The Naked Truth Read Online Vi Keeland

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Angst, Billionaire, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

The Naked Truth

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Vi Keeland

Book Information:

From #1 New York Times Bestseller Vi Keeland, comes a new, sexy standalone novel.
It was just a typical Monday. Until the big boss asked me to make the pitch for a prospective new client.
After two years on shaky ground at work because of my screw up, an opportunity to impress the senior partners was just what I needed. Or so I thought…
Until I walked into the conference room and collided with the man I was supposed to pitch.
My coffee spilled, my files tumbled to the ground, and I almost lost my balance. And that was the good part of my day.
Because the gorgeous man crouched down and looking at me like he wanted to eat me alive, was none other than my ex, Gray Westbrook.
A man who I’d only just begun to move on from. A man who my heart despised—yet my body obviously still had other ideas about. A man who was as charismatic and confident as he was sexy.
Somehow, I managed to make it through my presentation ignoring his intense stare.
Although it was impossible to ignore all the dirty things he whispered into my ear right after I was done.
But there was no way I was giving him another chance, especially now that he was a client
…was there?
Books by Author:

Vi Keeland Books

Chapter 1

* * *


“I’m sorry. I forgot to call you. I’m not going to be able to go to lunch today.” I sighed and waved at the papers strewn across my desk. “Pittman asked me to do a presentation for a new client.”

“Old Man Pittman or Joe asked you?”

“Old Man Pittman. Well, asked isn’t really the right word. He opened my door without knocking while I was on a conference call, made me put my client on hold mid-sentence, and then barked something about three o’clock in the executive conference room and walked out. I had to call his secretary Liz to get the details.”

“That’s great. You’re finally getting back in the good graces of the named partners. I knew you’d work your way there.” Oliver came around my desk and kissed the top of my head on his way out. “I’ll bring you back the fresh tuna tacos you love.”

“You’re the best.”

I’d been seeing Oliver Blake for about a month now, even though we’d been friends for nearly five years. He was a junior partner in the copyright division of my law firm, and I wasn’t exaggerating—he seriously was the best.

When I was sick last weekend, he stopped by with chicken soup. If I was down, he reminded me of all the good things in my life. He’d been my biggest supporter even before we started dating—encouraging me to ride out the storm here at Latham & Pittman after I nearly got disbarred and fired a couple of years back. Smart, handsome, and with a great job—he was the dream man a girl would love to bring home to meet her parents. And totally the opposite of the jerks I’m usually attracted to.

Last week he’d mentioned that his lease was up in a few months and hinted that he’d love to have me help him look for a bigger place—since he hoped I’d be spending more time there in the future. Smart, handsome, a great job, and…not afraid of commitment.

I made a mental note to check his closets for hidden skeletons the next time I went to his apartment, and then went back to studying my presentation.

I’d watched the senior partners give the client pitch a few times, but this was the first time I’d be giving it myself. And I hated not having more than a few hours to study the slides and write my own notes. Not to mention, the only thing I knew about the investment firm I’d be pitching was that it was a start-up with a massive bankroll coming in. Probably some hotshot, arrogant trader who left his firm and took a billion dollars of investors with him—just the type of account the senior partners loved.

Old-school investment firms were good clients—steady billing to review contracts, prospectuses, and countless dealings with the SEC—but young, arrogant, new-age investment firms run by yuppies racked up legal bills like they were paying with Monopoly money. They were sued for harassing employees, discrimination, breaching contracts, securities violations. Hell, even our tax department would get involved because all those young guys thought they were smarter than the IRS.

A couple of hours later, when it was time for my presentation, I rode the elevator up to the top floor and walked through the thick glass doors to the executive-level suites. My firm wasn’t cheap—my personal office was spacious, and the furniture was high-end. But the executive floor reeked of money, old money—mahogany reception desk, crystal chandelier, Persian area rugs, and original artwork with perfectly positioned lighting.

It wasn’t lost on me that the last time I’d been invited up here was almost two years ago, when I’d been summoned to explain my actions, which had resulted in charges against me by the New York State Bar Association disciplinary committee. It meant something when you were beckoned to the top floor—good or bad—which had me even more curious about why I was making today’s presentation.

Sarah Dursh, one of the senior partners, met me in the hallway as I walked to the conference room. “You all ready?”

“As ready as I can feel without knowing much about the client.”

Sarah’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t know much about the client?”

“I know the basics. But the corporate prospectus wasn’t available yet, so I don’t know much about the key players. I feel a little unprepared.”

“But you’ve worked with the CEO before.” She shook her head. “That’s why he requested that you specifically make the presentation.”

“I was requested to do the presentation? I didn’t realize that. Who requested me?”

Arriving at the glass door to the executive conference room, I could see Archibald Pittman standing on the other side, laughing as he spoke to a man. His back was toward us, so I couldn’t immediately see his face.

Nor did I immediately put two and two together when Sarah said, “There he is. That’s Mr. Westbrook. He’s the one who requested you lead the pitch meeting.”