GhostWalkers 10 - Samurai Game

wineglass while she picked up hers, holding it up so they could touch glasses. “To later. I will make you feel so good, Frankie.” She let her tongue tease her lip again. “Do you want to leave?” She knew he couldn’t, but the drug was going to take effect very soon and he’d be on fire for her.
    He grabbed her hand and placed it over his hard crotch, grinding it against him. “Damn it, baby, we have to stay for a few more minutes.” He glanced toward Whitney and then over to Sheila and Melanie. All three were enjoying the great food. He leaned toward her, putting his lips against her ear. “Come with me to the men’s room.” He sounded a little desperate.
    She let her eyes widen. She hastily shook her head. “Not there. The back parking lot has a little alley.” She was taking a chance arguing with him, but she couldn’t seem eager to go to the men’s room with him. After all, she was a high priced escort, not a woman on a street corner.
    His hand tightened over hers. She was definitely going to have a bruise. The drug was working. Right now, it was roaring through his body, settling in his groin until he couldn’t think about anything but wanting her.
    He jerked her closer. “You little bitch. You’ve been cock-teasing me all night. Get up and come with me to the men’s room.”
    She drew back, pouting, shaking her head, a tiny figure next to his large, muscular body. She made certain she was on the inside so that when they passed Whitney’s table she would be close to him. She struggled a little, interspersingher pitiful resistance with hysterical giggling. There had to be a delicate balance, where anyone watching would see she didn’t want to go with Frankie. She kept breaking away and allowed herself to be recaptured as he dragged her toward the men’s room.
    She counted the steps. One step. Two. She was so close. Her blood thundered in her ears. This was it. Do or die.
    “Frankie, no,” she whined. “I’m not that kind of date.” She managed to stop just a few steps from Whitney’s table.
    “Shut the hell up,” Frankie snapped, “and do what I say.”
    Whitney looked up at her with no recognition whatsoever, but of course he wouldn’t know who she was. For a moment she wanted him to know who was going to kill him, but then discipline took over. That wasn’t important. Only getting the job done. Now she was close, close enough in another step to make her move. She took a deep breath and inhaled.
    Confusion burst through her. Azami gripped Frankie tightly, fisting his belt, as shock poured through her. The man wore Whitney’s face, but no way was that him. She’d recognize his scent and would recognize the energy surrounding him anywhere. The real Whitney felt “mad” to her. Insane. This man had to be a patsy, a double, someone placed here to draw her out, and she’d nearly fallen for it. She continued to stumble along with Frankie, bile in her throat as she realized she’d nearly blown everything in her eagerness to kill Whitney.
    The men’s room was looming close. Now she had to get back to her table and recover her purse and get the original job done. Furious with herself, she flicked a slight kick to the back of Frankie’s knee as he took a step forward. He stumbled and both of them went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Azami cried out, a pitiful sob, and rolled away from Frankie. She was going to have to incapacitate him without appearing to do so, return to the table, collect her purse, and ensure Melanie’s death without drawing any suspicion to her.
    She glanced toward Whitney’s table. He was talking to the bodyguard on his left. Her heart jumped again. Could she be wrong? She hadn’t seen him in years, not since the trauma of her childhood. In profile this man looked
exactly
like Whitney, even to the curious reptilian way he moved his head. She couldn’t make a mistake and kill an innocent man. He might be duped into posing as Whitney without knowing just what Whitney was like. Most people didn’t know.
    Several waiters rushed toward the couple on the floor. Frankie moaned and started to sit up, the effects of the drug making his mind slow and fuzzy. He looked very drunk. She sat, trying to look dignified and offended. The bodyguard Whitney had spoken with loomed over her, offering his hand.
    “Frank, on your feet, now.” His voice was filled with authority. “And start drinking coffee.” He pulled Azami to her feet and dusted her off before the