The Long Road to Loving Royce

By Alicia Hope

One prestigious job opportunity, two main contenders. She’s trapped under a glass ceiling. His career is all he cares about.

Divorcee Verity Parker is determined to break new ground for professional women in the male-dominated Australian mining industry, by shattering the company’s glass ceiling and proving she has what it takes to survive the perils of upper management. Success can come at a cost though, which Verity soon discovers after snatching the top job from the waiting hands of her main rival.

Royce James is known to be hard-nosed and astute, making him a formidable adversary but also a valuable ally in the dog-eat-dog corporate world. Can Verity forge an alliance with him, the man she beat to the coveted CEO position and who no doubt holds a grudge? With tensions between them rising, Verity must decide if she can trust Royce to do right by her or if he'll prove to be her most ruthless nemesis. Does he have her job in his sights, or her wary heart ... or both?

If you enjoyed the intense power struggles in The Devil Wears Prada, you’ll love this story of ambition, power plays, and workplace romance, as Alicia Hope’s gutsy heroine navigates the shark-filled waters of 1990s corporate Australia.

Click the BUY button to uncover an alliance that becomes so much more than a business arrangement....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alicia Hope
• Release date: Dec 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781005502515

Alicia Hope

Once you choose HOPE anything is possible....Despite living within cooee of the Great Barrier Reef, idyllic tropical islands, and a well-stocked ocean pantry, author Alicia Hope is a self-confessed landlubber and disliker of seafood (I know - what the heck, right?). She’s also a keen horse rider, bass player, and bird watcher, and shares her gumtree-dotted acreage home with author husband, Frank H Jordan, feathered larrikin, cockatiel Kewbie Kewberton, and a whole bunch of wild birds, roos, goannas, and pretty-face wallabies. Her feel-good stories showcase Alicia’s love of the land and the natural world, and this is especially true of her LONG ROAD series.Anyone who has travelled Australia by road knows to prepare for looong trips, with a high probability of obstacles and roadblocks being encountered along the way. So it’s no surprise the heroines in Alicia’s stories discover that the road to happiness can also be long, potholed, and downright challenging. But these gutsy Aussie gals are up for whatever challenges come their way!For the latest on her books and writing life visit Alicia online at aliciahopeauthor.blogspot.com.au, and collect an exclusive gift when you sign up for her oh-so newsy newsletter. :-)

Book preview

1

‘P ull in here will ya, Royce?’ Clyde waved a hand at the parking lot that snaked along the foreshore of Bunbury’s main beach. ‘There’s a spot.’ He pointed to it. ‘Near those stairs.’

Sets of concrete steps at regular intervals along the lengthy parking area provided access to the expanse of white sand and clear green waters of the Indian Ocean. On such a blustery weekday there were few beachgoers however, and even fewer customers at the obligatory beach kiosk nearby.

Driven by the brisk westerly, waves rose metres from the shoreline to roll and form crests before crashing onto the sand. Out past the breakers the few daring surfers braving the conditions remained seated on their boards, legs dangling in the water as they bobbed on the swell.

Royce flicked a questioning glance at his boss and mentor as he slowed the sedan. ‘What’s on your mind, Clyde?’ After pulling into the spot, he switched off the ignition and silence settled in the cabin. Knowing the older man would answer when he was ready, he settled in his seat and gazed through the windscreen at the scene below.

Out to sea, the surfers were still waiting for the perfect swell, none yet attempting a ride. When he lowered his gaze to the beach, Royce’s eyes alighted on a shapely bikini-clad sunbather reclining on an oversized beach towel, an open paperback beside her and straw hat shading her face. Quite the pretty picture....

Beside him, Clyde blew a long sigh. ‘That Miss Sharpe,’ he said in his Texan drawl, ‘is a real burr under my blanket. Now she’s bustin’ my balls over her latest initiative, some affirmative action campaign.’

Royce gave an amused grunt.

‘The damn woman’s been pesterin’ me about the qualifications of the company’s female staff, and I can tell she’s got an agenda,’ Clyde went on grimly. ‘I’ve had to fend off a few such agendas durin’ my time in the job, but I’m concerned this one has the potential to impact certain,’ and he flicked the younger man a significant glance, ‘plans.’

‘Wait.’ Royce’s brow creased. ‘You’re not talking about the general manager position?’ At Clyde’s nod, his frown deepened. ‘What sort of impact?’

When Clyde took his time answering, Royce swallowed his impatience and gazed out at the water. He watched an intrepid surfer drop to lie along his board and start paddling as the swell built behind him.

‘That’s to be determined,’ Clyde finally said.

A furrow formed in Royce’s brow. ‘She’d be aware that qualifications are one thing, experience is another. Surely she’s not suggesting a woman could handle your job?’

