Watching Her: A Gripping Thriller Novel With A Twist

by Emmy Ellis

  For a second I felt like her mother, the one who had bathed her, soothed her, and wiped away her tears since birth. I was the one Guilia adored.

  The woman crouched, her arms out. She was well-dressed in a fawn woollen calf-length coat, her luxurious hair dark and curly, makeup minimal. The end strands of her beige scarf pooled in the thin layer of new snow.

  Guilia started her dash across the playground seemingly in slow motion, her bag bumping up and down on her coat. Her spindly black tights-coated legs were a blur, and the pleats of her black skirt billowed with each step. Her cheeks grew pink, her eyes sparkling. Her coat appeared expensive, and the fur-trimmed hood lifted then fell, lifted then fell. As she drew closer she giggled, and that sound…oh, that sound was like the best music.

  I would remember the tune forever.

  She ran into her mother’s arms, and that mother stood and swept the precious Guilia around in a circle, their laughter soft and special. The flap of Guilia’s bag snapped up, and some of the contents spilt out onto the playground. I took my chance and wrenched my arm from Sutton’s, brought out the Russian dolls, and held them down by my side.

  Guilia was so close I could reach out to touch her. Stroke her hair. The smell of her mother’s perfume—Anais, Anais, I thought—wafted into me, and as odd as it sounded, I knew I’d be buying some for myself so I could wear it and know what she smelt every day—something we would have in common.

  The sight of them together both warmed and broke my heart. Father had found the perfect woman to take care of my child. The love they shared was obvious, the trust Guilia had in her more so.

  I almost turned away. Almost.

  “My baby,” I whispered.

  She’s so beautiful…

  Sutton regained his grip on my arm. It annoyed me, bringing me back to the stark reality that I shouldn’t do as my heart instructed and touch my daughter, tell her that Mummy—her real mummy—was here to collect her, ready to take her back to London where she belonged.

  Except she doesn’t belong there, with me.

  A lump barged into my throat, intrusive and yet another reminder that for the second time in my life with regards to my child, I couldn’t stamp my feet and get what I wanted. I had to let her go all over again, and I wondered whether it would kill me this time.

  Her mother said something I didn’t understand, and Guilia replied with a sweet little German voice that added to my distress. I shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have put myself through this. But in true Claudine fashion, I had. When had I ever done the right thing?

  I’ll be doing it today. In a moment. I’ll be saying goodbye for good. But first…

  “Oh, let me help you collect her things,” I said, hiding the dolls behind my back.

  Once more I disengaged myself from Sutton, who tutted then sighed. I stooped down to pick up a pink pencil and a drawing of a puppy sitting in a garden in the sunshine. My hand shook as I held them out to the woman, who set Guilia down and turned to me, smiling.

  “Thank you,” she said with no trace of recognition.

  And why would she recognise me?

  Because I look just like her child?

  She reached out for the pencil and the drawing then put the pencil in Guilia’s bag.

  “And there’s these.” I brought the dolls out, minus their thin wrapping paper.

  The woman frowned but took them anyway, her black leather gloves squeaking. “Oh. Thank you again.”

  She said something to Guilia, who shook her head and shrugged but held her hand out for the dolls. My little darling clutched them in her cold-pinkened fingers, close to her chest, and rested her sweet cheek against them.

  Another sentence I didn’t understand, then Guilia nodded again and received the picture from her mother. Guilia held it out to me.

  I swallowed. “For me?”

  Guilia’s clear eyes met with mine.

  I lowered to my haunches, on a level with her, and drank in the sight of her. I would keep it etched in my mind, this visual, until the day I died. Her hair was a blonde tumble around her pretty face, her cheeks just as pink as her fingers. Her button nose—so adorable—and cherry-coloured lips, tiny chin dimple, it all made her the most perfect child on the planet in my eyes.

  “Thank you very much,” I said and gave the bravest smile I could manage. A smile she would hopefully remember whenever she played with the dolls. “I shall put this on my fridge.” I had no idea whether she’d understand me, but it didn’t matter—I had spoken to her, and that was what counted.

  I dared to ruffle her hair. It was the softest thing I had ever touched bar the feel of her chubby cheek the day I’d kissed her at our first goodbye. I sensed, right there looking into her eyes, that we had some kind of invisible connection. I believed Guilia felt it, too, although she would be too young to understand it. Perhaps one day, if she were ever told of my existence, she would recall this moment and ponder on whether I was her real mother. And maybe one day she would come to find me, see me, and know that yes, there I had been, in her school playground all those years ago, lucky enough to feel her hair, to speak to her, to gaze at her.

  To breathe the same air.

  “We must go now,” her mother said, picking up a book titled Mutter und Mich and stuffing it into Guilia’s bag.

  The illusion shattered. They were leaving. It was time for the inevitable goodbye.

  I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t watch her leave.

  So I walked away instead.

  And I didn’t look back.

