Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter 1 - TAMING THE BITCH

"Another shot?" The bartender's flirtatious voice drifted across the counter, but Vincent barely acknowledged her.

His eyes were fixed—unwillingly—on the brunette perched on Adrijan Thorne's lap. Thorne, currently one of the most nauseatingly popular male models alive, looked positively delighted as the woman rolled her hips over his crotch. Her sinfully full breasts, pressed scandalously close to his face, strained against a thin white lace dress that left far too little to the imagination.

Had she not been moving like that—had she been sitting primly, composed, decorous—he might almost have mistaken her for an angel. God above... the way that dress complemented her pale, porcelain skin and deceptively innocent face was maddening.

She was small—petite to the point of fragility—and he would not have been shocked to discover she didn't even reach five feet. She looked absurdly young seated on the model's lap, though one glance at her figure told a different story entirely. Every curve, every delicate line of her body, was infuriatingly perfect.

She had an angel's face, but the way she moved atop Adrian's lap was nothing short of indecent. Men across the private club openly gawped, making no attempt to hide it.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair.

He felt revolted. Genuinely revolted. It was as though the heavens had plummeted straight into the gutter—and she was the cause of it.

Why had he agreed to this infernal arrangement?
Why her of all people?
Of all the heiresses in the world, why did he have to be bound to that one?

Yes, yes—he knew all about the wild tendencies of the rich and bored. But she... she was something else entirely. A hundred times worse than the worst of them.

She drifted from club to club, from one man to the next, leaving a trail of whispers, scandals, and paparazzi madness wherever she went. Even if she had been "seeing" Adrian Thorne for several months, the tabloids continued to churn out new stories weekly.

"The Richest Slut in Town."
"The Heiress Bitch."
And other charming titles the press so enthusiastically gave her.

"Make it two," he snapped at the bartender, who had lingered far too long in hopes of catching his attention.

His own body was betraying him—aching simply from watching her. A reaction he absolutely should not be having. The last thing he needed was to be attracted to her. To fall into her web of sins. To become yet another toy for her to discard.

"They've been together perhaps six months," a low voice remarked as a man took the stool beside him. "Longest she's ever managed. One might even call it serious."

The man signalled the bartender. Two tequila shots appeared before them.

"Don't look as if you've been cursed," the older gentleman added, raising his glass in a polite toast. "She's a good girl."

Vincent scoffed. "I'm sure that's what every man she's dragged to bed swears."

He knocked back his shot and stood to leave.

"Don't hurt her, Vincent Walton," the man said calmly. "I've been to prison before. I'd go again for her."

Vincent froze.
How the devil did this man know his name?
And worse—how much did he know?

The arrangement was supposed to be private.
Only her father and his grandfather were aware.

Or so he had believed.

He glanced back toward the brunette. She had risen from Adrian's lap, tugging the model impatiently toward the exit. Camera flashes followed her like a trail of fireflies.