Watching Her: A Gripping Thriller Novel With A Twist Read online

  “Go on,” I said and moved forward so that our faces were only a couple of inches apart.

  “Since Paris, a man has been following you,” he said.

  I held back a snort but kept unwavering eye contact.

  “And,” he added, “he put something in your handbag.”

  Discomfort rippled through me. This did sound compelling, but I was half convinced he was talking about himself so I wasn’t going to take him seriously. “Okay, what did he put in my bag?”

  Indulge him.

  He appeared relieved that I might believe what he’d said. His face loosened, the creases around his eyes relaxing, as though tension seeped out of him. I had to feel sorry for the man, really. He was just doing his job—just doing whatever Father told him to do.

  God only knows how he’s ended up in such a dead-end job, following a little nympho rich girl around the world.

  “I can only assume,” he said, “that it was a tracking device.”

  He’d said it so ominously that again, I wanted to laugh.

  “Oh right,” I said. “Interesting little James Bond fantasy you have going on here, spies and gadgets abound.” I licked my lips. Shifted even closer. “Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further. I must have honesty from you; otherwise, how am I meant to believe you? So answer this: Did my father employ you to follow me?”

  He closed his eyes tightly for a second then opened them. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “To make sure you’re protected.”

  Protected?

  I widened my eyes. That had shocked me. I’d thought he was following me so my father could gain evidence to hold over me, perhaps to threaten me that if I didn’t behave myself he’d cut off my allowance, or worse still, disinherit me. It hadn’t occurred to me in the slightest that it could be because he cared.

  Because he doesn’t care.

  “Oh.” I schooled my features to hide my emotions. “And what do I need protecting from? The men I choose to take to bed? Does Father think one of them will tie me up, rape me, and murder me? Is that what he’s worried about? Well, you can tell him something: I’ve been in plenty of beds in plenty of cities around the world.” I held out my palms. “Still here. Still breathing.”

  “One man—the man in Paris, the same man in Rome, and now, the same man here—and if you do end up…you know…with him, which I’m guessing you will…” He shrugged. “It will be much easier for him to do his job if you’re in his bed, even more so if you go as far as being tied to it.”

  “Do I detect a hint of disgust there?” I placed my hand on his knee then slid it up his thigh just a little way. “Do you have strong morals regarding sex?”

  “What I think about sex isn’t the issue. What I think about you isn’t the issue. What is, and my job as it happens, is to be aware that someone’s following you, and I don’t think I’m enough to watch you all the time. I can’t be with you all the time.”

  “I should bloody well hope not!” I smiled. “Because that would be a tad awkward, don’t you think? Unless, of course, you’re into voyeurism.” I pretended to think about it, rolling my eyes upwards and biting on my bottom lip.

  “Take me seriously. Take your own safety seriously.”

  “I don’t take anything seriously. You should know that if my father briefed you properly. My main role in life is to look pretty, marry well, and not do anything to embarrass the precious Montague-Fostrop name while I pop out a couple of heirs.” I cackled. “Thing is, I’m not really managing to do any of those things. Oh, maybe the pretty.”

  “I mean it, you need to be careful.” He pulled back, face flushed—from anger? “Be serious for one bloody minute of your life, would you?”

  Had I got to him? Would I be able to charm him? It was a challenge I’d already set myself from the second I’d spotted him in Paris. A challenge I wasn’t about to give up on. He must have some chinks in his armour, everyone did.

  “Oh, come on.” I let out a gentle laugh. “This really does sound like a movie now. Subterfuge, things being slipped into bags. A terrible man with terrible things in mind who will do those things to me if he manages to get me alone. Really? Is that the best you and my father can do to make me behave?” I sighed and inched forward again, intending to whisper so he had to move towards me, too. “Tell me, do you like your work?”

  “Pardon?” He did as I wanted and came closer. “Could you repeat that?”

  “I said, do you like your work?”

  “Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it.”

  “So, if someone told you the little story you’ve just told me, would you give up your work?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So why,” I said, “do you expect me to give up my work?”

