs at his temple. “Following you around everywhere you go.”
Spy Man had the grace to appear uncomfortable. Good. He needed to respect my boundaries.
“Thank you,” Alberto said while he stacked some clean glasses onto the shelf below the bar. “I think if you want more fucky-fucky you ask me, no?”
He thrust his hips forward a few times, reminding me of a dog going for it with a bitch.
“Exactly.” I smiled then sipped, the cool drink going down a treat, washing Nathan off my tongue.
I swivelled my barstool around so I could look up at the balconies. Nathan was at his, arms draped over it, staring down on me as though keeping an eye out. Watching me. As I was mid-twist to return the stool to face the bar, my arm brushed fabric, and I looked straight into Spy Man’s eyes.
He leant in, smelling like sweat, the sun, and a hint of aftershave. “You need to be careful.”
“Oh, that old chestnut. He’s even told you what to say. I’ve heard it all before, and even with you saying it, it’s going right over my head. Please, I’m a big girl, I do this all the time.” I jerked my head towards the balconies.
“I don’t mean him, that man you….” Spy Man perched on the stool beside mine, turning so our knees were against each other.
The contact was…interesting. Not a spark, per se, but…something.
�
�What did you mean, then?” I might as well hear him out. One more rant about my lifestyle wasn’t going to hurt on top of all the others I’d received from my father.
“I meant…”
“Spit it out, will you?” I tutted.
“Someone is following you.”
He appeared so grave I thought I might burst out laughing.
This poor man must think I’m lacking up top. A cucumber sandwich short of a Royal Ascot picnic.
“Um, I know.” I rolled my eyes. “You are.” I reached for my drink and took a long draw. “Honestly, please stop whatever silly game you’re playing. Just do your job and don’t bother me with the mechanics. And stop with trying to be dramatic just to prove you’re worth whatever it is he’s paying you.”
“I am worth it.” He rested his hand on my arm, and a flash of confidence shot through his eyes. “But it’s not just me. I’m not the only one following you.”
I laughed then. Waved away his words. “Oh, that’ll probably be some other man after another romp. I’m that good, you know.” I winked and smiled to take the arrogance from my statement. For some reason I didn’t want him to dislike me. “Naturally, for many, once isn’t enough—they want more, seconds, thirds. There was this Lord in Scotland once, tight jodhpurs, ginger beard, loved having his arse whacked, you know the sort, and he kept coming back for more, every weekend, on his helicopter to visit and—”
“No.” He cleared his throat. Glanced from side to side then focused on me. “Not someone you’ve…met up with before. Not one of your…conquests.”
He narrowed his eyes, and I got the sense that I ought to be scared or at least rattled from what he was implying. I wasn’t, though—one of my downfalls, that, not thinking I had anything to worry about. Went with the territory when you’d grown up with a silver spoon neatly lodged in your mouth. I’d give him a chance to explain, though, and if he didn’t give me a compelling enough reason, or evidence, to watch my back, I’d move on. To Costa Rica, maybe. There were plenty of flowers there for me to waste a few months sourcing.