The Princess and the Porn Star

by Lauren Gallagher

  “Oh. Honey.” He grinned over the top of his iPad. “You need to research these things.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I just want to get in and get it over with before these shoes murder my feet.”

  “You’ll be fine, babe.” Quinn waved a hand. “You just haven’t worn heels in a while.”

  “Right, so should I really be wearing these”—I pointed at my feet—“when I haven’t worn anything above two inches in like three years?”

  “Just be careful. You’ll be fine.” He shifted his gaze to his iPad. “Especially once you see what you’re dancing with today and tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm.” He moved his hand rapidly over the screen. “And thanks to your darling assistant’s third degree black belt in Google-Fu, you may now feast your eyes on your dance partner. I present to you”—he turned the iPad around—“the one and only Buck Harder.”

  “Buck Harder,” I muttered as I took the iPad from him. “What a name.”

  “And what a body,” Quinn mused.

  Staring at the screen, I said, “Can’t argue with that.” And I couldn’t. Wow. He was… Well, I could see why he’d apparently done so well in his line of work. He was broad-shouldered, tanned, with flawlessly defined, hairless abs. He obviously spent a good chunk of his time at the gym, but he wasn’t huge. Not a bodybuilder or a steroid junkie, just fit. Very, very fit.

  His thumbs were hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his hands angled just right to direct my attention to his crotch, where the skintight denim clung to at least one reason he’d gone into porn. My God.

  I made myself quit staring at his package and instead looked at his face. His sandy blond hair was neatly trimmed and perfectly styled, and those vivid green eyes might have been mesmerizing and knee-weakening if not for the arrogance radiating from them as well as that smarmy grin. Forget what he had in his pants. Something told me his ego was his largest appendage.

  “Cute.” I set the iPad down. “Looks like he knows it too.”

  “Of course he does.” Quinn scoffed. “He gets to have sex for a living, even if it is with women”—he stuck out his tongue—“and he’s one of the most popular and highest earning out of all the other men who have sex for a living. Of course he knows he’s hot!”

  “Can’t wait to work with him,” I muttered.

  A knock at the door turned both our heads.

  Rich opened the door and leaned in. “You ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He tapped his watch. “Ten minutes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” Quinn held up his phone. “After I make your appointment.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” I started toward the door, still wobbling a little on those ridiculous shoes. “I think I’m going to need it.”

  “The way you’re walking?” He snorted. “Honey, I’d better get the paramedics on standby.”

  “Oh, shut up. I can walk.”

  “Uh-huh.” He snickered. “Have fun with Buck Harder, darling.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  By the time I was out in the hallway outside my dressing room, I was mostly balanced on the shoes. I’d walked in higher, skinnier heels before, and they just took a few minutes to get used to.

  All the way to the room where we were rehearsing, I was still sure I’d need that cortisone shot later, but no longer afraid of breaking my neck. Or re-breaking my ankle. All I had to do now was get through this rehearsal, a day or two of shooting and hope the press didn’t go psycho on me for being on-camera with a porn star.

  The thought made me roll my eyes. The media was already going to have a collective conniption when the video finally dropped, because right now, no one knew a thing. My comeback album was a closely guarded secret, and everyone involved, myself included, had signed ironclad nondisclosure agreements. One of those “go ahead, tell the media; we’ll sue you for anything they paid you and then some, and don’t think we won’t find out it was you” things.

  The secret would be out soon, though. The release was coming up fast, and the video we were shooting tomorrow would drop within a couple of days of the album. The marketing twits said they were aiming for “shock and awe” by breaking out a brand-new Olivia Taylor album and video without any kind of lead-in hype.

  “You’ve been off the radar for three years,” one of the suits had said. Gesturing wildly like marketing guys always did, he’d added, “Now you’re going to explode back onto the scene.”