Clyde shrugged. ‘Y’all know the old sayin’, boy. Nothin’ in life is certain ’cept death and taxes. Well now, lookie here,’ and he lifted his chin at the surfer, who’d caught the wave and was taking up the classic pose on his board. ‘Brave fella, takin’ on rough water like that.’

The two men watched the surfer ride down the face of the wave as it formed a towering curl behind him. It rose skyward, sucking the surfer into the tube, only to crash moments later, hurling him and his board metres into the air in a spectacular wipe-out. When both man and board came down hard to disappear beneath the furiously churning, bubbling, sand-filled water, the watchers sat forward, searching—in Clyde’s case, peering short-sightedly—for a glimpse of the unfortunate surfer.

He bobbed to the surface moments later.

Floating face-down.

As Royce reached for the door handle, Clyde grabbed him by the arm. ‘Wait! Look,’ and he pointed to the sunbathing woman.

She had leapt to her feet and was sprinting across the sand to the water. Once in knee-deep she plunged into the waves and struck out for the surfer.

As they watched her reach the man and tread water while spinning him face-up, Royce frowned. ‘Say, does she look familiar...?’ After a pause he settled back in his seat. ‘Nah.’

They could see the surfer coughing up sea water as his rescuer wrapped a slender arm around his waist. Swimming sidestroke she made for the shore, towing the semi-conscious man to safety.

‘Well,’ Clyde muttered, ‘that there gal just taught us a lesson.’

‘She did?’

‘Yessiree. We ... and I’m talkin’ men in general here ... underestimate what women can achieve to our detriment.’

RCL Alumina Administration Facility, Western Australia, 7:30am Wednesday

Verity Parker slipped the bulging leather work bag off her shoulder and eyed the long queue at the coffee machine.

The building’s lunch room was already warm with steam and body heat, and when someone turned on the pie-warmer the ambient temperature rose another degree, making some in the queue stamp their feet and sigh audibly. Others yawned and blinked as though barely awake, chatted in subdued early morning voices, or eyed the constant stream of bodies around the food vending machines with an air of grim determination.

It was just another work day at RCL, although....

Verity suppressed a shiver of anticipation.

Her work days could be about to undergo a dramatic change.

She sucked in a breath and held it, before slowly releasing it.

That was a big ‘could’.

Straightening her shoulders, she made for the nearest food vending machine.

The tousle-haired, khaki-clad young man leaning against it stood out amid the sea of navy shirts and pants, steel-cap boots, and white and yellow hard hats. He watched idly as the paunchy bloke beside him continued peering into the machine, pressing the button every few seconds to turn the display to the next selection.

‘Anyway,’ Verity heard the young man say, ‘I’m hoping the new CEO will actually listen to my ideas.’ He poked a finger into the paunchy bloke’s bent back. ‘Not only listen, but act on them.’

‘CEO?’ His mate paused in his culinary search to frown up at him. ‘You mean the new GM?’

‘Different acronym, same animal.’

‘Acronym?’ The paunchy bloke gave a derisive huff. ‘You and your big words....’ He jerked a wobbly double chin toward the building’s upper floor. ‘You really think anyone in the crystal tower, let alone the general manager, would be bothered to hear what a mere environmental officer has to say?’

The young man’s lips tightened. ‘Why not? My proposals have merit and would benefit RCL, especially in the long term. I’ve done the research and documented my findings.’

His friend shrugged. ‘A moot point.’ He turned his attention to the machine again. ‘We both know you won’t get a hearing, you’re not a high profile, butt-kissing engineer. They’re the only ones in the bosses’ ears.’ After feeding coins through the slot, he collected the fat, pink-iced sticky bun that tumbled into the outlet and gave it a quick inspection. With a lick of his lips, he moved to the side, followed by his talkative buddy.

When Verity took their place at the head of the queue, they nodded at her and the young man said cheerily, ‘Gidday Verity.’

She smiled back at him. ‘Morning, Luke.’ Bending to collect her lunch, she joined the diminishing queue at the coffee machine.

---

On the floor above, a woman held aloft a bound document. ‘I refer you to this report.’ Its glossy cover bore an embossed Federal Government crest and the title, Enterprising Nation, November 1994. ‘The report, and what it means for RCL, is the reason I’ve called this breakfast meeting.’ Frustration sharpened her already waspish tone. ‘So let’s get on with it.’

She swept a narrow-eyed glance over the other delegates seated at the boardroom table, all men dressed in conventional variations of white shirt, dark tie and pants.

