by LP Lovell
Copyright © 2016 by LP Lovell
All rights reserved
This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.
Any opinions expressed in this book or solely those of the authors.
TIGER SHARK
Copyright ©2016 by LP Lovell
Published in the United States of America
Ebooks are non-transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of LP Lovell.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by LP Lovell
She Who Dares series:
Besieged #1
Conquered #2
Surrendered #3
Ruined #4
Wrong Series:
Wrong
Wrath
Standalone:
Absolution
High
London’s square mile is witness to a revolution, a new breed of business woman. They call us tiger sharks. We out-earn, out-work and out-play our male counterparts. We work the system, play the game and most importantly, win. In a city full of sharks only the most ruthless make it to the top of the pool.
No matter how much money I make, or how successful I am, I am and always will be a woman in a man’s word. Employers will tell you they support equal rights. On paper it seems that way, but I know better. It has fuck all to do with rights and more to do with the fact that men are men, and they will always see women as something to stick their dick in. Unless you play the game. Unless you win. And in order to do so, rules must be followed.
Rule number one: Never, ever, fuck the boss.
Rule number two: As an extension of rule one, never let the boss hit on you. The second the boss hits on you, you’re done. Reject him and you’re the bitch who turned him down. Fuck him, and you’re the office slut that he cheated on his wife with. Either way, you’re screwed and I guarantee, that the next round of redundancies, you’re out.
Rule number three: Anybody might be somebody. Be careful what you say, what you do and most importantly, who you fuck. That annoying twat who’s drunkenly dragging his eyes all over your tits…he might be your next boss or the guy you need to cut a deal with next week, hell, he could be a client. Always err on the side of caution and no matter how much you want to tell someone to fuck off, don’t.
Rule number four: Always appear beyond reproach. A male colleague can go out, get pissed and turn up to work smelling of whiskey and looking like he got run over. That’s fine. The boss will probably laugh it off and give him a manly pat on the back. The same does not apply to a woman. Keep it clean, keep it legal and most importantly, keep it private.
Rule number five: Play nice. I may be painfully aware of the inadequacies of my male colleagues at times, but I cannot point that out. I must be one of the guys, yet unattainable in every way. This is the only way to earn their respect, and that will be a factor when it comes to the next promotion.
This is what it takes to be a tiger shark. I pay the price willingly. Because one day, I’ll be the CEO.
“Fucking shit.” I whisper, scanning the graphs on the computer screen. I press the intercom in front of me. “Jonathan get in here.”
The door opens and my assistant shuffles through the door nervously smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt. “Ms Roberts.” He stammers.
“Are these figures right?” I ask, turning the screen towards him and pointing at the print. For the most part, the boy is a stuttering mess, but he’s a statistical genius. He glances at the screen and then drops his eyes to the floor.
“Yes, um, they’re this morning’s reports.”
“I’m aware of that. What I’m asking is whether that can possibly be right?!” I snap, jabbing my finger against the glass at the point where one of my biggest client’s stocks just took a twenty percent dive. Variations I can deal with. Stocks move up and down all the time. Every day, every hour, but twenty fucking percent…
“Um, yes. I believe so.”
“Shit. Get Samson on the phone. Tell him I’m on my way up.” I push up from my desk and strode from the room, slamming the door behind me.
The office is quiet at this time of morning. I’m always here an hour before anyone else in order to have a head start on any shit hitting the fan.
The only person I see is one of my colleagues, Dan, otherwise known as the competition. He’s a slimy prick who spends most of his time balls deep in the latest secretary. “Georgia.” He starts.
“No time.” I say, walking straight past him.
“I heard NewTec just went down!” He shouts after me, a smug edge in his voice. I ignore him and keep walking.
I cross my arms and tap the toe of my shoe against the floor as I wait for the lift to climb to the top floor of the building. My heart is pounding, adrenaline spiking through my veins. I live for the rush of making money, but I hate losing. At anything.
The lift pings and the doors slide open revealing the enormous lobby, the walls adorned with some crappy art which my boss, Collins, seems to think makes him cultured. Two mahogany desks sit on either side of the lobby, stationed by the pretty secretaries he likes to keep. The one on the right eyes me, pouting her bright pink lips.
“He’s in a meeting…” She says, but her voice trails off as I storm past her and shove the double doors to his conference room open.