  My gut told me they just didn’t want to promote anything until they were absolutely sure the album would happen. An artist who was a way better gamble than me had fizzled out midway through recording a highly anticipated third album. She went to rehab—didn’t we all?—and the album never happened, so the record label wasn’t even giving me the chance to embarrass them like that. Not a word to the public until every track was cut and the video was in the can. Even then, total silence until the minute the album dropped.

  Probably so they still had a chance to pull it if I did something “outrageously and typically Olivia” and wound up the laughingstock of the tabloids. Again. Which, the bigwigs had reminded me a hundred times over, would be in violation of the ominous morality clause they’d hammered into my contract when they re-signed me this year.

  “Fuck up,” it said in not so many words, “and you’re not only dropped, you’re never signing with Risen Star again as long as you fucking live.”

  This from the people pairing me up with a porn star.

  I rolled my eyes again.

  For all the business bullshit and the constant reminders that I’d screwed up before, I was still walking on cloud nine. In stripper heels, maybe, but even that couldn’t put a damper on my excitement about being back in the game. Every step of this album—writing it, recording it, and now this—had been like a dream, taking me back into a world I thought I’d never be a part of again, and I could not wait to get back onstage.

  That thought made me shiver. The stage. Nothing beat the feeling of singing on a stage.

  Yeah, I may not have been thrilled about some aspects of my current situation, and I was worried sick about it all getting yanked out from under me, but I was excited as hell. This was really happening. I was a signed, performing musician again.

  When I reached the door to the soundstage, the security guards standing outside gave me a nod and let me in.

  The set was still mostly plain plywood and sheetrock, and the room was packed with cameras, crewmen, backup dancers and enormous lights. The air was heavy with coffee, hot electronics, and fresh sawdust, and at least someone in the room must have been outside recently for a prescription smoke break. People shouted over equipment and chatted amongst themselves. Hammers banged. Saws whined. Crew members strode past with stern looks on their faces and coiled extension cords on their shoulders. A small flock of suits loomed in the shadows, peering at everyone and everything over their Starbucks cups. Dancers stretched beside the far wall, people with clipboards muttered and swore, and someone somewhere barked at someone about a missing gel for one of the lights. Typical set for a video.

  I smiled to myself. This wasn’t the first shoot we’d done for this video—we’d shot some other footage last week—but walking into a music video set was like coming home. Despite all the chaos and insanity, it took me about three seconds to home in on him.

  His back was to me. All in black leather, just like me and the backup dancers, but he stood out. I couldn’t put my finger on what set him apart from the other guys. They were all obviously fit, and he was probably just as limber as they were, given his profession, but he still looked…different. Like a runner compared to a swimmer. Just as fit, just as powerful, but honed for a different sport.

  Or maybe my brain just couldn’t process him, or who he did or didn’t look like, because whatever his body was designed for, right then it was wrapped in skintight black leather. Nothing but skintight black leather.
It covered his broad shoulders. Stretched over his biceps. Coated those narrow hips and that butt like it was painted on.

  Holy hell. Sex appeal, indeed.

  He was talking to one of the producers, and right at that moment, the producer saw me and gestured over Buck’s shoulder.

  Buck turned around.

  Oh.

  My God.

  The camera hadn’t done him any justice. None at all. Even from here, the black leather emphasized his green eyes. He gave me a quick nod and a smile, and damn him, he didn’t look half as cocky as he had in his photos. Just a guy, a regular guy, who happened to be loaded with quiet charisma and a hot body.

  There was no pretending he hadn’t seen me. He saw me all right, and he was heading this way, and there was no escaping.

  And suddenly my high heels weren’t the biggest threat to my ability to stand.

  Chapter Two

  Lee

  Thank God Olivia was halfway across the room when I first saw her. And thank God there were people, equipment and cords between here and there, because that gave me half a minute or so to get my tongue untied before I reached her.

  It wasn’t like I’d never seen her before. Not in person, maybe, but back when she was famous the first time, I’d been a fan. And maybe, just maybe, I’d kind of had a crush on her. At one time. A long time ago.