‘The federal government commissioned this report with the aim of providing insight into five key challenges for Australian corporations.’ After dropping the document onto the meeting table, she opened it and flicked to a bookmarked page. ‘I refer you to the section in the Executive Summary dealing with globalisation and workforce diversity, identified as the top two challenges.’

After a brief pause, punctuated by the rustle of pages being turned, she went on. ‘While RCL Alumina scored well on the globalisation scale, the harder of the two challenges to quantify and assess, on workforce diversity the company scores dismally. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the term glass ceiling, but what you may not know is that the existence of corporate glass ceilings, like the one locked in place at RCL,’ she added drily, ‘has become an international hot topic. So much so, our closest competitor has taken significant steps to improve performance in that regard, even appointing women to two newly created managerial positions.’

Her tone soured. ‘A fact their public relations staff are spruiking to anyone who’ll listen.’ Closing the document with a snap, she said through tight lips, ‘Do you realise the damage it would cause to RCL’s reputation if the media got wind of how badly the company scored against this point? Of how few women it employs in middle, let alone upper management positions? And how little action, if any, is being taken to correct that deficit?’

Threading her fingers together, she sat back and tapped her thumbs against each other. ‘In light of all that, I’m sure you’ll understand why RCL’s joint venturers assume that their progressive, multi-national company is already implementing, with all due diligence, a number of well-thought-out affirmative action strategies.’

Her mention of the mining company’s cohort of international owners silenced the murmurs of side conversations in the boardroom. When one of the men exhaled audibly and slumped back in his chair, the woman threw him a reproachful glare from over the black frames of her stylish, if a tad manly, reading glasses. ‘Naturally, I assume everyone here is aware that affirmative action means equal opportunity for all employees regardless of gender, ethnicity, etcetera?’

When the odd disdainful sniff was the only response, she gave a satisfied nod. After tugging her shoulder-padded jacket more firmly into place, she fixed the chairman with a steely gaze. ‘It would be unwise to presume the matter will go the way of other initiatives. The joint venturers are taking the issues raised in the report very seriously and will not allow them to be swept under the table. I’d suggest everyone here take the same approach, in the interest of self-preservation if nothing else.’

Crossing her arms, she tapped the fingers of her right hand in a rhythmical wave against her suit-coated left arm. ‘As for me, I intend to pursue this issue without prejudice. I am not interested in hearing excuses and refuse to continue defending the company’s lack of action. By the close of this meeting I expect to have a draft action plan to present to the JVs—a plan to address RCL’s shortcomings as identified in this report.’

She waved the document in the air again. ‘The plan will form the basis of a project that management will commit to actioning once it’s been ratified. I stress that point because regular progress updates will be expected and will be closely examined for efficacy.’

Across the table from her, a man with a turned-down mouth sat forward as far as his developing paunch would allow. ‘I’ve already taken steps to break the cycle of appointing internationals to management positions,’ he blustered. ‘And as for the affirmative action issue,’ and his lips twisted as he emphasised the words, ‘we’re considering strategies—’

‘Considering is not good enough at this point, John,’ she snapped. ‘In high profile matters like this,’ and she stabbed the report with a finger, ‘the company can no longer afford to drag its feet.’ At his scowl she fixed him with a speculative gaze. ‘As Human Resources director, do I take it that you expect to oversee the process, perhaps even facilitate the resulting project?’

He gave an indignant nod.

Eyeing him coolly, she noted the angry-looking, dilated follicles on his nose. A rum blossom, no doubt. John Reardon was a known heavy drinker, and a right pain in the arse. And was that a toupee on his balding, sweat-dampened head?

Smothering a grimace, she returned her gaze to the chairman. ‘If we are to get some quick scores on the board, Clyde, the change facilitator will need to be results-oriented.’

At the thinly veiled criticism, Reardon’s scowl became a glower, and his florid complexion reddened further. Thumping the table with an open palm, he made to rise until waved down by the grim-faced chairman.

As she watched the exchange, the woman took off her glasses and calmly folded in the wings. ‘Implementation of the project might be a good testing ground for the new general manager,’ she said smoothly. ‘We could assign overall responsibility to him—or her.’ Recalling her own struggle to rise through the ranks, she arched a challenging eyebrow at the men seated around the table.

They shared meaningful glances, some even risked rolling their eyes. After all, the selection process was a mere formality. Everyone already knew who RCL’s next GM would be.

City Function Centre, 8:35pm Wednesday

Relishing a moment to himself, Royce James leaned an elbow on the polished timber bar and eyed the man pacing the floor beyond the bar area. The man’s lips worked as he went back and forth, back and forth, clasping and unclasping his hands, his gaze fixed on the group standing in the centre of the lavish ballroom.

