Samurai Game (Ghostwalkers, #10)(107)

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, interspersing her 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 waiters got to her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Are you all right?”

“She’s a f*ckin’ escort,” Frankie hissed, slurring his words.

“Most of the women in here right now are,” the man snapped. “Go back to your table and we’ll deal with this later.”

Whitney would never have sent someone to rescue a woman, especially one he would consider a whore. She tugged her dress down and smoothed back her hair, trying to look as if she was affronted.

“I’m leaving. I just need to get my purse,” she said, loud enough for the waiter to hear. “I’ve never been treated like this before.” She pushed through the little knot of men and stormed past Whitney’s table without glancing at him. She was certain the man was nothing more than a double.

“You’d better handle this, Frank,” the bodyguard commanded.

Frank stumbled after her, apologizing as he caught up with her. “I don’t know what got into me, Lila,” he said, but his eyes burned with anger. “Stay and finish your dinner at least.”

“I’m so embarrassed,” she said, loud enough for Melanie and Sheila to overhear. “And I want to leave.”

Frank caught her wrist and twisted hard. “You little bitch,” he hissed. “I paid for you. You’re going to sit in that chair and eat your food and smile at me and when we leave here, I’m going to teach you a lesson you’re never going to forget.”

She knew Melanie and Sheila overheard him. Both of them giggled like schoolgirls. Azami teetered back toward their table, stumbling when Frank yanked her, knocking into Melanie as she did so.

Melanie shoved her hard back toward Frank. “You’re not much of a man if you can’t handle that,” she taunted, deliberately fanning Frank’s anger.