Song Without Words Read online

  Song without Words

  by

  Betsy Warren

  CHAPTER ONE

  With a quiet sigh of satisfaction, Shauna Whitney sat back to contemplate the lines she had just finished typing. She scanned the words first with a copy editor's eye, searching for errors. Finding none, she re-read the lines for content, allowing herself a small smile of pride as she savoured the fruits of her creativity.

  In an automatic gesture, she reached up and used the index finger of her right hand to push her large, horn-rimmed glasses back into place on the bridge of her nose. She nibbled at the soft pink curve of her lower lip as she continued to consider her writing. It wasn't absolutely right yet, but it definitely was one of her better efforts. And there was no disputing the fact that the crisp copy produced by the ultra-modern IBM Selectric at the office was far more professional to look at than the erratic lettering that stuttered out of her ancient Smith-Corona portable in her small apartment.

  'Oh, Shauna. I thought I heard an after hours typewriter.'

  The cultivated male voice broke in on her reverie. Starting slightly, Shauna looked up from her work and into the distinguished face of the head of her company's legal department.

  'Oh, Mr Barkley. I—I didn't realise you were still here,' she said in her soft, well-modulated voice. A lady never raised her voice. That was one of the many tenets of 'proper' behaviour drilled into her from childhood by her strict and unrelenting Aunt Margaret. Unfortu­nately, her aunt's notions of 'proper' behaviour would not have been out of place in the Victorian era.

  In recent months, Shauna had been trying—tentatively—to break out of the mould her aunt had established for her. Corning to New York City had been an act of defiance in many ways. Shauna sometimes wryly told herself that, at the age of twenty-two, she was finally going through an adolescent rebellion.

  But a decade of living with Margaret Whitney had left its mark. Even though her aunt had been dead nearly nine months, Shauna could still sometimes hear her cool, precise voice chiding her. It was so difficult to escape the strictures of her upbringing. And Shauna was sensitive enough to know that, because of that upbringing, most people considered her quaintly old-fashioned … and some simply thought she was a strait-laced prude.

  'I hope I wasn't disturbing you, sir,' she said hesitantly.

  Mr Barkley waved the suggestion away. 'Not at all, not at all.' There were moments when Shauna thought Emmett Barkley was almost as out-of-place in New York City as she was. In his middle fifties, Barkley was the chief legal adviser for Sebastian Entertainment Enterprises, a music industry conglomerate headed by a man young enough to be his son. A Boston Brahmin by birth, Emmett Barkley conducted himself with a calm and courtly dignity that seemed better suited to the antique-furnished offices of some old-line law firm than to the flashy, often volatile world of show business.

  'Is there something I can do for you, Mr Barkley?' Shauna enquired. She'd joined the secretarial staff of Sebastian Entertainment Enterprises' legal department six months before. In that time, she'd had only passing contact with Emmett Barkley.

  'Yes, as a matter of fact there is. But, first, I do hope you're not here late on a Friday because of that copyright report. I know you're very conscientious, my dear, but that kind of devotion to duty—'

  Shauna shook her head and smiled, her finely modelled features softening. 'No, it's some personal typing.' A line of concern creased her high, smooth brow. 'I—I hope you don't object to my using the office machine.'

  'Good heavens, no.' He shook his head, then re­garded her with approval, taking in her neat appearance and her poised but somewhat shy manner. 'Consider it a small perk for a job very well done.'

  'Thank you.' The compliment brought a faint stain of pink up into her cheeks. She worked very hard, and it was satisfying to know that her efforts were being recog­nised. 'Now, you said there was something I could do for you?' She looked at him calmly, her wide, hazel eyes questioning from behind the protection of her glasses.

  'If you would.' He held up a large manila envelope. 'These are the papers on that new British group Sebastian Enterprises has signed. Mr Sebastian wanted to check them over the weekend. Normally, I'd drop them off with him myself, but my wife and I have an engagement—'

  'I'd be glad to take them upstairs, Mr Barkley,' she offered immediately.

