Song Without Words Read online

  The thought of Michael Sebastian in a physical battle sent a peculiar shiver down Shauna's spine. She recalled the clichéd punch line: 'If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy.'

  While the rest of Michael's tanned face spoke of power and determination, his mouth hinted at a streak of sensuality. It could be a cruel mouth, Shauna mused, but it would be caressing, too—

  She derailed this train of thought with a pang of mortification, feeling a hot rush of blood flood up into her face. She stiffened her body resolutely, a trifle shocked at the wayward direction her reflections had taken. Shauna had done her share of romantic day­dreaming, but she'd never gone off into a semi-erotic fantasy about a flesh and blood man while standing in the same room with him!

  It must be the atmosphere in here, she told herself. She certainly hadn't reacted to Michael Sebastian this way the other time she'd seen him! That little episode had left her with a very unfavourable impression of him—to say nothing of his tactics for dealing with women!

  Shauna bit her lip in an unconsciously nervous ges­ture. She wanted to get out of the control room and away from the confusion. She glanced around anxiously, briefly considering making her presence known. She discarded the notion quickly.

  Patience, Shauna, she counselled silently, recalling Aunt Margaret's many admonitions against impetu­osity. After all, she told herself, this can't go on for too long.

  Or perhaps it could.

  Shauna had never been to a recording session before, but she'd heard horror stories from other SEE em­ployees: stories about recording sessions that had dragged on for days, weeks—even months. Of course, none of those sessions had ever directly involved Michael Sebastian, but there was always a first time.

  Shifting her weight slightly, and hugging her shoulder bag against her protectively, Shauna put that distressing scenario out of her mind. It didn't do to borrow trouble.

  Michael was still talking with the engineers, sorting out one of the debates that had been going on when he'd made his abrupt entrance. Like the technicians, he was casually dressed. Yet he wore his tight-fitting black cord jeans and black turtle-neck sweater with an offhand elegance that set him apart. His clothing was impeccably functional and expensive.

  Shauna tried not to think about the passing of time. She also tried to ignore the fact that she was becoming uncomfortably warm. She fought down the urge to remove her coat. The movement might attract unwanted attention.

  To distract herself, Shauna stared through the glass panel into the studio, mentally reviewing what she knew about Tempest. With their major tour about to begin, the band had been getting a fair amount of press atten­tion in recent days.

  The drummer, Sam Gleason, was the son of a famous musician. Like everybody else in the group, he was in his mid-twenties and had been playing with bands since he was in his early teens. Slumped behind his drum set, he was beating an intricate, silent tattoo in the air.

  The two guitarists were brothers—Henry and Franklin Stiles, inevitably nicknamed Hank and Frank because they looked enough alike to be twins. They were of medium height, lanky build, with close-cropped sandy brown hair. Each handled his guitar with loving expertise.

  The keyboard player was Thaddeus 'Griz' Grizzard. He reminded Shauna of an overstuffed teddy bear. An untamed confusion of brown frizz exploded on his skull and his stocky body was encased in a fuzzy sweatsuit. He radiated an aura of good cheer and manic energy.

  Finally, she turned her attention to Jamie Cord. He was pacing restlessly, mouthing words to himself.

  Physically, he was shorter than his six-foot tall brother and of a slighter build. He was boyishly good-looking, with wavy brown hair and wide, long-lashed brown eyes. While he didn't possess Michael Sebastian's high-voltage sexual impact, he had an appealingly confident air spiced with a kind of free-spirited charm.

  'OK,' Michael Sebastian's velvet dark voice inter­rupted her thoughts. He'd despatched the engineers back into position and taken a seat at the main mixing and control board. Running a hand through his dark and already tousled hair, he leaned forward and spoke into the intercom. 'All right, you musical madmen. We have been at this one cut for the entire session.'

  'I thought it was beginning to sound repetitious,' Griz volunteered from his keyboard.

  'It sounds even worse than that,' Michael shot back evenly, a hint of humour quirking his mouth. 'Now, as much as I would love to spend the night with you lunatics, I do have other things to do.'

