Song Without Words Page 12

  'You have a lunch at The Four Seasons in thirty minutes,' she informed him.

  He nodded, running his hand through his hair. 'I know. It's likely to run long, so call Emmett Barkley and tell him to handle the afternoon meeting without me.'

  'All right.' Her voice was mechanical.

  'Did you manage to track down Kelso—the audio engineer I asked you to find?'

  She handed him a slip of paper with an address and telephone number. It had taken a considerable amount of diplomacy and some ingenious detective work—to say nothing of three dozen calls—to locate the man, but she'd done it.

  'He's willing to meet with you privately at four this afternoon to demonstrate his invention,' she said. 'Since your schedule looked clear—'

  'Terrific' He cut her off, scanning the paper. 'I de­finitely won't be back for the rest of the day, then. If the rumours about Kelso's new digital system are even half-way accurate, I want SEE to get in on the ground floor.' He shot her an assessing look. 'Did you have trouble finding him? He's got a reputation for being elusive.'

  'No problem.'

  'Good.' He seemed to be ticking down some kind of mental list. 'About the meeting with Carla Decker's agent—'

  'I've already taken care of that.'

  'I see.' For the first time since they'd said their polite-voiced farewells the night before, his tone took on some colour. There was a metallic glint in his eyes. It was impossible to tell whether it was sparked by amusement or irritation. 'The demographics breakdown from Sales?' he enquired silkily.

  With a deliberateness bordering on rudeness, Shauna flipped through the pages of her stenographic pad.

  'It will be on your desk by noon tomorrow,' she reported. 'Just as you wanted.' Knowing it was an unwise thing to do, but taking a perverse satisfaction in doing so anyway, she gave him a small, insincere smile then reached for a pen.

  With swift, jungle-cat grace, he leaned across the desk, trapping her hand in a decisive moment. 'And what I want, I get—is that it?' he challenged.

  Shauna sucked in her breath, trying to ignore the warm, firm press of his palm over her fingers. There was nothing she could do about the sudden hammering of her pulse. She lifted her chin with uncharacteristic reck­lessness.

  'I suppose that depends on what you want, Mr Sebastian,' she returned with a steadiness she was far from feeling.

  'I suppose it does,' he agreed. His thumb stroked her slender wrist in a delicate circular movement, emphasis­ing and savouring the tender fragility of bone and flesh. There was a testing—and a temptation—in the contact. 'Aren't you going to ask me what I want, Miss Whitney?'

  She shook her head in a gesture of denial as hot colour flooded up into her cheeks. I know what you want…

  He released her hand, tilting his head slightly to one side. The slow, faintly sardonic curving of his sensual mouth told her he'd seen through her efforts to provoke him and accurately divined her unspoken response to his question.

  'Try reading your poetry, Shauna,' he suggested softly … and was gone.

  Shauna immersed herself in her job for the rest of the day, grateful for the distracting press of business. Yet, just below the level of conscious thought, she was nag­gingly aware of how empty the office seemed. It was an awareness that did nothing for her peace of mind.

  She tried to shape some of her restless, confused feelings into a poem that night. After a half-dozen false starts—each less satisfactory than the one before it—she gave up. For once, there was no relief to be found in spilling out her emotions on paper.

  She slept badly and, in the first few minutes after being awakened by her alarm, actually contemplated calling in sick. Her innate distaste for such a cowardly deception—plus the conviction that Michael Sebastian would see through it—prevented her from doing so.

  She hadn't counted on there being a breakdown on the subway line she travelled. Some mysterious malfunc­tion left her and scores of other impatient passengers stranded underground for nearly an hour.

  Michael was standing by her desk, on the phone, when she finally arrived at the office. Her cheeks were pink with cold and the exertion of a four-block dash from the subway station.

  '… there's nothing to discuss, Carla,' Michael was saying. 'I've made the decision, babe. That's it. Good-bye.' He dropped the phone back into its cradle, making no effort to disguise his temper. 'Where the hell have you been?' he demanded of Shauna.

