Iris rubbed her head angrily, as yet another irritating patron of the building approached the desk.
“I want to see Mr. Zhao.”
This time it was a blonde. So far, three redheads, four brunettes and now the fifth blonde approached the front desk demanding to see the reclusive tycoon. Security was able to keep the press out of the building, yet the bobble-headed bimbos were all being let through, and Iris was ready to smack the agent.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No but I know he’ll see me.”
“Why?” Iris didn’t bother to hide her irritation at this point. This morning a story was on the front page of the Times about the reclusive billionaire with Chinese Mafia connections which included an old grainy photo of him in his twenties which was digitally altered to determine what he likely loo
