Surrender to Darkness Read Free

head that instantly separated him from the other men in the lobby. The wretch reeked of importance.
    When the fellow smiled at him and extended his hand in a North American-style handshake, Murdoch smiled in return. The wait was over.
    “Mr. Murdoch, what a pleasure to meet you,” the man said as their hands connected. No limp grip here. “I’m Ryuji Watanabe, the president of Ashida Corporation.”
    Murdoch frowned.
    Company presidents wearing thousand-dollar suits don’t come down to the lobby to greet perfect strangers. They send their secretaries. Or some other lackey. Unless they have no intention of letting said stranger gain entry to the inner sanctum.
    “My request was to meet with Kiyoko Ashida,” Murdoch said.
    Watanabe smiled ruefully. “As I’m sure someone’s already informed you, she’s extremely busy. I came downstairs to save you several wasted hours. She’s not going to see you.”
    Blunt and to the point. Yet spoken with a friendly air that suggested he was being kind. “Not at all?”
    “Your credentials did you in, I’m afraid.”
    The only credential he’d presented was his association with Lena Sharpe. Which suggested that, contrary to her claim that they were longtime friends, Lena was persona non grata with Miss Ashida. “I see.”
    “It might be best if you simply left.”
    Watanabe’s smile seemed genuinely rueful. The man was nothing if not pleasant. Yet for some reason, Murdoch felt lacking. Perhaps it was the subtle hint of money that wafted off him—reminding Murdoch all too much of Brian Webster. The clothes, the expensive scent, the perfect presentation. It was difficult not to make comparisons to his own beat-up leather bomber jacket and black twill trousers. The chunky heels and silver buckles of his motorcycle boots seemed large and ostentatious when viewed next to the finely stitched leather of Watanabe’s Italian loafers.
    He fingered his chin. At least the scruffy beard was gone. After losing half of it to a fiery blast several months ago, he’d shaved it completely. It made him look more presentable. Or so the women he dated assured him.
    “It’s vital that I speak to Miss Ashida,” Murdoch said. “My business has nothing to do with Lena Sharpe. She was merely an introduction. I’m actually looking to purchase an item of rare antiquity with which I believe Miss Ashida may be familiar.”
    “I understand,” said Watanabe, nodding. “And I empathize with your situation. But, unfortunately, Miss Ashida is quite adamant. She will not change her mind about meeting with you. At least, not right away. You could try again in a few months, with better credentials.”
    A few months ?
    Murdoch grimaced. Imagine Webster’s reaction if he returned with that piece of news.
    “That won’t do,” he said softly. “I need to hear Miss Ashida decline in her own words.”
    “Your need is not my concern.” The smile was still friendly, but a glint of something hard had appeared in Watanabe’s eyes. He had correctly interpreted the determination in Murdoch’s voice as a problem.
    “Surely even a busy woman like Miss Ashida can spare me the few moments it would take to say no?”
    Watanabe stood taller. He barely reached Murdoch’s collarbone. “Do not be difficult, Mr. Murdoch. Insisting will only annoy her further. You will do your cause more good by leaving without a fuss. If you truly want to impress her, come back tomorrow and request another audience.”
    The advice was genuinely helpful, if not palatable, so Murdoch settled back on his heels. Losing a potential ally like Watanabe would be an error.
    “Fine,” he said, offering the businessman a slight bow similar to the sort he’d seen many Japanese men present since his arrival six hours ago. “I’ll return tomorrow. Please offer Miss Ashida my respects.”
    Then he spun on his heel and left the building.

    Kiyoko tossed her gold pen onto the desk and stood.
    Mr. Murdoch had displayed more restraint than