Song Without Words Read online

  He gave her a reassuring grin. 'Michael did tell us to get to know each other,' he pointed out with a wink, plainly signalling that he was on her side.

  Shauna was not quite ready to respond to the sym­pathetic overture—particularly when it came from the person whose offhand remark had landed her in this humiliating predicament. She reached up and brushed her hair back behind her ears. Her hands were trembling.

  'I suppose you always do what he tells you to?' she retorted.

  'He is my boss.'

  To her horror, Shauna gave a semi-hysterical giggle. 'H-he's my boss, too, actually,' she got out.

  'You work for Michael—SEE?' Jamie asked, visibly astonished. Given the way his half-brother had treated her—and her own manner, for that matter—Shauna couldn't blame him for being so surprised.

  She nodded once. 'I work for Sebastian Entertain­ment Enterprises. At least I did before this evening.' She sighed. 'I came here to deliver some papers from the legal department—'

  Jamie gave a long whistle. 'Oh, man, why didn't you say something?'

  Shauna glared briefly in the direction of the control room. She could see Michael conferring with two tech­nicians, gesturing commandingly. 'Because a certain individual wouldn't let me get a word in edgeways,' she replied tartly.

  'Yeah, he does tend to get a little overpowering at times,' Jamie conceded. 'Look, Shauna, I'm really sorry I got you into this mess. I was just joking around. If you'll help us get this track right, I'll help you get everything straightened out.'

  'We'll all help you get everything straightened out,' Griz interpolated, giving her a thumbs up signal. Shauna realised that the other members of Tempest had been eavesdropping on her conversation with Jamie. She flushed a bit and glanced around at them, comforted by the fact that they were regarding her with various de­grees of friendly interest.

  'What am I supposed to do?' she asked.

  'You don't have to do anything,' Jamie assured her quickly. 'Just sit there and look terrific. Hey, Hank—' he spoke over his shoulder, 'give me the extra headset, will you, please?'

  'Sure, Jamie.'

  'Okay, thanks.' Jamie accepted the black and grey headset from the guitarist. He placed one of the padded earphones against Shauna's ear. 'Hold it,' he instructed. 'That way, you'll be able to get the full effect. We've already got the main instrumental tracks laid down. What we're going for now is the vocal.'

  Shauna nodded her comprehension. She warmed to the friendly understanding in Jamie's dark eyes. He was very different from his half-brother.

  'Do you suppose we can get started?' Michael's voice drawled through the intercom.

  She stiffened, tension flooding back into her body. Jamie gave her an encouraging grin as though telling her that the ordeal would soon be over. He slipped on his own headset.

  'Okay, Michael,' he announced, giving the earphones a small adjustment. 'Let's go for a gold record.'

  'Let's go for platinum,' Sam Nelson amended.

  'Let's get done and go for dinner,' Griz suggested with amiable practicality.

  'Amen to that,' Michael returned with a hint of humour.

  There was a brief silence during which Shauna saw the band members exchange looks, plainly willing that this take work. Jamie closed his eyes, concentrating on what he had to do. Uncertain of what was expected of her, Shauna simply remained where she was, poised on the stool with the headphone pressed to her ear, still seeth­ing with resentment at Michael Sebastian.

  'We're rolling,' a technician's voice informed them.

  The same musical bridge she had heard before flooded into her ear. Jamie nodded, picking up the beat, his body swaying slightly. Then, at just the right moment, he began to sing.

  This time, it worked. Perhaps Shauna's presence had something to do with it—perhaps Michael Sebastian's prodding was the reason—but, in either case, the lyrics came out with a smooth, sensual energy. Jamie's phras­ing supported and enriched the provocative poetry of the words, blending flawlessly with the music. After the first line, he opened his eyes and began to sing directly at Shauna, performing for her with flattering and flirtatious intensity.

  Yet it was the song—not the singer—that moved her in a disturbing and unfamiliar fashion. It was the thought of the man who had written the words and music that sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She had always been keenly sensitive to the skilled use… and the seductive power… of language.

