Samurai Game

but she was fast and she could take him out and maybe make it out alive. In any case, this was the opportunity of a lifetime and one she thought she’d never get. The most she’d hoped for was to cut his pipeline to legitimacy, but this… this was a miracle and she had no choice but to grab the chance with both hands.

The waiter put a delicate salad in front of her, giving her another opportunity to let her gaze wander around the room. The three tables flanking Whitney’s were definitely bodyguards. Behind him was a tall divider with plants on top of it. There were tables on the other side of it, no doubt more of his enhanced army. Killers. Not real GhostWalkers, but men who failed their psych tests and traded honor for money-just as Melanie had done.

Success was always determined by careful preparation. She couldn’t let her emotions dictate panic or rushing what had to be a certain kill. She nibbled at her salad, giggled and flirted with Frankie, and planned each move carefully. She would only get one chance. Everyone was armed and shots would be fired, but she had the advantage in that she would be weaving in and out of the soldiers at blurring speed, and if they fired, they’d be killing their own companions. That would help create chaos.

Melanie and Sheila continued to chatter about their lives and the men they took home and got rid of just as fast, comparing notes on lovers and laughing together. Their laughter offended Azami, when they had just dismissed Sam’s death-and any of the other GhostWalkers-as if he were no more than a tool to be disposed of. That kind of thinking was Whitney’s fault. The men and women in his employ took on his attitude toward the one’s he experimented on. They were disposable lab rats. He believed that premise and he taught it to those he surrounded himself with. Since their true motivation was money, it was easy enough to persuade them those he experimented on weren’t human and didn’t deserve to be treated as if they were.

She drew another deep breath to calm the building rage. Her temper had always been a major drawback, and she couldn’t allow it to explode here. This couldn’t be personal. She had a mission to complete. A job. She had to do it to the best of her ability. Whether she lived or died didn’t matter. Only the job. It couldn’t be revenge. She couldn’t operate out of anger. She was samurai and she had been trained for this very moment.

She needed to get close to Whitney without alerting his soldiers he was in danger. That meant she had to make it clear to everyone present that it wasn’t her idea to get up and move around the restaurant. She planned out each move carefully, judging the amount of steps necessary to get in close enough to the table to use her speed to cut down Whitney’s guards and kill him. She went over and over the moves in her mind until she was certain she could execute each one perfectly and complete the mission.

She palmed the drug she’d brought and, keeping it in her hand, slid her other one up along Frankie’s thigh, fingers teasing and dancing their way higher and higher while she leaned toward him, her eyes smoldering with lust, her lips parted, tongue darting out to deliberately moisten her lower lip and give him ideas.

“Frankie. You’re so… big. I like big.” She batted her lashes, waiting for the inevitable. The moment his gaze dropped to the close proximity of her hand to his groin, she released the small vial of powder into his wine, using her body to jiggle the table. Fast acting, the powder dissolved with that small movement of the table.

“You have no idea, baby,” he murmured, leaning closer to her.

Her hand brushed his lap while the other picked up his drink and held it to his lips. Watching her, he took a drink and licked the rim suggestively. She managed another giggle. “Too bad the table doesn’t have long tablecloth. I could take care of this monster.” She petted him and continued to hold the wineglass for him.

He drank another healthy swallow, and she lowered the glass to pick up a piece of nearly bloody steak with her fingers, holding that up to his mouth, breathing heavily, her lashes at half-mast as she gave him a sultry look.

He ate the piece of steak and drew her fingers into his mouth. She laughed and handed him his 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, 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 fuckin’ 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.