  'I thought Carla was in LA!' Jamie leered mockingly.

  'She is in LA, baby brother.'

  'And you still have something to do tonight? We all heard she'd signed you to an exclusive services contract.'

  'You've got your facts backwards, Jamie,' his half-brother informed him. Michael remained silent as there was a knowing chorus of 'oh-hos' from the band.

  As distasteful as Shauna found the barely veiled sex­ual innuendo—and as little as she wanted to hear the details of Michael Sebastian's relationship with Carla Decker—she did not fail to notice how skilfully the ribald bantering had been used to restore equilibrium in the studio. It reminded her of a shrewd and authoritative teacher allowing a wayward group of students to blow off some steam before bringing them back under control.

  'If you're quite finished?' Michael enquired drily. The band members subsided obediently. 'Now, you know as well as I do where the problems are in this.' His voice had become businesslike but not indifferent. Michael Sebastian clearly cared about this particular song. His next words confirmed his creative stake in it. 'When I wrote this, I knew it was a departure from what you'd done before, but Tempest isn't going to have staying power unless you grow and take some chances. I'm going to have RJ play back part of the last take we did. Listen up.' He glanced at the skinny engineer by the main reel-to-reel recording machines. 'RJ, pick it up at the beginning of the instrumental bridge.'

  'Sure, Michael.' After a moment, the machine went into action and sound began pouring from the speakers in the control room. In what appeared to be an auto­matic response, the two technicians manning the mixing board began tinkering with their complicated gear, de­licately regulating levels and checking various readings.

  The instrumental bridge was a hauntingly provocative interplay of guitar and keyboard spiced with a strong beat from Sam Gleason's drums. It was a departure from Tempest's previous work—a sophisticated adaptation of their basically straightforward rock sound.

  Jamie's voice—a strong tenor with an attractive huskiness to it—joined in the mix.

  Nothing lasts forever.

  Not even when it seems this right.

  What we're feeling may be gone in the morning—

  But it's all that's important tonight.

  The lyrics continued in the same vein through the verse and the chorus, the music picking up a throbbing inten­sity. It had a compelling quality to it… but there was something missing.

  Shauna closed her eyes for a moment, just concentrat­ing on the words. They'd been written by a man who had few, if any, romantic illusions about life. He dealt with sexuality directly, expressing his desires frankly. He did not make promises in order to get those desires fulfilled.

  Jamie's delivery of the lyrics didn't quite provide the knowing edge the song needed. It was probably the difference in age and experience between him and his half-brother, Shauna reflected. While Jamie Cord was in his mid-twenties and a rising star, he was still something of an untempered boy. Michael Sebastian was very emphatically a man.

  'Cut it, RJ,' Michael ordered abruptly. The engineer punched a button and killed the sound. 'Any com­ments?'

  'I still think the bass line is ragged,' Frank said, looking down at his guitar as though accusing it of a major crime.

  'Yeah, something about the instrumental is still a bit off,' Sam contributed from behind his drum set.

  Jamie shook his head vehemently. 'No. Come on, guys. The problem is the vocal track.' He jammed his hands into the back packe
ts of his jeans, frowning. 'It's not hot enough. I want to get the girl into bed, right? But I'm not supposed to be singing her to sleep!'

  'Hey, it's not that bad,' Hank declared. The other members of Tempest chimed in supportively.

  'What we need is women,' Griz said. He outlined the shape of a well-endowed female body. 'Something to get the old juices flowing again.'

  'The way you five reportedly have had the "old juices" flowing the last couple of weeks may be part of the problem,' Michael informed him sardonically.

  'Griz has a point, though,' Jamie said. 'It's hard to get energised for this kind of song when we have to do it over and over again in a room full of guys.' The other band members nodded in sympathy. 'Much as we're one big happy family, an all-male recording session is not what turns us on.'

  'Oh, I don't know about that,' the drummer drawled. 'When the light hits old Griz's hair just right, he looks kind of cute.'