  “Work?” His breath danced on my lips, laced with the scent of blue cocktail.

  “Yes, my flowers. My search for beauty that I can sell in my shop. That work. That’s why I’m travelling. Should I do it the boring way and return to Chelsea, look up flowers on the Internet, then order them in? Should I deny myself the pleasure?”

  “Stop it with the innuendoes.”

  “Excuse me? I was talking about the pleasure of seeing the flowers for myself before I buy them. I am on a botanical journey, a Darwin-like, precision-driven search for the perfect blooms. The ones that oligarchs and sheiks will want to buy their wives and mistresses at Christmas, birthdays, and Valentine’s Day. What on earth did you think I meant?”

  “I know what you meant. You know what you meant. This isn’t a game, Claudine.”

  Oh, he’d used my name. Which meant it was about time I knew his.

  “If we’re getting pally,” I said, “tell me your name. It’s only fair.”

  “Sutton.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was his first or surname but didn’t care. It suited him.

  “Right then, Sutton. Life is a game. You either play it well or you lose. You throw your own dice, and even if you only get a one, you still move forward. Unless you’re playing Snakes and Ladders—and believe me, I never play that. I only climb ladders, I do not slide down snakes.” I giggled.

  He huffed in a huge breath then let it out, glancing at the balconies as though he couldn’t bear to look at me anymore. If I wanted to, I could kiss his cheek, but for once I didn’t think it appropriate. I was frustrating him—one way or the other—and enjoyed his discomfort.

  “Claudine, I’m going to need to ask your father to send more men to help me if you insist on not listening to my advice.”

  “Advice?” Was he really trying to tell me what to do?

  “Yes, stop this business with the random men, it’s not safe. Keep yourself in plain sight for me to watch out for you.”

  “Fine. Get more helpers then.” I leant in close again and spoke breathily. “Go running to my father.”

  I stuck my tongue out. The tip connected with his cheek, just above his beard, and he jolted away then turned his head to stare at me, aghast.

  “I wish you would stop being so…rude,” he said.

  “Ha! Rude? A little bit of tongue is rude? You haven’t lived, mister.”

  “I’ve lived enough.”

  “Oh, you’re an Ice King. How wonderfully exciting.”

  “I’m here to keep you safe, nothing more.”

  He clenched his jaw. Very manly. And I wasn’t sure if it was exasperation or determination that flashed over his eyes.

  “Okay, then. What about this? You could shadow me to the point that I only ask you to leave me alone when I want to take someone into my private space. We’ll have adjoining rooms. I can knock on the wall or rattle the headboard, if anyone tries to do whatever it is you think they want to do. How about that?”

  “I’ll agree to that.”

  I could have clapped in happiness. Things were going along easier than I thought they would.

  “So,” I said, “run along to reception and see if they can organize a room next to mine.”
/>
  Sutton’s expression implied he didn’t want to leave me.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I said. “Alberto here will take care of me until you get back. Then me and you can have a nose through my bag. Try to find whatever this so-called man put in it. All right?”

  Sutton nodded and left quickly, striding past the pool and to the hotel.

  I turned my back on him to find Alberto standing right there.

  “He won’t break for you, no?” He grinned.

  “Oh, he will.”

  “I would not be so sure.” Alberto nodded absently. “Some men, they have control.”

  “This one,” I smiled, “will succumb.”

  “Send me a postcard from your next destination if he does.” He laughed. “Just write si or no, I’ll understand what it means.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “This other man, the one following. What does he want with you?” Alberto asked. “I had to serve someone, so I didn’t catch…”

  “You were listening? Oh, you naughty boy.”

  “A perk of the job.” He grinned.

  “I have no idea what he wants with me—if he even exists.”

  But I intended to find out and get Sutton on my side. The man was only run-of-the-mill handsome, but his control, as Alberto had put it, made him incredibly appealing to me. More than appealing. I found myself attracted to him.