  The final chord faded. There was a moment of elo­quent silence as the band members looked back and forth at each other. Then a kind of giddy pandemonium broke out.

  'All right!' Jamie crowed triumphantly, yanking off his headset and tossing it aside rather carelessly. 'If you guys in the control room didn't like that, you can get yourself another singer!' He caught Shauna impulsively by the shoulders, pulling her off the stool, and gave her an exuberantly affectionate kiss. Before she could ex­tricate herself from his enthusiastic embrace, she was surrounded by the other members of Tempest, being bombarded by introductions, compliments and congratulations.

  A strong-fingered hand grasped Shauna, drawing her out of Jamie's encircling arms and turning her around. Catching her breath, she stared up into Michael Sebastian's sensual, compelling face with a sense of helplessness. Her heart was racing. His green gaze moved over her delicate features in lingering scrutiny before it came to rest on her slightly parted lips.

  'I don't—' she began to protest. 'Please—'

  He bent his head and kissed her, slowly and deliber­ately. His hard, demanding mouth closed expertly over her soft lips in a caress that drove all rational thought out of her mind for a moment. The tip of his tongue flicked teasingly over her tender lower lip, sending a tremor through her body.

  The contact only lasted a few seconds, but it left her quivering on the edge of responsiveness. Her hazel eyes were wide and almost dazed. She was too caught up in her own tumultuous reactions to notice the oddly regret­ful look that passed fleetingly over Michael's face.

  'My, my, Miss Whitney,' he drawled as he released her. 'You are a lady of very unexpected talents.'

  Something about his mocking comment snapped her control. She'd been cross-examined, ordered about, manhandled, and publicly kissed by this infuriatingly arrogant man. Now, he had the unmitigated gall to mock her!

  She slapped him, hitting him hard enough to leave the reddened imprint of her slender fingers on his cheek.

  He caught her wrist in what seemed to be a reflex action, a dangerous light coming into his jade eyes. The rest of the studio was frozen in shock.

  'Oh!' Shauna made the sound involuntarily. Whether it was in protest or apology, she didn't know. After so many years of measuring her responses in accordance with Aunt Margaret's standards—reining in her temper, stifling an impish sense of humour—she had suddenly surrendered to impulse. She had done exactly what she felt like doing… but to her employer!

  'Not exactly the way to impress the boss, Miss Whitney,' Michael told her with a taunting smile. 'Even if he won't let you get a word in edgeways.'

  Hot blood rushed up into her face as she realised the implication of his words. Her eyes darted in the direction of the control room then back to him.

  'You—you knew!' she accused him with loathing in her voice. 'You h-heard what I said to Jamie over the intercom!'

  He didn't deny it. Rather, he confirmed the truth of her charge with an ironic little nod.

  'You knew and you still—You—you—' Shauna choked. Angry as she was, the inhibitions of her up­bringing still gripped her, preventing her from spitting out the epithets she was thinking. 'How dare you?' she demanded, jerking herself away from him, her breasts heaving as she glared at him. 'I think you are the most despicable man I've ever met, Mr Sebastian. I wouldn't work for you if you paid me!'

  'I do pay you,' he pointed out.

  She made an exasperated gesture, ignoring the voice inside her that was warning her she was about to do something she would regret.
/>   'Not any more!' she shot back, stalking over to where she had deposited her shoulder bag. Shauna opened the tote, her fingers shaking with rage. Extracting the ma­nila envelope inside, she flung it in his direction, not caring where it landed. 'That's why I "barged" in on your precious recording session, Mr Sebastian. It's from Mr Barkley. The papers you had to have for the weekend. Believe me, I wouldn't have come anywhere near you if it hadn't been for them!'

  She snatched up her coat, her stormy gaze sweeping the studio. 'I'd wish you bad luck with the rest of the night, but I happen to think Tempest is a terrific band. Besides, they have enough bad luck. They have to work for you!' With that, she marched over to the studio door and yanked it open.

  'Shauna—' Michael's voice was sharp.

  She whirled back, her chestnut hair fanning out with a silken life of its own. 'Oh, don't bother to fire me,' she gritted out. 'I quit!'