  The urge to run was immense, to cry and rail and tell the whole world that life wasn’t fair. But I strode calmly so as not to bring attention to myself. It would appear odd as it was, me being at the school and not taking a child with me, but that couldn’t be helped. I made it to Sutton’s car. The door lock bleeped, and I got inside, waiting for Sutton to join me, to berate me for doing what I had.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he leant his backside against the driver’s door, hands in his pockets.

  While I put my face in my hands and sobbed.

  Once I’d cried myself out, I tapped on Sutton’s window. He climbed in without a word and started the engine. I was grateful to him for his respect in this God-awful matter and wanted to lose myself in his arms to have the pain dissolved. But there was something I needed to do first.

  “Take me to a bookshop,” I said.

  We drove in silence. Once there, he shepherded me inside, and straight off I went to the children’s section. It took a few moments to find Mutter und Mich, and, without the means to purchase it, I handed it to Sutton, who went to the desk to pay.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked the young girl behind the counter.

  “Yes.”

  “What does this mean?” I pointed to the title of the book.

  She tilted her head. “Mother and Me.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Absolutely perfect.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Standing outside the bookshop, my breath gathering in front of my face, I was aware of a strange shifting sensation inside me. I was becoming lighter, my heart no longer aching with a longing I could never satisfy. I imagined the history of my pain was a bubble, floating upwards, into the crystal-clear sky and eventually popping, scattering, never to be seen again.

  My daughter was happy, healthy, and loved and had been untouched by this whole sorry business. I approved of her mother and had faith she’d raise Guilia to be a good person, contribute to society, and do no harm. Wasn’t that what every parent wanted? To supply the world with a human being who could give and not take?

  “You okay?” Sutton asked, his shoulder brushing mine.

  I looked up at his face. His eyes flashed with concern as he studied me.

  “Actually, you know what? I am.”

  He twitched his eyebrows as though he didn’t quite believe me.

  “I am,” I went on. “This has been one big mess, and I won’t deny I haven’t been angr
y, terrified, frustrated, but out of the chaos has come a sense of peace.” I pressed my hand over my chest, pushing my coat up against my breastbone and glanced up at my imaginary balloon.

  “I’m glad.” He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “From the moment I met you, I knew you were a person who needed to find peace.”

  Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

  He smiled, kissed my temple, then slung his arm over my shoulder in a casual, teenager kind of way. “Come on, let’s head to the hotel. I need a drink.”

  I fell into step with him but couldn’t let his comment pass. “How could you possibly have known I needed peace?”

  For a moment I didn’t think he’d answer, then, “You were drowning in your own sexuality. Your need to control men and ensnare them was off the scale. Almost an obsession, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I didn’t ensnare you.” I couldn’t quite keep the snippy tone from my voice. There was no denying Sutton’s rejections had stung.

  He squeezed my shoulder and chuckled. “You have now.”

  “Good.” I hoped he’d be quick about his drink and find us a room. “You’ve been a bit of an idiot, you know that?”

  He laughed. “There it is, had to be said.”

  “Well, you have been.”

  “I’ve also kept you alive, and Guilia and her family have merrily gone about their business without knowing the shitstorm that’s been raging around them. That’s not completely idiotic behaviour.”

  “Under my father’s instruction. You did it because he told you to, he paid you.” That had to be said, too.

  He stopped and turned me to face him, both hands on my shoulders. “Just so we’re clear.” His voice had taken on a deadly serious tone. “From this moment on, your father has nothing to do with us.”

  “But—”

  “I may take on security projects with him, paid projects, as I do with many men in this line of work, but this, here, it’s all about us. A man and a woman. No one else is in the equation. I want—no, need—to be with you.”

  I swallowed, my throat a thick with emotion.

  “Do you understand?” He slid his hand up my neck and cupped my cheek. His palm was warm. “How much you’ve got under my skin. Seeing you survive the way you have…your balls, your guts, your capacity to love even though you didn’t think you could.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I understand.”

  “And I’m not one of the nameless, faceless twats you’ve shagged on your travels around the world, either.”

  “I know you’re not.” How could he think that?

  “Because if I’m just a challenge, a notch on your bedpost, a way to pass the time and relieve some tension, then I’m not interested.”

  “Of course you’re none of those things.” I shook my head. He didn’t know how special he was. “I care about you, a lot. You know I do.”

  He silenced me with soft kiss.

  “I know you’ll always have a sadness in your heart that you’re not raising her,” he said. “But maybe one day you’ll get to know her. She may hunt you out when she becomes an adult.”

  “I don’t know about that. Why would she want to?”

  “It seems to often be the way.” He pulled back a little and shrugged. “These days.”

  I knew he was right. That might happen, and I would love it if it did. But I’d never have her childhood to enjoy. That was happening now, and I was missing it.

  But I’d prevented anything from destroying her happy bubble. And I would always be proud of myself for that.

  Sutton put his arm around my waist and began walking again.

  I leant on him slightly.

  “Who’s to say she’ll be your only child,” he said as we strolled past the shop I’d bought the Russian dolls in.

