Her eyes widen, and she struggles against me, but her words come out as a jumbled mess of alphabet soup. Her fight is more of a wiggle, and I manage to steer her into the last stall before she relaxes against me. There’s still some fight in her, but I can tell the drugs are fully kicked in now.
Shit, I hope I didn’t give her too much.
Gripping those plush hips, I spin her around as she presses her hands to the metal door.
“Be a good girl and stay quiet for me.”
She sways a little and barely shakes her head no. I should have known a spoiled brat like her wouldn’t cooperate easily.
I unzip my bag. Nestled inside is a wig cap, wig, and a dress that’s a size too big for Daphne. I couldn’t find her exact measurements online.
A blond woman in a business suit went into the restaurant, and in three minutes, a black-haired woman in a green dress will be stumbling out on my arm.
My heart hammers with a rush of adrenaline and excitement as I yank Daphne’s silky blouse from her pencil skirt and unbutton it. The dainty buttons slip between my fingers, but I manage after a bit of fumbling, like a teenager learning to unclasp a bra for the first time. I unzip her skirt and slide it down her soft legs.
Nope. Not going to focus on the fact that her bra and underwear match, and the seafoam green lace of her cheeky panties nestle perfectly along the curve of her heart-shaped ass.
God, I feel like a fucking pervert as I lean down, my eyes level with those round globes and carefully ease her legs up and out of the skirt. I shove her clothes into my bag.
Daphne’s legs wobble in her spiky heels. Shit, I hope I didn’t use too much Rohypnol. My brother—the prodigy doctor—guessed how much I’d need, but without her actual height and weight, it was a guesstimate.
Daphne and I can both stumble out of here like we’re drunk, but if I have to carry her, people will have questions. And if Connor McArthur sees us, I’m fucked.
Luckily, Abercrombie isn’t the attentive type. He’s been zoning in and out of their conversation for the past hour and mostly focusing on the ass of their waitress. Poor girlbetter get a bigger tip than what’s on the end of Connor’s dick.
Once I have Daphne changed and the black wig secured by bobby pins, I tug off my suit pants, the clip-on tie, and knockoff Breguet, then shove them into the backpack. I already have a pair of tan khakis on, and I keep the same suit jacket and button-up shirt.
The bathroom door creaks open, and a man shuffles toward the urinals. The bathroom stalls only come up to Daphne’s calves. If anyone’s looking, they’ll see four shoes in here.
“Shhh, baby. Shh.” I cover my hand over her mouth, loud enough for the man to overhear me.
“You feel so fucking good. Not so loud. Quiet or we’ll get caught.” I grunt in rhythm like we’re fucking in the bathroom stall. With Daphne Fox’s curvy body this close to mine, her vanilla perfume fills my nostrils. Until the vanilla mixes with the fishy synthetic smell of her cheap wig, and I immediately pull back.
“That’s it,” I encourage. “Good girl.”
Daphne moans under my hand and rolls her hips, her ass grinding against me.
Holy shit.
Her moan rockets straight to my cock, and where the fuck did that come from? Other than my hand on her mouth, I’m not touching her. With the urgency to get her the hell out of here before we’re caught, it’s hard to have a hard-on, but one touch of Daphne’s hips against mine and my cock hardens.
Her eyes flutter, and her hips roll. A few of my ex-girlfriends used to tell me how sexy my voice was, but I’ve never made a woman moan from it before.
The urinal flushes, and the man hurries out without washing his hands.
Gross.
Opening the door, I check our reflection in the mirror. Daphne no longer matches any description someone could give the cops about the woman who walked to the back of the restaurant. My disguise is still a blond asshole if the police show up and Connor gives them my description.
Well, my disguise’s description. I do a quick double-check to make sure no dark hair is peeking out from under my wig.
Looping Daphne’s arm around my shoulder, I whisper in her ear.
“That’s it, Daphne. You’re doing so well. Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. I’ll have you home soon, okay?”
Daphne’s head lolls as I half-carry her outside. Stumbling around the corner, I stop where I have my car parked by two open buildings for rent—no CCTV footage around. The car required some prep work, between the fake license plate and fake Hyundai logo over where the Honda one used to be. I check to make sure the “Baby on Board” sticker is still there.
Settling Daphne into the backseat, I realize she must have left her purse in the restaurant. Perfect. No phone to toss means she can’t be tracked.