  Tossing her head in a defiant gesture, she walked out, taking great satisfaction in slamming the door behind her with all the force she could muster.

  The next two days constituted one of the worst weekends of her life. Shauna couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep, and her mind rebelliously kept replaying every detail of the disastrous scene in the studio. She found herself waiting for Michael Sebastian to appear at her apartment door demanding a grovelling apology… or worse.

  The awful part of it was, she liked her work at SEE very much. It paid well, it was challenging, and it had given her a chance to prove she could make a life for herself without following the blueprint mapped out by her late aunt.

  Shauna had been taken in by her aunt at the age of eleven after a New Year's Eve car accident left her an orphan. Margaret Whitney was in her late forties at the time, unmarried by choice, and not particularly fond of children. But she was Shauna's nearest living relative, and she knew where her duty lay.

  An adoption dictated by duty—not affection—had been painful for a child of Shauna's loving and some­times fanciful spirit. In an attempt to win her aunt's approval, she'd learned to curb her natural impulses and conform to the pattern of living Margaret Whitney deemed correct. She'd allowed herself to be bent… but not broken.

  To please her aunt, she'd given up the idea of pursuing an English literature degree in college and taken a secretarial course instead. It was more practical, her aunt decreed.

  Shauna had not truly realised the degree of resent­ment and rebellion growing within her until after Margaret Whitney's death of a sudden heart attack. Until the day she died, Shauna had tried, desperately, to please her aunt—to win her love. It was only when she was informed of her aunt's will—a coldly worded docu­ment that left nearly everything to her favoured charities—that she knew how miserably she'd failed.

  Shauna hadn't cared about the money. But it would have meant everything if the will had contained a small phrase of affection… a hint that Margaret Whitney had considered her niece something more than an obligation.

  The will had offered one liberating piece of news. She now had access to a small trust fund left for her by her parents. Shauna had seized this as an inmate might seize the key to his prison. She'd taken the money and used it to finance her move to New York City… and to a new life, she hoped.

  Now all her dreams and aspirations were in jeopardy. Perhaps her aunt had been right about the dangers of unbridled emotions after all.

  Staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, Shauna blinked uncomfortably. On top of everything else, she'd left her glasses in the studio when she'd made her dramatic exit. Pride had made it impossible for her to go back and retrieve them.

  Fortunately, she had a pair of contact lenses she'd purchased when she'd first come to New York. They'd been part of a tentative effort to 'change her image'. But she'd quickly discovered that altering her appearance didn't change the way she felt about life. It did, however, lead some people to expect a number of things she was not ready to give. She'd quickly retreated to her normal, restrained style. It was safer.

  With a little shiver, Shauna recalled the touch of Michael Sebastian's fingers as he'd taken off her glasses and the definite flare of appreciation she'd seen in his eyes as he'd pulled her neatly pinned hair into disorder about her shoulders. It had been an unsettling experi­ence, but there had been something disturbingly pleasurable in the sudden flash of attraction she'd felt spark between them.

  Was she really so different with her glasses off and her hair down? Studying herself in the mirror, Shauna de­cided that the question sounded like something out of a corny old movie. Besides, no matter what she looked like on the outside, inside she was still a twenty-two-year-old woman who had experienced less of life than many sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls!

  Carefully, she shadowed her eyelids with a touch of green powder then coated her lashes with an extra layer of mascara. She added a quick brush of peach blusher to her cheeks and a gloss of colour to her lips. She had never noticed—although more than a few men had—that the full, sweet curve of her mouth was intrigu­ingly at odds with her untouched and often distant air.

  Straightening the suede tie belt of her heathery green wool dress, she decided it was time to go to face the inevitable.

  'You may be headed for the unemployment line,' she told herself wryly, 'but you might as well make your final exit from Sebastian Entertainment Enterprises with dignity!'

  Walking into the main room of her apartment, she picked up her brown leather shoulder bag only to groan in frustration as the contents of it spilled out on the floor.