Collins and two other men are sat at his monstrosity of a conference table. He never has a meeting with more than three people so I have no idea why he has it. I guess it saves him having to whip his dick out. The room smells of strong coffee and pastries. All three men look up at me as I walk in, their conversation halting. Martin Collins is a wiry, short man in his forties. He got where he is by being a shady fuck, but he’s extremely successful and makes a lot of money, so I don’t judge his methods. After all, he has everything I want.
“Georgia.” He says before his features morph into a s
cowl. “I’m in the middle of—”
“This can’t wait.”
He opens his mouth to object, and I cock an eyebrow at him. “Uh, gentleman, give me a minute would you? I’m so sorry.” I say, putting as much sugary sweetness in my tone as possible. They both smile and nod. Collins gestures for me to step through the door that leads to his adjoining office. He shuts the door and turns to face me, a scowl on his face.
“What are you doing?” He snaps.
“Twenty percent!” I say, slamming the print out on his desk. He frowns, examining the papers.
Giles Samson has been my client since the beginning. You shouldn’t have favourites, but he’s mine. He took a chance on a young stock broker, and within a year, I had turned a fifteen percent profit for him. He owns a twenty percent share in NewTec. The only one with a bigger stake is Arnold Montes, the company founder, with a twenty-five percent stake. Arnold is Collins’ client and he is fucking me in the arse. The only way stock drops that quickly is when someone starts unloading shares. A lot of bloody shares.
“You tell Montes that if he keeps selling, I will drop his fucking shares at twenty percent cost, and I’ll squeeze those saggy balls of his until he squeals like the rat he is.” Giles would agree to it because like me, he hates losing and he refuses to be fucked like a cheap whore. I’d see Giles lose money before I watch Montes make some by screwing us over.
Collins sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose as he leans against his desk. “Montes is one of our top—”
I snatch the papers from his hand and lock eyes with him. “Save the shit, boss.” I snarl. “Fix it, or I will.”
I’m usually controlled, calm, collected. I have perfected the façade which is necessary to thrive as a woman in the dog eat dog world of business by being a pit bull in sheep’s clothing. Every so often, though, something like this happens, my temper gets the best of me, and I bare my teeth.
This is the precarious line Collins and I walk. He pays my salary. He’s my boss and I’m his employee. My temper tantrums should be enough to get me fired, but here’s the cincher, he needs me far more than I need him. Good stock brokers are hard to find, and if I walk out of here, I’ll take at least ten major clients with me. I have him by the short and curlies. If my clients are happy, I’m happy. They make millions and I make my six figure yearly bonus. He fucks me over, and I’ll ram the figurative cock so far up his arse, he’ll feel it in the back of his throat.
Call it a mutual respect if you will, an understanding that we both have. And as long as I don’t undermine him in front of anyone else, he’ll take it like the money hungry little bitch he is. I walk out of his office and straight into the conference room without sparing him or his companions a second glance.
It seems that Collins managed to pull his finger out of his arse and fix the shit with Montes. I’ve never had to get on the phone and tell a client that they’ve lost money. And I don’t intend to because I don’t lose. Ever.
At seven I switch off my computer and leave the office, pressing the call button for the lift. When the doors open, I squeeze in amongst the suit-clad businessman for whom city life has dramatically dampened their sense of personal space.
On the next floor, one of the guys from accounting gets in, cracking a smile when he sees me. “Georgia. You at Ice later?” He says, stepping close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath.
I flash him a small smile. “Of course. Where else am I going to get a decent Martini around here?” His smile widens and his eyes drop to my chest.
“Great.” He winks at me. Brilliant.
Rule number Five: Play nice. You might not like someone, or in this case, even know who the hell they are, but always be tactful. Men will often be over familiar because their dick would disown them if they didn’t at least chance it. There’s a fine line between putting your foot down and being called a bitch, ice queen or whatever else they come up with. You must become one of the boys, unattainable but not ostracized. When I came to this city I thought being good at the job would be enough, oh, how wrong I was. London is a giant chess board, a game in which strategies, deception and rules define your success.
“I’ll see you there.” He says as the lift pings, the doors opening into the lobby. Everyone but me and a couple of older guys get out. I press the button for the underground parking garage.
It’s true that it would be faster to get the tube home rather than sit in the bumper to bumper London traffic, but I work hard for my money, so forgive me if I’d rather sit in my Mercedes than an underground train pressed up against god knows who. No, thank you.
I slide behind the wheel and pull into the crawling London traffic.
Ice is one of the most exclusive bars in London. It’s forty-two floors up, overlooking the twinkling lights of London’s square mile sprawled below. The lift doors open, and as always, the room is packed with suit-clad bankers, all drinking and laughing as they wind down from their stressful day jobs. I can’t even see the bar through the wall of bodies.