  Chapter Three

  It was about five minutes after Sutton had headed into the hotel to organise the room change that I knew, for sure, that I had the wicked-impulsive gene, the same one as my father. Because an idea came to me, so suddenly and vividly, I cackled like one of Macbeth’s witches.

  And I acted on it, this shocking idea, in a heartbeat.

  I guzzled then slurped the last of the thick concentrate from the bottom of my bowl-shaped glass. Next I headed for my lounger. Alberto was busy flirting with two milky-skinned new arrivals, Manchester judging by their accents, and I was pleased to shake his attention.

  I needed to be alone.

  I’d left a bag under my towel. It was that kind of place, everyone so rich they wouldn’t steal a few personal belongings. A few million from a bank vault or a dodgy arms deal, maybe, but not a tattered paperback, a Gucci purse with several credit cards and dollars in it, and a Donna Karan sunglasses case.

  I wrapped a lilac sarong around my waist then wriggled my feet into matching flip-flops and shook out a sandy-coloured sun hat that I’d folded into my bag. I plonked the hat on, glad of its wide-brimmed protection, then pulled my bag onto my shoulder.

  It was time to shake my tail, get rid of my shadow, throw Sutton off his game and let him know what he’d said didn’t scare me.

  Was it mean of me to slip away? Yes. So what?

  I was going out of the complex, and no one could stop me—not Father’s servant-boy or a mythical man out to get me.

  I’d hit the local market. Sometimes, I’d discovered, it was just the place to find something unusual for displays. If not a fancy or rare flower, an artifact to decorate a bouquet with, or to give me inspiration for a centerpiece. I wasn’t a traditional type of florist, I went for much edgier designs. I adored spiky leaves, garish colours, black fronds, anything that was out of the ordinary.

  I supposed that suited me—I wasn’t exactly ordinary.

  Sauntering back past the pool bar, I tipped my chin, not bothering to catch Alberto’s attention. He was busy. So was I.

  A black security man stood by a locked gate that led from the hotel grounds in a peaked cap, smart navy shorts, and a matching shirt.

  “Which way is the market?” I asked as he unlocked the wrought-iron gate.

  “That way.” He pointed to the left. “About a ten-minute walk. If you hurry it will still be in full swing, but they start to pack up early evening.”

  “Okay, thank you.” I smiled at him.

  A gold band sat around his ring finger.

  Off limits.

  I didn’t obey many rules, but I respected the don’t-shag-married-men rule.

  If another woman, Miriam bloody Pennington, had stuck to that rule twenty years ago, then maybe I wouldn’t be here today. Perhaps my father would have gone home from the office and screwed my mother instead of having the sodding affair of the century.

  She had been the reason my mother had left and never came back. I got birthday cards from her and a present every Christmas. The gifts were predictable, always a Fabergé egg. The last one had been emerald with golden lace and stood on tiny diamanté feet. But they didn’t make up for her not being there. For her putting me in the same damn basket as my father and leaving us both.

  The gate clicked shut behind me, and I meandered down the dusty path. The road next to it was potholed and quiet, not a vehicle in sight.

  I sighed and stared out to sea. It was a beautiful, rich blue, and small white-tipped waves flurried on the surface, tiny galloping horses. Back home the weather would be grey and miserable. Lights on at four p.m., and the sort of evening the lampposts wore halos of mist around their amber lights.

  It was good to be here, away from all of that dreariness.

  Pulling in a deep breath, I set my shoulders back and enjoyed the sense of freedom. No Sutton—it was good to finally have a name for him—trotting behind me.

  I smirked as a man wearing only shorts and tattered sandals went past me on a rattling bike. Not that I was smirking at him, and I hoped he didn’t think that, but I was imagining Sutton’s face when he came back to the pool bar and I was gone.

  Then he’d see my bag had also vanished.

  He’d likely quiz Alberto, who would be none the wiser, his head too full of his next conquest, his next bit of arse. Sutton would scratch his beard, over his chin, the way I’d seen him do on several occasions. I might not be a PI like him but I was pretty good at spotting this kind of stuff.