  The frustration changed into something much worse as the manila envelope she'd placed in the bag on Friday night opened too, freeing a sheaf of neatly typed legal papers.

  For an awful moment, Shauna thought she might be physically sick. Kneeling down, she picked up the papers with trembling fingers, hoping she might be hallucinat­ing, but knowing she wasn't.

  She'd given Michael Sebastian the wrong envelope! In the midst of the confusion, goaded by anger, she'd kept the envelope containing the documents Mr Barkley had entrusted to her. Instead, she'd thrown her envelope at Michael!

  The envelope containing her poetry.

  Shauna had written poetry even as a young child. While she considered her talent modest, writing gave her great pleasure. It was also a safe outlet for her deepest feelings, tapping into a wellspring of emotion she was sometimes astonished to find within herself. This made her poetry intensely personal. It was a very private thing. The thought of having it read by Michael Sebastian made her feel terribly vulnerable.

  She started violently as the phone rang. Picking it up, she murmured a distracted greeting into the receiver. She was still clutching the business papers in her hand, not wanting to believe that she had been responsible for such a mix-up.

  'Shauna, is that you?'

  She recognised the urbane tones of Emmett Barkley. 'M-Mr Barkley?' He undoubtedly was calling her to say her services were no longer required.

  'I'm glad I caught you in. I've just had a conversation with Mr Sebastian about you—'

  Shauna made an involuntary sound of distress.

  'Shauna? I beg your pardon—'

  She took a deep breath. Don't be such a coward, she told herself fiercely. You did this to yourself. Face up to it! 'Mr Barkley, I can explain—'

  'There's no need for that,' he cut in smoothly. 'Michael's explained the whole thing. You made quite an impression on him Friday evening. Congratulations.'

  Shauna shook her head, wondering if she was hearing things. She was bitterly aware of the kind of impression she must have made on Michael Sebastian. What she couldn't understand was why her boss—her ex-boss, she corrected herself ruefully—was discussing her actions in such an approving tone. 'I—I'm a little confused,' she said hesitantly.

  'Michael—Mr Sebastian—would like to see you as soon as possible.'

  Her stomach knotted. So that was it! For better or worse, she'd had the last word in their confrontation at the studio, and Michael
Sebastian did not strike her as the kind of man who would let anybody walk away from him after having the last word. So, he wanted to even the score—or, more likely, settle the game completely in his favour. Well, she was just going to have to accept the consequences of what she'd done. She glanced at her watch.

  'I can be into the office in about twenty minutes, Mr Barkley,' she said, calculating.

  'No. No, that's the reason I called you. Michael isn't coming into the office today. He flew out to Los Angeles and back over the weekend and he's taking off for London in a few hours. He felt it would be pointless to come into the office for such a short time. So—'

  'So, he wants me to come to his a-apartment?' Shauna guessed, shuddering at the kind of private scene Michael Sebastian probably had in store for her.

  'Precisely. A bit unorthodox, I realise,' Mr Barkley commented drily, hearing the tension in her voice and evidently misinterpreting the cause of it. 'Still, in the years I've known him, I must say that Michael has never been particularly restrained by the dictates of ortho­doxy. Now, this is his address—' He read off the location of an apartment building on the upper East Side. 'He's expecting you,' he added. 'And the doorman has your name.'

  If Mr Sebastian's expecting me, I certainly wouldn't want to keep him waiting, Shauna thought mutinously, but she kept the resentment and uncertainty out of her voice as she said, 'Thank you, sir.'

  She left her apartment a few minutes later and was fortunate enough to be able to hail a cab almost as soon as she stepped outside her building. She gave the driver the address and sat back, her hands nervously twisting the shoulder strap of her bag as she tried to control her mounting anxiety.

  Michael Sebastian lived in an exclusive and obviously expensive co-op complex. Everything about the place spelled power, money, and good taste. After checking her name and business, a nattily dressed doorman waved her through a lobby that had the discreet elegance she associated with glossy decorating magazines. The quiet luxury of the place extended to the handsomely appointed lift that took her swiftly and silently up to the proper floor.