“Hello, boys.” I say, flashing a smile at the group I know well as fellow stock brokers at Elite. They part like the Red Sea, allowing me to make my way to the bar. I put just a little more sway in my hips as I push through them. I don’t miss the way eyes trail over my body, lingering just a little too long. Several colleagues greet me, and at this stage in the night, it’s with an air of respect. Of course, once they’ve bought a few glasses of over-priced whisky that will change.
Quinn is propped on a stool at the bar; her legs crossed elegantly. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and a sleeveless emerald green silk blouse that’s just one button shy of risqué territory. Some guy in a suit is attempting to talk to her, but she’s shut him down, barely even acknowledging his presence. She flicks her long, dark hair over her shoulder, a look of utter disdain painting her features as she pursues her blood red lips.
I stride up to her, and her face breaks into a fake as fuck smile, as though she’s never been happier to see me. She stands. “So good to see you, babe.” She says as she throws her arms around my neck. “Oh my god. I want to stab him.” She hisses in my ear.
Quinn is my best friend. They say it’s lonely at the top, and they aren’t lying. Women like us don’t have time for bullshit and niceties; everything is about the win. But London is a work hard, play hard city. A girl always needs someone to play with. Quinn and I are, and always have been, cut from the same cloth. We met in University right here in London and had supported each other through the highs and lows that are life in the city.
She unwinds her arms from around me and sits back down. I turn to the guy still lingering, leaning on the bar and propping his foot on the rung of the bar stool next to Quinn.
“Excuse me.” I say, placing my hand on the stool and waiting for him to move. A sly grin pulls at his lips as his gaze crawls over my body. His eyes eventually lock with mine. I stare him down, my expression icy as I watch the smile slowly slip from his lips.
He removes his foot and straightens, brushing his hands down the front of his suit. As soon as he does so, I smile at him. “Thank you so much.” I say, false nicety lacing my voice.
Blinking, he starts to say something, but I turn my back on him and take a seat, facing Quinn. Rule number three: No matter how much you want to tell someone to fuck off, don’t. In this city, everybody might be a somebody, and anybody could have the power to ruin you. This game is as much about diplomacy as anything else. You can be a bitch, but just make sure you’re above reproach when you do it.
Quinn gives a small nod, indicating that he’s left.
“Thanks.” She says as she makes eye contact with the bartender. He turns away to start on making our martinis. We come here way too much. “I was struggling to get out of that one.” She rolls her eyes. It’s the difficult line we walk, constantly rebuking our male co-workers while still remaining ‘friends’ with them. I would never, ever, fuck anyone in or around the office. This bar is a hub of bankers. Sleep w
ith one and you might as well have fucked them all. Either way, your integrity is compromised and without that, you don’t have shit.
The bartender places the martini in front of me, and I take a sip. Quinn pays the man and he leaves.
“So, how is Mayers?” I ask Quinn. She works for Mayers and Co., a corporate law firm.
“Same shit, different day.” She shrugs. There is one area where Quinn and I differ massively. I won’t be happy until I’m the CEO. That’s the dream, the grand plan. For Quinn she just wants to make enough money that she can leave this city, buy a bar on a beach somewhere and never look back. I don’t blame her. There are times when I’d love nothing more than a beach and my own company, but we do what we must, and the truth is I’d be bored after a day. I live for the rush of making money, for the thrill of the big city. I love the game far too much to ever leave it.
A few guys I know from the office stand in a group at the bar behind us. A couple of them veer away, focusing their attention on us.
“Georgia, I hear you saved the day.” One of them says as he moves in front of me. I can’t remember his name, but I know he’s a broker. Maybe Nate? He looks like a Nate. He has a glass of whisky in one hand, while the other is shoved into the pocket of his trousers, pushing his open jacket back and drawing the eye to what I know is a platinum Rolex on his wrist. His blond hair is swept back, the front rebelling into a small quip.
Each of the brokers has a list of clients and many of us share an investment. I may have a client with a twenty percent stake in a company, and quip boy here might have a client with a two percent stake in the same company. But they can guarantee that if my clients have a stake, then I’ll put my own damn money in before I let that stake drop. I guess he was sweating when he saw the drop this morning.
I cock an eyebrow. “Of course.”
“Well, that deserves a drink. Let me buy you one.” I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t.
Smiling, I slowly shake my head. “I have one.” I gesture to the Martini in front of me. “Any more and I’ll be positively drunk.”