  'I—I'm sorry I'm late,' she apologised, struggling to catch her breath. She put down her bag and pulled off her leather gloves. He had a right to be angry with her, she acknowledged. In an odd way, she found the honest display of emotion preferable to the aloofness of the day before.

  'Do you have any idea what I've been—'

  'The subway broke down,' she hastened to explain, tugging at the knot in the belt of her wrap coat. 'I'm very sorry.'

  'The subway?' To her astonishment, his temper vanished. He relaxed visibly. 'Take it easy,' he in­structed reassuringly, seeing how shaky she was. 'I'm not going to—' He broke off as the phone shrilled. He answered it before she even reacted to the sound.

  Shauna stared at him, unable to hide her bewilder­ment at this mercurial shift of mood.

  'No, Emmett, everything's fine,' Michael said pleasantly, giving her an unexpectedly warm smile. 'She just walked in. There was some problem with the sub­way. What? Of course—Don't worry about her. In­cidentally, you may be getting an angry call from Carla's lawyer. Tell him the arrangement stands…Thanks.'

  'You called Mr Barkley because I was late?' Shauna asked in a shocked voice as he hung up the phone. She knew that SEE's chief legal counsel put an old-fashioned premium on punctuality. No doubt her tardiness would be held against her.

  Michael shook his head. 'No. I called him because I was worried when you didn't come in on time. You're over an hour late. I've been ringing your apartment on and off for the last thirty minutes. I thought something had happened to you. Or that you might have taken it into your head to resign again.'

  'Re-resign?' she repeated blankly, one arm partially pulled out of the sleeve of her coat. 'Why should I want to resign?'

  Dark brows lifted, he moved lithely to assist her with the outer garment. 'Given my recent behaviour, I'd say you might have several good reasons.'

  'I…' Good Lord, was he offering some oblique form of apology for the unpredictable treatment he'd been meting out? It seemed a very uncharacteristic thing for him to do and yet, there was a rueful gentleness in his face that struck her as genuine. 'It's… all right,' she faltered. 'That is, I didn't—It is all right. Honestly.'

  He draped her coat over the arm of a chair, brushing the smooth fabric with his fingers. There was a strange uneasiness about him. 'I was… concerned about you this morning,' he said slowly, almost as though he found the idea a disturbing one.

  'I—I appreciate that,' she returned. 'And I'm sorry you were worried. But, as you can see, I'm fine.' She gave a comic little shrug, seeking some kind of equilibrium.

  Predictably, Michael found his bearings first, his un­easiness disappearing like smoke before a breeze.

  'Your hair is coming down,' he observed prosaically.

  'What? Oh—' She grimaced in irritation. She'd com­pletely forgotten that, after her mad sprint from the subway, she probably looked like a windswept mess. She raised one hand to assess the damage.

  'It's beyond repair,' Michael stated flatly, sweeping her fingers aside. 'Turn round.'

  'I'm perfectly capable—'

  'I know that, Miss Whitney.' He placed pointedly ironic stress on her name. 'I don't doubt that given ten or fifteen minutes, you could screw your hair back into that damn bun you insist on wearing. But we're running behind schedule already this morning, so we don't have time for that.'

  Gritting her teeth, she turned her back to him. What was she supposed to do? Compared with Michael's changeable nature, a weathervane caught in a tornado was a paragon of stability!

  He plucked t
he remaining pins out of the wreckage of her once-tidy chignon and pocketed them. With a sense of resignation, Shauna felt her hair tumble loose and free over her shoulders.

  'Better,' Michael declared.

  She turned back to face him, taking a step back as she did so. Unbidden, she recalled what he had said that night up in Hartford about how men—how he!—responded to pinned up hair and buttoned up garments. The rosy colour in her cheeks deepened at the memory.

  'Do "we" have time for me to at least brush my hair?' she enquired waspishly. 'I probably look like I just—'

  'Woke up?' he supplied helpfully as she abruptly swallowed the remainder of her remark. He considered this just long enough to underscore the fact that he had some basis for judging how she looked when she'd just woken up. Then he went on with suave generosity, 'Brush your hair if you want to, Shauna, then bring your pad into my office. I've got some dictation about my meeting yesterday with Mr Kelso.'