  'That's the problem. He's not in the building. He's downtown at a studio, supervising a recording session. At least that's where he was at last report.' He lifted a silvered brow significantly. Michael Sebastian—the owner and driving force behind Sebastian Entertainment Enterprises—was deservedly known as a man on the go. Like most executives in the business, he was 'bi-coastal'—that is, he shuttled back and forth between Los Angeles on the west coast and New York City on the east with exhausting regularity. He was also expanding his interests into Europe and the Far East.

  'I'm rather concerned that if I send these papers to the studio by courier and he's not there, they'll be lost in transit,' Mr Barkley continued. 'So—'

  'So you'd like me to track down Mr Sebastian and deliver the contracts for you?' she anticipated. 'I'd be very happy to.' She extended her hand to accept the envelope.

  'Excellent. I do appreciate it. Here's the address of the studio.' He gave her a slip of paper. 'I'll call ahead to tell the security guard to expect you. They have to be very particular about allowing people in. Female fans are always trying to burst in to see their favourite stars.' He shook his head in mild disbelief.

  Shauna glanced down at her trim tweed suit with a trace of self-mockery. 'Somehow, I don't think anyone will mistake me for a groupie,' she said lightly.

  He chuckled. 'Oh, my, I should think not,' he affirmed. 'Now, be certain to get receipts for the taxis. And take a late meal on the company.'

  'That's not necessary—'

  'Yes, it is,' he said firmly. 'I insist.' He checked his watch. 'I must be going. Thank you, Shauna. Have a pleasant weekend.'

  'The same to you, Mr Barkley.'

  It took her a few minutes to restore her desk to its usual pristine order. A place for everything and every­thing in its place. That was another one of her aunt's rules. Margaret Whitney's standards of neatness had been impossibly high for an eleven-year-old child, but they'd instilled in Shauna an unshakeable desire to keep things organised.

  Carefully, she put the papers she had been typing into a manila envelope and placed it—along with the en­velope holding the papers for Michael Sebastian—into her brown shoulder bag. Then she donned her camel-coloured wrap coat, knotting the belt securely around her slender waist, and exchanged her low-heeled pumps for brown leather boots. She made a quick check to be certain that she hadn't forgotten anything and made her exit.

  After signing out at the security desk in the lobby, she went outside, shivering slightly against the brisk October night air. Spotting an empty taxi cruising down the street, she raised her arm in a decisive signal.

  'Where to, lady?' the cabbie asked laconically, giving her a quick glance in his rear view mirror as she slid into the back seat.

  Checking the slip of paper that Mr Barkley had given her, Shauna read off the address.

  'Oh, yeah, sure. I know where that is,' the driver nodded, throwing the meter as he pulled out into traffic. 'They do recording gigs there, right?' He was fairly young with longish hair and a crooked grin. 'You in the music business?'

  'Not exactly,' Shauna said politely. 'I work for Sebastian Entertainment—'

  'SEE?' The driver was genuinely interested now. 'I should've guessed with you standing in front of their building. Hey, it's a good label—good names, good sound. And I've read a lot about your boss, Michael Sebastian. Man, he leads quite a life.' He sounded both
approving and envious. 'And talented, too. He wrote that new single of Carla Decker's, didn't he? "Night Flight".' He sang a couple of bars, slightly off-key. 'You know, though, I've got to admit, Carla Decker could sing the phone book and I wouldn't mind listening. You know what I mean?'

  'Umm…' Shauna made a neutral sound, although she knew precisely what the cabbie meant. Carla Decker—the 'Divine Decker' as she was referred to, both seriously and sardonically—was currently one of the hottest female vocalists on the pop scene. She was also, according to gossip, Michael Sebastian's latest lover.

  'He must be something to work with.'

  'I—I beg your pardon?'

  'Michael Sebastian.'

  'Oh.' In unthinking response to the feel of her glasses starting to slip down the bridge of her nose, Shauna pushed them back into place. 'Well, I don't actually work with him. Just for his company. I've only seen the man in the flesh once, to tell the truth.' She did not add that that once had been quite sufficient to allow her to decide that all the worst stories she'd heard about Michael Sebastian were probably true.

