Song Without Words Page 11

  'That was a compliment, Miss Whitney,' he told her gently, his mouth curving into a smile that held equal parts of friendliness and flirtation. The warmth of his green gaze as he met her questioning stare was un­shadowed and inviting.

  'I—Thank you.' Her heart gave a strange flutter as she returned his smile with shy pleasure.

  'You're welcome. You're also going to have to get used to my appreciating the way you look.'

  Her smile vanished. 'Get used—?' she began in a taut little voice.

  'Mmmm…' He nodded pensively, glancing around the room again. 'You know, this is a far cry from the first place I had when I came to New York… a very far cry.' He gave a dry laugh. 'Of course, I spent about six months crashing wherever I could before I could afford to pay any rent at all. When I finally saved up a few dollars, I moved into what can charitably be described as a broom closet in the basement of a tenement. Luckily for me, the landlord didn't give a damn about the fact that I was under age. As long as I paid him on time and in full, he really didn't care one way or the other what the date on my birth certificate was.'

  The sudden shift of subject caught Shauna off guard. So did the unexpected sharing of what was plainly a very private memory. There was no bitterness in the way Michael spoke, no bid for sympathy. If anything, he seemed amused… as though he took ironic pride in reflecting on how far he had come from where he had started.

  But how hard it must have been for a teenage boy on his own! And how much the journey must have cost him!

  'You came to Manhattan after leaving the Cor—' The question came out of its own volition. Shauna tried to bite it back when she realised how personal it was.

  Michael's brows went up. 'I came here after I ran away from the Cord family out in Chicago, yes,' he confirmed with precision. He paused for a moment, his expression assessing. 'Let me guess: Jamie told you. When? Over breakfast in Hartford?'

  'He—We talked about a number of things that morn­ing,' Shauna admitted hesitantly, trying to get a fix on his reaction and wishing he weren't quite so adept at mask­ing his feelings. Was Michael angry at Jamie for talking to her? Did he resent her knowing some of the details of his early life? Did he think she would find those details shocking or shameful?

  Shauna dismissed this last possibility almost before the idea was fully formed. Why should Michael Sebastian care what she thought? He was a man who went his own way, independent and uncaring of other people's opinions. The notion that her reaction to any­thing would make the slightest bit of difference to him was… ridiculous.

  'Jamie did tell me that you lived with his family for a year after your father died,' she went on slowly, feeling as though she might be tiptoeing into an emotional minefield. 'He said you l-left very suddenly and he didn't know what had happened to you until "You Made Me What I Am" was released.' She worried her lower lip with her teeth for a moment, uncertain of whether or not she should continue. Finally, she decided Michael had a right to know how much Jamie had revealed. 'Jamie told me how you helped him when he was in… in trouble.'

  'That's not a story my brother usually offers for public consumption,' he observed quietly.

  'I—I won't say anything about it to anyone,' Shauna reassured him quickly, thinking he was concerned about gossip.

  An odd smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Before she realised what he meant to do, he'd lifted one hand and very gently brushed a finger down the curve of cheek. The light, fleeting touch made her catch her breath.

  'I know you won't,' he returned. 'You're a lady who's very good at keeping secrets, aren't you? But don't make too much out of the role I played in Jamie's troubles. He was the one who did the hard part.'

  'You were there when he needed you.'

  'Yes… well, I owed him that. Jamie was the best thing I got out of that year with the Cords. Besides, I know what it's like to be in over your head.'

  Their eyes locked and held for a long moment. Shauna was conscious of the almost painful beating of her heart… the throbbing of her pulse. The bond of communi­cation stretching between them was a tangible thing. Part of her shrank away from the pull of it; another part ached to be drawn in.

  Michael broke the spell without warning, his green eyes suddenly shuttered. He glanced down at his watch in an abrupt gesture. 'We'd better get going,' he said tersely. 'We don't want to be late.'