  'Some' dictation turned out to be a fluent ninety minutes of rapid-fire commentary punctuated by suc­cinct directives to key people in all of SEE's major departments. Shauna was trembling but triumphant when Michael finally came to a halt. Despite a cramp in her hand, she'd kept up with his dizzying, dynamic pace. She felt a surge of renewed energy when he tossed her a flashing grin of approval.

  She returned to her desk, her chestnut hair rippling softly about her shoulders, and set to work typing. No sooner had she deciphered the first paragraph of her shorthand than she was interrupted by a series of phone calls. Then came an invasion from the Sales Depart­ment, complete with graphs and charts.

  Things slowed down in the late afternoon and she applied herself with a will, determined to finish the transcription before she left for the weekend. It was near her usual going home time when the telephone rang yet again.

  'Mr Sebastian's office,' she said automatically, frown­ing over a squiggled notation on her pad.

  'This is Lynette Cord.' The voice was flat and un­familiar.

  'Yes?' Now, what did that scrawl mean?

  'I want to speak to Michael.'

  Shauna glanced toward Michael's office. He'd been closeted in there, by himself, with the door shut, for the last hour.

  'Ah—Mr Sebastian is in conference right now,' she said politely. 'Perhaps there's something I can do? I'm his—'

  'I'm his mother. I want to speak with him. It's important.'

  Shauna's fingers tightened around the phone. 'One—one moment, please.' She pressed the 'hold' button before the woman on the other end of the line could speak.

  Lynette Cord! Michael's mother…and Jamie's, too, of course. But why would she be calling?

  With a sense of foreboding, Shauna rang through to Michael on the inter-office line.

  'Yes?'

  'Michael, there's a woman on line eight who says she's your mother—'

  'My mother?' There was a razor sharpness to the question.

  'Her name is Lynette Cord. She wants to speak with you. She says it's important…' She paused, hoping for some response. 'I—I told her you were in conference,' she went on. 'If you want—'

  'No. No, Shauna, I'll take her call.' He disconnected abruptly. A second or so later, the hold signal on her phone console stopped flashing, indicating that he had picked up the phone.

  The light for line eight blinked off less than five minutes later, signalling the end of the conversation. Unconsciously, Shauna tensed, half-expecting a sum­mons from Michael. When none came, she forced her mind back to the task at hand.

  She typed steadily for another hour, heaving a sigh when she finally completed her task. She'd just finished checking the last page when the inter-office line rang. Her heart gave a curious lurch as she picked up.

  'Shauna?' Michael's voice was flat. 'Dee keeps a bottle of aspirin tucked away in one of her desk drawers. Would you please bring me a couple and some water?'

  'Ah—Yes, of course.'

  'Thanks.'

  Two minutes later, she entered Michael's office with the aspirin and the water plus the papers she had typed.

  Michael was sitting at his desk, his dark head slightly bent, his fingers steepled in front of his face and his thumbs pressed under his chin. He seemed lost in thought, his expression shuttered.

  Quietly, Shauna crossed the thickly carpeted floor and placed the aspirin bottle and the glass of water on his desk. After a moment, he acknowledged her presence with a nod. He then opened the plastic container and shook out two aspirin. He popped the tablets down with a quick swallow of water.

  'Would you like something else?' Shauna asked. Michael's office was decorated in the same starkly con­temporary elegance of the reception area. It included a well-stocked smoked-glass and chrome bar. Her eyes strayed in that direction for an instant.

  He gave a humourless laugh. His tie had been loosened sometime earlier. Pulling it off now with an impatient gesture, he tossed it carelessly aside. He undid the top two buttons of his white silk shirt.

  'Do you think I need a drink, Miss Whitney?' he enquired, fixing her with hard jade eyes.

  'No, of course not,' she replied quietly. He looked tired, she thought. Almost exhausted. She could see the signs of stress in the set of his lean features.

  She was taken aback by the sudden rush of hostility she felt towards Lynette Cord.

  Michael raked his fingers back through his hair. 'Did you stay late on my account?' he asked, a hint of challenge in his tone.