  'I guess that's how it is in big business. Uh, will it bother you if I turn on some music?'

  'No, that's all right.' She braced herself for a blast of rock-and-roll. Instead, the driver flipped his radio on to a station that played classical music, and she was treated to the final movement of a vaguely familiar piano concerto.

  The charm of the melody soothed her, and she felt the tensions of a busy working week begin to ease away; however, she did not slump down in the seat. Correct posture was another one of Aunt Margaret's legacies. Although Shauna had been a self-conscious and very slender five-foot-six by her fifteenth birthday, she'd decided that being teased for her height at school was better than being scolded about slouching at home, so she'd developed an erect and graceful bearing in her teenage years.

  'This is it,' the driver announced, pulling up in front of the address Shauna had given him. He read off the fare shown on the meter.

  Shauna paid him promptly, adding a generous tip. Too much, Aunt Margaret probably would have said, but the driver had been very pleasant.

  'Thanks,' he said, grinning as he gave her the necess­ary change.

  'May I have a receipt?' she asked, remembering Emmett Barkley's admonition.

  'Sure thing.' The cabbie reached for his receipt pad and scrawled down the pertinent information. 'Would you like me to wait around for you?' he enquired helpfully. 'You might have some trouble getting a cab in this neighbourhood.'

  Shauna hesitated, considering the validity of his observation. The studio building was not located in the best part of the city.

  'No—no, thank you,' she decided after a moment. 'I'm not certain how long my errand will take. But I appreciate your offering.'

  'No problem. Have a good night.'

  As Mr Barkley had promised, the security guard had been alerted to expect her.

  'Mr Sebastian's still here?' Shauna verified.

  'Yes, ma'am.' The guard nodded as she signed her name to his log in neat script. 'They're all here. Been here for hours except for a meal break. Union require­ment.' He shrugged. 'You know how that is.'

  Shauna did. Working at SEE, she'd typed up plenty of documents involving the stringent regulations governing the use of union musicians and technicians. 'You said Studio C?' she asked.

  'That's the one. Third floor. Go left when you come off the elevator, then all the way down the hall. You can't miss it. Don't let the blinking light bother you. Just be sure you go in the door marked "Control".'

  'Thank you.'

  Riding up in the lift, Shauna patted her chestnut-brown hair several times to make certain her chignon was still neat and securely pinned at the nape of her neck. This was going to be a quick, easy errand. She'd be in and out in a matter of minutes. Afterwards, she'd have the guard downstairs call a radio cab for her.

  The heels of her boots clicked a businesslike rhythm on the linoleum of the hall floor as she followed the instructions she'd been given. It wasn't a very glamorous place: the corridors were a dingy grey and had an almost institutional air.

  Despite the guard's comment about the blinking light, Shauna found herself momentarily intimidated by the flashing red sign that read 'RECORDING! KEEP OUT!' in no uncertain terms.

  Squaring her shoulders and taking a deep breath, she dismissed her anxiety and pushed open the heavy door marked 'Control'. She entered as quietly as she could.

  She could have charged in like the Seventh Cavalry for all the difference it would have made, considering the pandemonium going on inside.

  Two intense-looking, blue-jeaned technicians were huddling over a sound board, fiddling with levels while they argued with mounting vigour over the quality of the mix they were getting. A third technician was playing back a synthesised audio track for a skinny, long-haired young man who was registering his displeasure with what he was hearing in a nasal voice. Another man, dressed in a custom-tailored Italian suit, was on the phone, trying to conduct a call.

  To add to the confusion, the intercom link between the control room and the studio was open, piping in a haphazard mix of expert but pointless drumming, keyboard noodling, and chord progressions from a pair of electric guitars.

  Shauna winced at the cacophony, instinctively with­drawing into the corner by the door as she tried to sort out the chaos. She didn't see Michael Sebastian anywhere and, even if she had, it didn't take any great degree of perceptivity to figure out that she had walked into something that shouldn't be interrupted. She decided to bide her time for a bit.