  So when I found out I’d be working with her, I’d fully expected to be a little starstruck, but this? Holy shit.

  The pretty-in-pink image she’d had back then was long gone. Her hair was darker now and longer, tied back in a messy ponytail. And that dress. Christ. It was the kind of look that could be slutty or it could be sexy, and on her, it was definitely the latter. Her breasts weren’t falling out of it, and it wasn’t so short it looked like it was meant for someone half her height. Sexy and provocative but tasteful at the same time.

  Olivia Taylor had grown the fuck up.

  She looked healthier now too. That last year before she fell off the radar, she’d been scary thin and pale. Even before that, she’d always been just thin enough to keep eating disorder and—especially toward the end—drug abuse rumors flying. She was still slim now, but her face wasn’t gaunt anymore, and the way her hips and waist curved inside that dress made my mouth water. And I was going to be dancing with her? With my hands on her while I wore tight leather pants?

  God help me.

  I stepped around a ladder and over a cord, and there we were.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She responded with a thin smile and a quiet, “Hi.”

  “So you’re Olivia.” I extended my hand. “Buck Harder.”

  She shook my hand. “I’m Olivia, yes. Well, Rachel.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” She let go of my hand, and I didn’t miss the hint of a smirk. I was used to that. Price you pay for a stage name like mine. I supposed I could have made things easier by telling her my real name, but that was something I kept guarded. The fewer people who knew Buck Harder was really Lee Peyton, the better.

  “So, um…” I cleared my throat and glanced at the half-constructed stage. How the hell was I supposed to make conversation with this woman? Without saying something like, You’re even hotter in person or, Holy shit, you look goood in leather?

  Just before I could open my mouth and make an ass of myself, Jim, the director, broke in. “Oh good. You two have been introduced.” He put one hand on my shoulder and the other on Olivia’s. “Pretty straightforward, what you’ll be doing up there”—with his chin, he gestured toward the stage—“but we’ll also be shooting in front of a green screen. Close-up of your faces. Not too much to rehearse there, though. Mostly just different lighting and camera angles for us.” He smiled at her, then at me. “Isn’t a whole lot for you two to do except lip-synch and dance, but do either of you have any questions?”

  Olivia and I shook our heads.

  “Good!” He clapped our shoulders, and we both winced. Oblivious, Jim said, “Let’s get this started, then. Everybody onstage.”

  As ordered, we headed up to the stage. Olivia went ahead of me and made judicious use of the handrail on her way up the six stairs. I cringed on her behalf; those shoes looked excruciating, and I imagined even the slightest stumble could result in a trip to the emergency room.

  She made it onto the stage without incident, though. Front and center, someone had made a small box out of electrical tape on the bare plywood.

  “Need both of you in that box,” Jim shouted.

  I eyed the box, then him. “You…both of us?”

  “Both of you.”

  The tape square was just big enough for one person to stand comfortably with their feet roughly shoulder width apart. But two? Not so much.

  Olivia stood as close to the front of the box as she could. I stayed as close to the back as possible, trying to give her some breathing room. Fat chance of that, though. Even with the balls of her feet on the front and my heels on the opposite side, my chest brushed her back, and her whole body tensed. She stood ramrod straight, drawing as far away from me as her center of gravity would allow.

  “They don’t give us much room to move, do they?” I muttered.

  She turned her head slightly. “Not really, no.”

  “Hands on her waist,” Jim called out from below us.

  I didn’t think Olivia could get any tenser. I was wrong.

  As I rested my hands on her waist, she sucked in a breath, and every muscle in her body stiffened. I gritted my teeth. It was hard to tell if she was repulsed by me, or if she was just uncomfortable with the entire setup, but either way, it didn’t bode well for much onstage chemistry.

  And Jim didn’t help. “Buck, I need you to move in a little closer.”