  She lifted her chin. 'I—I stayed to finish the dictation you gave me,' she answered steadily, placing the papers she had typed on his desk in a neat stack. 'I thought you'd want to check them over the weekend.'

  'Very commendable.' He flipped through several of the pages, his expression neutral. 'Very commendable.' He closed his eyes for a moment, tilting his head forward with a small grunt. He massaged one shoulder and then the other. 'There are a few things a man can't do for himself,' he observed in a wry undertone.

  'Perhaps I could help—' Shauna began impulsively. She broke off as his head came up.

  'Yes?' One dark brow quirked questioningly as he prompted her.

  'I could try to loosen the muscles for you,' she finished, knowing she was colouring under his scrutiny. She strove for a light note. 'I don't have much experi­ence as a masseuse, but typing is supposed to give a person strong hands.'

  For a moment, she thought he was going to laugh at her—or reject her suggestion with a cutting retort. Her blush deepened painfully.

  'That's the best offer I've had in a long time,' he said slowly. 'I'd appreciate your… ministrations.'

  She could feel the tension in him when she placed her fingers lightly on his shoulders and began to massage the taut muscles she found there. While the fine silk of his shirt had a sleek, expensive quality to it, she was more aware of the heated texture of the skin beneath.

  In the first minute or so, there was absolutely no give in him. If anything, he seemed to stiffen against the pressure of her hands as though resisting her touch. Then, as though she'd found a hidden nerve, he expelled a long breath and began to relax a little.

  With increased confidence, Shauna started to knead the tendons on either side of his neck. The stroking rhythms of her slender fingers were slow but steady.

  Shauna's parents had been warmly demonstrative people. Her early childhood had been full of affection­ate cuddling. Her adolescence had been coldly different. Her Aunt Margaret had rejected physical contact with undisguised distaste. Because of this, Shauna had learned to school and finally suppress her natural urges … to deny her own blossoming sensuality.

  Now, she discovered herself revelling in the feel of Michael's unmistakably male flesh. The broad shoulders and strongly sculpted neck pleased her hands. She was conscious of a sense of intimate satisfaction as she felt some of the strain ease out of him.

  'Aren't you curious?' he asked, finally breaking the silence between them. His voice was low.

  'Curious?' she repeated absently, moving
her thumbs up the back of his neck, brushing at the thick dark hair that grew at his nape.

  'Hmm… yes. The call from Lynette Cord. My mother.' There was acid contempt in the overly precise way he pronounced the last two words.

  'It really isn't any of my business,' Shauna replied quietly, her hands going still. 'I just hope it wasn't bad news.'

  'That depends on your point of view. She called to tell me she's getting married again.'

  'I… Oh.'

  'I suppose I should be grateful she's past the age of child-bearing,' he added gratingly. He swivelled his chair, looking up at her. 'Does that shock you?'

  She pressed her palms against her skirt. 'No,' she admitted with candid simplicity.

  He regarded her narrowly for several seconds.

  'Jamie must have had a great deal to say to you that Saturday morning up in Hartford,' he observed flatly.

  Shauna shifted awkwardly, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. 'He told me she—your mother—wasn't very maternal.'

  True.' His lips twisted scornfully.

  'Before that… when he asked me to spend the weekend with Tempest… he told me that she'd de­serted you. That is, it slipped out in response to some­thing I said. But I wasn't prying—'

  'I know that. You don't need to pry.' He exhaled wearily. 'My mother. She used her pregnancy with me to get my father to marry her. She used him as her ticket out of the small town existence she hated. I was nine when she finally walked out for good. Old enough to know what was going on, but too damn young to do anything about it.' He shook his head as though fighting off the memory. 'My father genuinely loved her. Even after he got the papers saying she'd divorced him, he still harboured this fantasy that one day she'd come back, and we'd be a happy family again. Of course, we were never much of a family in the first place.'

  Shauna's heart constricted. 'But, in the end, after your father died—?'

  'Are you asking if she had a change of heart towards me? No. Jamie's father was the one who made the decision to take me in instead of dumping me into some foster home. He was… a decent man. Although his decency was wasted on me, I'm afraid.'