  Just as it appeared the confusion was about to hit its peak—or perhaps erupt into something worse—the door leading into the control room from the hall swung open, practically squashing Shauna back against the wall. Only quick reflex action kept her glasses from going flying.

  The man responsible for the explosive entrance was none other than Michael Sebastian, and if he was aware that he'd come perilously close to causing serious bodily harm to someone, he gave no sign of it. A younger man followed in his dynamic wake, and he did notice something out of the ordinary. He gave Shauna a quick, puzzled look, but didn't say anything.

  'Quiet!'

  The two syllables ripped through the noise like a razor-edged sword, cutting off the racket almost instant­aneously. The only person who ignored the command was the fashionably dressed man on the phone. Michael Sebastian dealt with that by the brutally simple expedient of taking the receiver away from the man and dropping it wordlessly back into its cradle.

  'Hey, you just hung up on LA—' the man began to protest.

  'Roger, I don't care if that was the moon,' Michael told him flatly. 'I said "quiet" and that's what I meant. If you want to make business calls during one of my recording sessions, do not—I repeat, do not—use my control room to do it. Go someplace else. Find a phone booth. And use your own dime while you're at it.'

  The words came out like icy bullets, shooting down all possible dissent. Shauna was suddenly very thankful that Michael Sebastian had his back to her. She pressed herself against the wall, hoping to remain unobtrusive until things settled down. She got another curious look from the younger man who'd come in with Michael. He still did nothing to reveal her presence.

  'Am I getting through to you, Roger?'

  'Sure, Michael. Sorry,' the other man replied. He seemed to have developed a sudden fascination with the tips of his shoes.

  'Thank you. Now—' Michael riveted everyone's attention. There was no question of who was in com­mand. And the impact of his authority wasn't limited to the cramped, cluttered control room. The musicians had stopped playing around and were standing quietly. They could hear what was going on through the elaborate intercom system and see what was happening through the glass wall that divided the control room from the actual studio.

  'Now—' Michael Sebastian repeated, playing the situation like a skilled musician. 'My brother and I have negotiated a small agreement. He will sing the numb
er as written. I will refrain from strangling him and bringing in a new lead singer for Tempest.' He glanced at the young man who had come in with him. 'Right, Jamie?'

  Jamie came to attention and snapped off a salute. 'Aye, aye, Captain,' he said precisely. There was a mixture of affectionate mockery and respect in the gesture. With a grin and yet another look at Shauna, he then turned and marched out through the connecting door and into the studio.

  Jamie—of course! Everything clicked into place for Shauna. Jamie was Jamie Cord, Michael Sebastian's half-brother and lead singer for Tempest, one of the fastest rising bands SEE had under contract. Tempest had had two top-selling albums and a series of hit singles.

  After several years of seasoning with limited club dates, they'd done one tour as the opening act for a big name, well-established band. They were now about to kick off their own national tour. Shauna had heard another Tempest album was in the works as well. Obviously, this recording session was being devoted to the production of that album. She wondered how much of Michael Sebastian's presence in the studio was due to business and how much was dictated by brotherly interest.

  Whatever his motives, it was clear he knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't about to settle for anything less than perfection. He instructed the sound engineers in detail, his command of their complex and often obscure technical jargon serving as vivid proof of his professional expertise.

  From her refuge in the corner, Shauna studied him with uneasy fascination. She could understand why most of the women around SEE found him so devastatingly attractive. His tall, leanly muscled body exuded a barely leashed virility that had nothing to do with show business posturing or phoney machismo. Michael Sebastian had a bred-in-the-bone masculinity; he was the type of man who would have no doubts about what he wanted and no qualms about taking it. He also, to judge by his phenomenal success in his first thirty-four years on earth, was capable of holding what was his against all comers.

  His profile was strong and uncompromising, unsoftened by his thick and somewhat unruly thatch of dark brown hair. His cheekbones were high and defiantly moulded, his jaw strong and distinctly stubborn. His nose had a faint crookedness to it, as though it had been broken… in a fight, perhaps.