  The club he took her to was located in a squatty, two-storey stone building. It had been in the same spot for years, Michael told her as they travelled downtown by taxi, attracting music lovers long before Greenwich Village developed an international reputation as a haven for Bohemian artists and free thinkers.

  'Watch your step,' he warned as he helped her out of the cab once they arrived.

  'Thank you,' she said gratefully, using his arm to steady herself. The weather of the past two days had been punctuated by intermittent snow flurries and freezing drizzle. The combination had left pavements hazardously coated with ice.

  Even without the revealing light of day to judge by, Shauna could tell that the front of the club wasn't very prepossessing. It was about as welcoming as an old warehouse, in fact—a far cry from the trendy, ultra-fashionable places she assumed Michael normally fre­quented. The building's only distinguished feature was an ornate neon sign that bluntly declared: 'This is the Place'.

  'It's better inside,' Michael grinned, his white teeth flashing briefly in the glow of a nearby street lamp. He slipped a casual arm around Shauna's waist and escorted her inside.

  The interior was better. Although decorated in a haphazard jumble of styles, it had a comfortable, unpre­tentious atmosphere. A huge wooden bar surrounded by clusters of patrons dominated one side of the room. The white-washed brick walls were covered with old news­paper clippings, theatrical posters, and framed black and white photographs. Tables of various sizes and shapes were arranged around the dark, hardwood floor in no apparent pattern. A stairway marked with an arrow reading 'Music This Way' led to the second storey.

  'Do you come here often?' Shauna asked curiously after they had been seated at a table and had their orders taken. Something about the treatment they were being accorded hinted that Michael Sebastian was a familiar—and favoured—customer.

  Michael smiled. 'I used to work here.'

  'You did?'

  'I washed dishes.'

  'Washed dishes!'

  He nodded. 'That's right. A seventeen-year-old kid whose only skills are playing the guitar and writing songs isn't very employable, you know. I was damn lucky to land a job here. Of course, the pay was terrible, but I got a free meal from the kitchen every night I worked. And, after a while, I started to meet people.' He looked around, his expression reflective. 'This place may not look very chic but, sooner or later, everybody who's anybody in the music business comes drifting through.'

  'I—I don't imagine you stayed a dish washer very long.'

  'Long enough. Eventually, I started making connec­tions… started to learn how things work. I was a very quick student.' There was an edge of self-mockery to the last sentence. 'I did pick-up gigs in some of the sleaziest places imaginable. I played back-up in studio sessions for people nobody's ever heard of. And I auditioned my songs for anybody who'd listen to them. Eventually, it paid off.'

  'You stopped performing when your songs started to sell, didn't you?' It was something she'd wondered about. Her mind flashed back to the scene in his apart­ment… to the song he'd sung and the way he'd sung it. With his talent, dark good looks, and compelling sexual charisma, she was certain Michael Sebastian could have easily become a star—a pop idol. Yet he had chosen to avoid that path. Why?

  'I wanted to be in control of my life—and my work,' he said, answering her unspoken question. 'I didn't want to be somebody else's commodity, which is what you've got to let yourself be turned into if you're going to succeed as a performer.' He paused, seeming to choose his words with care. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a chilling, crystalline precision. 'Besides,
by the time I scored with "You Made Me What I Am", I'd had my fill of people who thought that if I was willing to sell my music in public, I'd be willing to sell myself in private as well. I don't… perform on demand.'

  Shauna caught her breath. Instinct told her that she had just been given a key piece to the complicated puzzle that made up Michael Sebastian's personality. But what had prompted such a revelation? Was he testing her in some way? Trying to warn her off? Could it be, in some odd way, a bid for her understanding?

  Or, perhaps, he found some perverse amusement in deliberately underscoring the gulf between his experi­ence and her lack of it.

  She was so caught up in this jumble of speculation that she didn't realise their waiter had returned until he began serving their dinner. His appearance gave her a chance to recover herself, and for this she was grateful. Her uncertainties about Michael's motives this evening made her feel very vulnerable.