Royce turned away with a disparaging snort. Performances like this were evident at every work function in one form or another, though most people tried to disguise their intent—to get in the boss’s ear—for the sake of etiquette. Not this bloke. Didn’t he know he’d left his run too late? The senior managers had met that morning, so all important decisions had already been made.

Royce took a sip of wine. Maybe the bloke was unaware of that, or didn’t care, simply carried on waiting for an opportunity to get in the ear of the most influential person in the room. And tonight, RCL Alumina’s general manager and chief executive officer, Clyde Galloway, was that person.

The Texan expat, known for his business nous, still had clout despite being on the cusp of retirement. A good word from Galloway could sway his replacement’s thinking in the ‘right’ direction, or so the up-and-coming in the company’s ranks believed. And so they doubled their efforts to obtain his endorsement for their latest grand, often high-risk schemes.

Royce drained his glass and set it down with a contemptuous grunt. Not that he was disdainful of ambition—it had got him where he was today—but the grovelling way some wannabes pursued it turned his stomach. Career advancements should be earned through skill and hard work, not handed out like treats to fawning children.

Children....

Ella’s reproachful features flashed across his mind’s eye. An early childhood teacher, she had made children the focus of her career, but they were also one of her great loves, rating highly on her list of ‘must-haves one day soon’.

Ella.

Losing her had left him with so little, just the constant ache of regret, and only his career to focus all his energies on.

Blinking away the gut-wrenching image, he rested his forearms on the bar and glanced over a shoulder.

Sequins glinted and balding heads shone under the glow of chandeliers, as the company’s senior staff and partners doggedly worked the room, drinks in their hands and polite smiles fixed on their faces.

Down the well-stocked bar from him, a group of men had either abandoned their plus-ones to swill drinks and tell bawdy jokes, or their partners had refused to attend yet another tiresome work ‘do’.

Further on from them, a few lone individuals sat hunched in the exclusion zones their constant griping created around them, only occasionally lifting their heads to glare at their gathered colleagues through bleary, embittered eyes.

Royce frowned. Occasions like these shouldn’t be teeth-gritting tests of endurance. They were intended to be morale-boosting forums for collegial networking and the exchange of innovative ideas, those needing a dose of Dutch courage to come to light. But it was clearly not enough to throw people together in swanky surroundings, ply them with food and drink, and expect the event to achieve those lofty goals. A new approach was needed. Yet another item for his growing ‘to do’ list….

He released a sigh through his straight, longish nose. At the bartender’s approach he lifted his chin. ‘Another, thanks mate.’

‘The Margaret River shiraz?’ At a nod from his suave, rather imposing-looking customer, the barman dipped his head and removed Royce’s empty glass in one well-practised movement.

As he watched the barman open a new bottle and pour the wine through a bubbler, Royce was surprised when a sweet, cloying fragrance enveloped him. The aroma wasn’t from the wine, though. Its origin moved in close to run a lazy, crimson-tipped finger down the sleeve of his Brioni suit coat.

The low-cut bodice of her figure-hugging black gown brushed against him as the woman bent to purr in his ear, ‘Hello Royce.’

Straightening to glance first at her talon-like hand and then her face, he replied with a cool, ‘Kerry,’ and returned his gaze to the barman.

After deftly capping the shiraz bottle and wiping the base of the red wine glass on a pristine white cloth, the man set the drink on the bar in front of Royce with a flourish. He then focused his attention on Kerry.

With some reluctance she slid her gaze from Royce to face the barman. The movement sent her glossy mane of dark hair bobbing on the bare skin of her back. Skin that travelled down, and down, to a diamanté-encrusted V below her waistline.

The gown was nothing if not eye-catching, and to Royce’s mind, totally over-the-top for a work function such as this. Not surprising she would choose to wear it though. Kerry Stowe was known to be an exhibitionist, amongst other things. This was much to her long-suffering husband’s dismayed embarrassment, Royce surmised, as indicated by the otherwise convivial Jim Stowe’s absence from functions like this.

While respecting Jim—one of the few middle managers at RCL he could respect—and considering him deserving of a measure of sympathy, Royce believed Jim had made his bed by marrying Kerry. He’d been aware of her emotional shortcomings before they married, Jim had once confided to Royce, explaining that she’d had a troubled childhood. And being abandoned by her mother when old enough to understand the betrayal, Royce mused, would no doubt leave a young girl with feelings of worthlessness she might try, as an adult, to appease....

At the barman’s polite, ‘Champagne, madam?’ she gave an offhand shrug and mewed, ‘Whatever’s going.’

With a deferential nod the barman took a frosted bottle from the chiller and one of the flutes hanging upside-down from the rack above the bar. Flipping it upright with deft fingers, he went about pouring