  I laughed, and it was a lovely relief to let some of the tension out. “We haven’t even got that far yet, so it’s a bit early to talk about kids.”

  We stepped into the hotel. Within minutes, he had the key to a suite on the top floor.

  We stood at the lift, arms around each other. I’d be sending a postcard to Alberto after all. Si.

  At the door to the Mountain View suite, he guided me into the room. He closed the door. I found a bottle of champagne in the fridge and popped the cork, pouring it into two flutes.

  “You know how expensive that is?” Sutton asked. “They hike up the prices in the minibar.”

  “No, and I don’t care.” I shrugged. “Here.” I handed a glass to him.

  “What are we toasting?”

  “To us,” I said, “finding each other.”

  “It was quite a journey, starting in Amsterdam.”

  “Amsterdam?”

  “Well, that’s where you began your trip.”

  “But…” From my memory, I dragged up my Blooms schedule. “But I didn’t spot you until Rome. I’d done Amsterdam, Bruges, and Athens before then.”

  “Maybe I’m not such a shitty spy after all, eh?” He took a sip of his drink.

  “Mmm, maybe not.” Damn it, how had I not spotted him?

  “And in Rome,” he said, “I felt it was time for you to know you had a tail. Things were heating up with Fabian and your father. My sixth sense told me I’d be stepping in soon.”

  “I’m glad you did. You will come to Juniper Hall with me tonight, won’t you?”

  “Am I invited?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “You know you are. I don’t want to go if you’re not coming with me.”

  “I reckon I’m due a break.”

  “Good, that’s settled, then.”

  “But—”

  “No, don’t say you can’t because of Father’s rules. I’m a grown woman, and you’re the man I want with me. So it’s tough shit.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything about your father.”

  “Oh, what then?”

  “Sit.” He tapped the bed.

  “We only have another hour, you know. Then we need to get going to the airport.”

  “An hour is plenty of time.” He set down his, and then my drink. His expression turned serious.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

  “There’s something you should know.”

  “Oh, you’re not married, are you? A wife and kids tucked up in bloody Birmingham or something?”

  “No!” He looked shocked for a second then sighed. “Of course not. But we do need to set up a rule about no more secrets. Though I won’t always be able to tell you the details of my work.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “But there is one thing that I found out, from me working with your father, that you should know.”

  I frowned. His eyes had darkened. Something swirling around in his mind was making him anxious. Something that he wanted to share with me.

  “You’re worrying me, that look on your face.”

  He cupped my cheek. “Kolya.”

  I turned away. It still hurt to think of him dead. It would always hurt. And I’d grieve my own way, quietly, back at Juniper Hall. Maybe plant him a tree? A magnolia perhaps, with big snow-white flowers.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I did as he’d asked.

  “I don’t want to know what happened between you and the Albino, that’s not my business.”

  So why bring him up?

  “But I need to give you the facts, Claudine.”

  “What facts?”

  “He worked for Ivor Belikov, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. I met him. Nasty bit of work.”

  “I wouldn’t disagree with you there and I’d much rather you hadn’t come face to face with him.” He paused. “Amongst other things, he runs a very specific protection business—personal protection.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “His fees are extortionate, but clients pay because he’s good for his word. His men are highly trained and not afraid of getting a job done even if it means breaking the law.”


  “So why did you warn me off Kolya to begin with?”

  “I didn’t know then, who he worked for, how specialised he was. I could just tell that he was damn good at his job, and that scared me.”

  I was piecing together what Sutton was saying, the words and sentences aligning in my head. But I couldn’t understand why we were having this conversation now.

  “Do you remember I told you I’d got some new intel on him?” Sutton asked.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “You said I was safe with him.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So…what was the intel?”

  “It was the name of the person who’d hired him.”

  “I thought it was people. Ivor said ‘they’.”

  “No, it was just one person who’d gone to Ivor Belikov and paid big money for his services.”

  “And this person? His name?”

  “Not a he.”

  “A she?” I raised my eyebrows. “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Her name is Heather Claudine Dimitri, third wife of notorious Russian businessman, Grigory Dimitri, although I believe her former surname was Montague-Fostrop.”

  “My mother?”

  “Yes.” He nodded and touched his nose to mine. “Your mother. Seems she’s never stopped watching out for you.”

  About Emmy Ellis

  Emmy Ellis writes crime thrillers mainly with a detective as the lead. She also writes psychological thrillers. In a past life, she has penned over one hundred books in other genres/pen names and is published by HarperCollins.

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  About Lily Harlem

  Lily Harlem is an award-winning, USA Today bestselling author. She predominantly writes super-sexy romances that will keep you reading late into the night. She’s published by several houses, including HarperCollins and Stormy Night Publications (who specialize in deliciously kinky plot lines).

  Visit Lily’s website for more details of her other books or her Amazon Author Page. Subscribe to her newsletter to get a FREE ebook and be the first to hear of new releases, and if you enjoy Facebook hop on over there and say hi! For those of you who like to get up close and personal, join Lily's Reader Group and hang out in the VIP lounge with her.