  'Thank you very much,' she murmured to the waiter. She'd ordered a chicken and mushroom casserole de­scribed as a specialty of the house. The dish gave off a rich, savoury fragrance.

  'At a loss for words, Miss Whitney?' Michael asked softly after the waiter moved away.

  She looked at him, her eyes clouded with wary ques­tioning. While his enquiry had a hint of challenge in it, his expression was surprisingly gentle. 'What—what do you want me to say?'

  His mobile lips twisted. He took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. 'I don't know,' he said finally. He held her gaze for a long moment before dropping his eyes to his own entrée of rare steak and salad. He picked up his fork, his strong musician's fingers circling the utensil almost caressingly. 'I really don't know.'

  'Michael—'

  He gave a small shake of his head. 'Eat,' he instructed quietly.

  Shauna felt the stirring of an alien emotion deep within her. Whatever his reasons, Michael had opened the door of his life to her. Now he was shutting it again. Something in Shauna's heart cried out in silent protest against that. She wanted to do…to say…something.

  But she was restrained by the walls and locked doors of her own upbringing. With the obedience of a child, she began to eat.

  Michael's ruthless exercise of charm and her own innate courtesy got them through the meal without further incident. In fact, by the time they adjourned to the second storey of the club to hear the evening's perform­ance, they were embroiled in a friendly—if resolutely impersonal—discussion of popular music. Although Michael, with his experience and expertise, could have dominated the exchange, he did not. Instead, he drew Shauna out with subtle skill, overcoming her instinctive reticence with a flattering show of interest in her opinions.

  The artist they had come to hear proved to be a pianist-singer in his mid-twenties with a flair for jazzy improvisation. Although most of his repertoire con­sisted of well-known contemporary hits—including a few songs written by Michael Sebastian—he had a knack for presenting the words and music with a fresh style. Glancing over at Michael during the performer's ruefully regretful version of 'You Made Me What I Am', Shauna saw him give a barely perceptible nod of approval.

  'You thought he was good, didn't you?' Shauna asked as they left the club about twenty minutes later. She shivered a little as the cold night air struck her and thrust her hands into the pockets of her camel wrap coat.

  'Good with the potential of getting much better,' he replied, glancing assessingly up and down the side street where the club was located. 'We'd better walk over a few blocks,' he said. 'We'll never get a cab here. You won't freeze up on me, will you, sweetheart?'

  The smile that accompanied this question seemed nicely calculated to raise her temperature by at least ten degrees. Shauna shook her head quickly. 'No. I'll be fine.'

  They walked about a half-block in silence. 'What did you think of him?' Michael enquired. The question came out in a silvery cloud of vapour.

  'I enjoyed the performance. Even though there weren't any original songs, he seemed to have—oh, I don't know exactly—his own style. The trouble with so much of the music today is that it all seems alike. But tonight—this didn't sound like anybody else.' She made a little face at the inadequacy of her description.

  'Most of the demo tapes SEE gets are derivative,' Michael agreed. 'If someone creative comes up with a new, successful sound, everybody else in the business runs out and copies it. There are moments when I feel like I'm afflicted with a permanent case of professional déjà vu.' The look he gave her was full of a sudden conspiratorial amusement. An errant gust of wind ruffled his thick, dark hair, sending a lock of it curling boyishly down on to his forehead. 'That's why, when I find an original talent, I go out of my way to see it gets properly developed—no matter how much resistance I run into from the person who possesses the talent.'

  Momentarily mesmerised by his potent appeal and caught up in the crazy urge to brush his hair back into place, Shauna nearly missed the edged emphasis of his words. When their underlying meaning penetrated, she halted in mid-stride, turning on him.

  'Are you—Do you mean my poetry?' she asked.

  One dark brow quirked upward in affirmation. 'Could be,' he replied with infuriating mildness. 'Although you seem equally resistant to exercising your other talents as well.'

  'My other—' She stopped, searching his face for a moment before abruptly deciding she didn't want to pursue that last remark. 'The answer is no,' she said flatly.