  A light, briny breeze tugged at my hat, and I pushed my palm on my crown. The market was ahead now. It really wasn’t very far. Inland, on my right, was a cluster of single-storey houses, shanty-style. Several gritty alleys led into their bowels, the view hindered by flapping clothing on lines and jumbled piles of junk. The roofs were corrugated iron, rusting and sharp-edged. A trickle of smoke spiralled upwards then dissipated in the sea air. It was the kind of place in St Lucia Father had warned me off venturing into, and the bark of several dogs told me that was, for once, advice I should take.

  Bright, citrus-coloured canopies spread like a large picnic blanket over a bustling patch of shade. The clang of metal drums being played, a party beat, filtered towards me, and I was aware of a smile stretching my lips. I adored the jolly sound of steel drums, always had done whenever I’d visited this part of the world.

  “Hey, pretty lady. You want pineapple?” A woman in a neon-orange turban held out a tray crammed full of pots of the sliced fruit.

  “Yes, thank you.” I delved into my purse, handed over a dollar, and took a tub.

  A small girl hung on to one of the ribbons on the woman’s apron. With her thumb shoved in her mouth, the child stared up at me, her brown eyes discs on a face with gloriously perfect skin and a nose that urged me to gently nip the button end. Tension gripped my stomach. She would be that age now. Walking, talking, her mind alert to the world but not unless her ‘mother’ was shielding her from the strangers and dangers that lurked around every corner.

  Whoever her mother was.

  The lady with the tray and the child smiled her thanks and moved on to her next customer.

  Pushing away thoughts that squeezed my heart, I sucked on the succulent pineapple. A drip ran down my finger, over my palm, and slicked around my inner wrist. I licked it off and stepped into the throng of people.

  The market had a carnival atmosphere, the heat of the day apparently not wilting locals intent on stocking up their cupboards and finding a bargain. There were plenty of raucous conversations going on, bartering as well as laughing and singing.

  I shifted along with
the flow of the crowd. I was jostled, shoulders bumping into mine, bodies rubbing against me, my toes nearly squashed. I inhaled, the scent of skin, fruit, the sun.

  I spotted a bin and dropped the now empty pineapple tub into it.

  A man, tall, thin, in a torn red T-shirt, jostled me.

  “Sorry, lady,” he said, smiling. “You okay?” He rested his big hot hands on my shoulders, and his brown eyes sparkled down at me.

  “Fine, thank you.” I returned his smile.

  But before I could say anything else, work my magic, he’d wandered off, his head and neck bobbing in time with the beat of the tinny music.

  A stall to his right caught my attention. I steeled myself to go against the flow of the crowd and headed for it. One particular bucket of flowers with tall stems beckoned me.

  “What is this?” I asked the woman behind the stall.

  “It is an ixoras,” she said. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s beautiful.” I nodded enthusiastically. I’d seen it before but hadn’t remembered the name. “Is it easy to grow here?”

  “If a person has green fingers.” She raised her hands. “Like me.”

  “And do you start from seed?” I picked up single a stem, held it high. The lemon-yellow flowers at the very tip burst outwards in a sphere and reminded me of a firework.

  “Yes, always seed.” She looked up at the majestic bloom.

  “And you only sell here?”

  “Yes, every week. Once a week.”

  I turned my attention to her. It was clear she wasn’t a wealthy woman. Her faded green dress had a ragged hole below the neckline, and she had gaps in her teeth.

  “Do you have a phone?” I asked, though I could guess the answer.

  She grinned, showing the extent of her dentistry problem. “Yes, my son gave it to me.” After a quick rummage in her bag, she pulled out an old iPhone with a cracked screen. “It works perfectly.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Well, that’s good, because maybe we could do some business.”

  “You want to buy?”

  “Yes, but not this flower. Lots of flowers, potentially. But not until next year.” I’d made a deal with myself, before I’d started following Father’s crazy plan, that if I could do my own version of Fair Trade then I would. Yes, there was another way I could source ixoras, but if I could get them from a market woman and change her life, I would.