  Michael's profile tightened, a look of impatience pass­ing over his face. The long and powerful fingers of his right hand—musician's fingers, Shauna thought fleetingly—tapped on the control panel.

  'Shall I call Dial-a-Date?' he enquired sarcastically.

  'Michael—' The well-dressed man identified as Roger leaned forward helpfully. 'I could get a couple of—'

  Michael shook his head decisively. 'No, Roger. I know the well-prepared manager comes equipped with a little black book filled with the names and numbers of lots of willing and eager young things, but I don't want any groupies cluttering up this recording session. Thank you.'

  'We need inspiration, Michael,' Jamie declared, spreading his hands.

  'Close your eyes and fantasise,' Michael recom­mended coolly.

  'Well—' Jamie's eyes narrowed. 'How about the fox in the control room? Or do you have her signed to an exclusive services contract as a door stop or something?'

  It took Shauna a moment to realise, with a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, that the 'fox' Jamie had so suggestively mentioned was her. During that awful moment, every eye in the place swung in her direction, darted speculatively towards Michael Sebastian, then back to her.

  Michael Sebastian turned, surprise and irritation etched plainly on his strong features. As he focused on Shauna, however, his expression altered radically. The change only lasted for a second or so before he got himself back under control, but for the space of time he let whatever he was feeling show, he looked like a man who had been dealt a sudden and very telling emotional blow.

  He rose from his seat in a lithe movement and seemed to loom over her—tall, dark, and distinctly dangerous.

  'What the hell are you doing here?' he demanded in an icy voice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nearly every article written about Michael Sebastian mentioned his eyes. Framed by dark, thick lashes, they were an arresting jade green flecked with glints of gold and deep blue. If not precisely windows into his soul, they at least gave some hint of his mood at any particular moment.

  Shauna felt pinned to the wall by emerald lasers. She could hear her heart pounding. The room had grown so quiet that she suspected everyone else could hear it, too.

  'Well?' he asked.

  She took a deep breath. She had a perfectly reason­able explanation for her presence in the control room. There was no need for her to be so nervous—or for him to stare at her in such an accusatory manner.

  'I—I'm Shauna Whitney, Mr Sebastian,' she replied at last, amazed that the words came out so steadily.

  'How did you get in here?' His eyes had narrowed slightly, and she had the fleeting impression that he had recognised her somehow. But that was ridiculous—

  She cleared her throat. 'The guard downstairs—'

  'The guard downstairs is paid to keep people from getting in here, not to roll out the red carpet.'

  'But—' she started to open her shoulder bag. 'I have something for you—'

  'I can imagine what,' he retorted rudely. His eyes ran over her assessingly. 'Are you dressed underneath that coat?' he enquired outrageously.

  'Wha—?' Her voice jumped an octave. 'I beg your pardon!'

  'The last enterprising female who barged into one of my recording sessions had on a raincoat and Chanel Number Five. Period.'

  For a moment, shock left Shauna absolutely speech­less. She had the distinct feeling Michael Sebastian didn't find the memory of that particular young woman altogether irritating. She drew herself up proudly, bit­terly aware that his height advantage forced her to look up at him in order to make eye contact.

  'Mr Sebastian,' she said stiffly, 'if you'll allow me to explain—'

  He shook his head decisively, bulldozing over her words. 'No explanations. Tempest wants inspiration. You're not much, sweetheart, but you're the best we can do on short notice. Come with me.'

  'Coming with' Michael Sebastian consisted of being grabbed by the arm and forcibly escorted out of the control room and into the studio.

  She could feel the bruising grip of his fingers clear through the thick woollen material of her coat sleeve. For one furious moment, she considered slamming him with her shoulder bag. A quick look from those vivid green eyes—eyes that seemed to say he'd sensed her violent impulse—warned her about the foolishness of such a move.

  'Frank, get the lady a stool,' Michael ordered calmly.

  'Do you mind?' Shauna hissed, glaring at him.

  'Yes, I do,' he snapped. 'Take off your coat.'

  'Mr Sebastian—'

  'Off!' He still had his hand on her upper arm.