  Closer? Seriously?

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, how close do you want me to get? This is about as close—”

  “Lean in more,” Jim said. “So you’re almost kissing her neck but not quite.”

  Fuck, dude. Really?

  Olivia blew out a long breath. Over her shoulder, she said, “It’s okay. If he wants us closer, then…” She tilted her head slightly, offering up more of her neck.

  I did as I was told. Thanks to the high heels, I didn’t have to lean down very far to get my lips close to her neck. Well, at least that would be easier on my own neck. I’d already scheduled a massage for tomorrow after the shoot was over, but the less I aggravated that old injury, the better.

  “Music’s about to start,” Jim called up to us. “When it does, you know what to do.”

  Yeah. I do. I resisted the urge to adjust my grasp on Olivia’s waist. No point in reminding her where my hands were, even if the leather was already making my palms sweat.

  I pulled in a deep breath through my nose and caught a whiff of both leather and either a faint perfume or the remnants of a sweet-smelling shampoo, and goose bumps prickled to life beneath my clothes. Forget pretending I wanted to kiss her neck. I did want to. I wanted to breathe her in, taste her skin, kiss beneath the sharp edge of her jaw.

  Just as well she doesn’t like me, I thought, willing myself to focus on anything but lusting after her, or I might be tempted.

  The music started. In a heartbeat, the stiff, tense body in my hands was in motion. In fluid, smooth motion, like the tempo was hardwired into her muscles. Her hips swiveled. One shoulder dipped and came up. Then the other. I followed as best I could, and thank God for years of professionally following women’s leads, because my body instinctively complemented her every move. We probably would have been in perfect synch if not for the constant chorus of don’t touch her too much, don’t touch her too much, don’t touch her too much echoing in the back of my brain. Or the lingering stiffness in her, the slight hitch in her otherwise perfect motion, which was all too conspicuously an effort to keep our contact to a minimum.

  The music stopped abruptly, and our bodies did too. I kept my hands on her waist, but we separated as much as we could, jum
ping at the opportunity for some breathing room.

  “I need to see more motion.” Jim waved his arms in the air. “I want you two in one place, but I need to see more motion.”

  “Says the man wearing comfortable clothes,” I muttered.

  Olivia snorted. Well, that was a start. At least she had a sense of humor.

  Then Jim said to someone, “Cue up the music and let’s start again.” Instantly, whatever minute relaxation that laugh had brought out of Olivia evaporated, and her body was once again stiff and tense against mine.

  I tried not to think about the uncomfortable tension between us, and when the music started, I focused on that instead. I hadn’t heard the song before today, but I’d listened to it a few times since I’d arrived this morning. If the rest of the songs were half as good as “You Ain’t Even Kissed Me Yet”, this album was going to sell insanely well. Her sound was so much better than her old stuff. The old music was great, but this? This was unreal. Stronger, bolder; her image wasn’t the only thing that had grown up.

  As I moved with her, my body touching—but not touching too much—the woman who’d starred in hundreds of my impure thoughts, I couldn’t take my mind off how much hotter she was in person, and with every motion, the stunning sexiness I held against me threatened to drive me insane. I was going to lose my mind before this day was over. No doubt about it.

  I’d accepted this gig because it was a chance to work with Olivia Taylor. That, and how difficult could it be?

  Yeah. How difficult. This was nothing like my line of work, and it was a lot more challenging than I’d anticipated. The dance moves were simple, and there was nothing terribly complicated, but when I was on the kind of set I was used to, I didn’t have to concentrate on not being turned on, not wanting to fuck my partner, or not letting her feel the effect she had on me.

  “Olivia, you’re too tense,” Jim called out. “Let’s see a little more enthusiasm here, all right?”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “Let’s at least pretend we like each other, capiche?”

  Olivia’s body stiffened even more. I cringed. Nothing helped ease tension on a set like someone pointing it out and asking people to ignore it.