  ' "No" to your poetry or "no" to your other talents?'

  'I don't have any—No! Just no.' She looked down at the pavement blindly for a second or so, the silken length of her hair cascading forward, screening her expression. It still partially veiled her face when she glanced back up at him. 'I've already told you that.'

  'So you have.'

  'Then why don't you accept it?'

  'Because you're very good,' he told her simply. 'And because—one way or another—I always get what I want.'

  'Not this time.'

  'Ah, but Miss Whitney, you don't know what I want.'

  Reaching forward, he brushed at the heavy curtain of her hair. At the first leather-gloved touch of his fingers, Shauna jerked her head back like a frightened fawn. Trembling for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold, she took a sudden step away from him.

  The move was too sudden, given the slick condition of the pavement. Gasping, she felt one heel skid on a patch of ice. In a desperate bid to save herself from falling, she overbalanced forward and stumbled into the unyielding hardness of Michael's body.

  Even with the separating layers of winter clothing, Shauna was aware of the warmth and strength of him. The subtle, spicy scent of his aftershave—as well as the more basic male muskiness of his skin—filled her nos­trils. His arms closed around her body, steadying and staying in the same movement.

  The sensation of security was frightening in its se­ductiveness. Shauna turned her face up to look at him, her eyes huge in her pale, delicately featured face.

  He was a heartbeat away from kissing her. The devouring heat of his emerald gaze betrayed his inten­tion with uninhibited clarity. What Michael Sebastian wanted, Michael Sebastian got.

  And what about what she wanted? Instinct—and a sudden need—brought her lashes fluttering closed. Her soft, waiting lips parted slightly.

  But then, to her bewilderment, he let her go. With a gentleness that made it an act of tenderness rather than rejection, he released her.

  'No.'

  She stared up at him. 'Michael?' she had the strangest sense he wasn't saying no to her… but to himself.

  He shook his head. 'Some women's eyes you can get lost in,' he went on softly. 'With yours—a man could find himself, Shauna.'

  'I—I don't understand.'

  He muttered something under his breath then shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pea-jacket. The tension in his body was obvious. His features coalesced into a paganly handsome but stony mask.

  'Let's get you home,' he said. 'Now, while I can still let you g
o.'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'As efficient as ever, Miss Whitney,' Michael said pleasantly late the next morning as he casually dropped a sheaf of neatly typed letters on her desk. Each sheet of the expensive white stationery bore the vivid imprint of SEE's corporate letter-head and the bold scrawl of his signature.

  'Thank you,' she returned, straightening the papers with careful precision. She glanced up at him for a moment, the flickering quicksilver in the depths of her hazel eyes at odds with the controlled tranquillity of her expression.

  She'd come into the office not knowing what to ex­pect. The previous night's combination of unanticipated intimacy and unexplained withdrawal had left her shaken.

  She still didn't understand what had happened… and she wasn't at all certain she wanted to. Understand­ing would only draw her more deeply into something she already knew was dangerous.

  Dangerous. It was an apt—although understated—description of Michael Sebastian as far as she was con­cerned. He was like an exotic, addictive drug. She could feel him in her bloodstream already, holding her in thrall with his music and his mystery. The more she knew of him, the more she wanted to learn. And the more she learned…

  'Shauna?'

  She started. 'Sorry,' she murmured, biting her lower lip.

  She couldn't quarrel with his manner so far this morn­ing. He'd been polite—even charming—to her. There hadn't been so much as a word, a look, or a gesture, she could point to or question.

  Yet she bitterly resented every second of it. He was treating her like a stranger—an enemy.

  Still, underneath the assured urbanity, the executive polish, she could detect the controlled, stony mask he had assumed the night before as he set her away from him. He was feeling something; something he felt impelled to hide.

  What? she asked herself. And why?

  She made a deliberate show of consulting the appoint­ment calendar on her desk. Michael was standing motionless, watching her. She would be the impeccable, unapproachable secretary to his aloof employer. Her hard-won poise—and innate pride—would get her through this.