  He's insane, Shauna thought. He's also the most ill-mannered, overbearing brute—

  'Um, let me help you,' Frank said politely after he'd produced the stool as instructed. He seemed slightly bewildered by what was transpiring, but far from hostile.

  'Thank you,' Shauna said automatically, then shot her captor an acid look. 'If Mr Sebastian would let go of me for one moment—'

  He released her so abruptly that she nearly staggered. Wasn't anyone going to do anything? Were they all going to stand around there, watching her?

  'We're waiting, Shauna,' Michael informed her.

  Apparently, they were.

  'It's Miss Whitney, Mr Sebastian,' she gritted out frigidly. With all the dignity she could muster, she put down her bag, undid the tie belt of her coat, then slipped the garment off. Michael took the coat and handed it to Frank who draped it neatly over another stool then returned wordlessly to his guitar.

  Again, the disconcerting green eyes ran over her. She had the appalling sensation the owner of those eyes knew precisely what kind of underwear she had on and that he found the modest nylon and lace lingerie laugh­ably chaste. The women he knew probably wore sheer wisps of satin—or nothing at all.

  'Well, you certainly are dressed, Miss Whitney,' he observed mockingly, taking in the tailored tweed suit and demure ivory silk blouse. 'Sit down.' He more or less deposited her on the stool Frank had brought over for her.

  The jolt of being seated jarred her glasses and she reached up to push them back into place.

  'No.' Michael forestalled her by brushing her hand aside and removing the glasses completely. The touch of his fingers went through her like an electric shock.

  Shauna blinked indignantly, feeling remarkably vulnerable. Her vision wasn't that bad, actually—an ordinary case of short-sightedness—but she was used to the protective shield of her glasses. 'Will you please give me back—'

  'Later.' Michael surveyed her silently as though in­specting a puzzle of some kind. Before she realised his intention, he'd reached around to the back of her head with both hands and thrust his fingers unceremoniously into her glossy chignon, jerking loose most of the pins that were holding it in place. 'Hold still,' he advised her as she twisted away, 'This isn't going to hurt.'

  'Stop it!' She could feel her heavy chestnut hair tumb­ling over her shoulders as he raked his fingers down through the auburn-highlighted tresses like a comb. 'Ouch!'

  'I tol
d you to hold still,' he reminded her as he finally stopped playing with her hair. For a moment, he kept her head cradled between his hands, his long fingers touching at the back of her skull while his thumbs ran gently, teasingly, around the sensitive outer rims of her ears.

  'Do you mind?' she asked tautly, feeling a shiver go through her as he withdrew his hands, his fingers strok­ing lingeringly across the slender line of her throat. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look him straight in the eye.

  'Not at all,' he replied with a hateful degree of self-possession. There was a mixture of amusement, interest, and something else she couldn't quite interpret, in his expression as he studied her intently once again. 'That's a big improvement. You seem to be inspiration material after all. Especially with your hair down.' A slight edge in his voice gave an unmistakable double meaning to the words. Shauna felt herself flushing with anger and embarrassment, but before she could voice her feelings, Michael had turned smoothly to Jamie. He'd been watching the confrontation with unabashed fascination.

  'OK, little brother,' Michael said drily. 'The "fox" in the control room. Shauna Whitney, Jamie Cord. Jamie Cord, Shauna Whitney.' He performed the introduc­tions in a manner that turned the elementary courtesy into something close to an insult. 'You've got about two minutes to get to know each other.'

  If she'd been thinking clearly, Shauna would have simply got up at that point and stalked out of the studio. Two things stopped her from doing this. First, she was not thinking very clearly. Second, she knew instinctively that Michael Sebastian would have no compunction about dragging her back—probably by the hair—if she did try to leave before he was finished with her. She watched him walk back into the control room with an easy, jungle-cat stride.

  Jamie cleared his throat, drawing her attention. 'So—uh—Shauna—do you come here often?'

  The enquiry was so patently inappropriate that she could only stare at him blankly, wondering if he, too, was crazy. Or perhaps she was the one who had gone mad.