Song Without Words Read online

  The door to Michael's apartment swung open just as she raised her hand to ring the bell. Michael stood there, radiating a virile magnetism that hit her like a blow.

  They regarded each other silently for a long moment. His dark hair was ruffled, there was a certain heaviness to his eyelids, and he was wearing only a pair of faded jeans. He looked as though he'd just got out of bed.

  Shauna discovered that her mouth had gone dry. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. 'M-Mr Barkley said you wanted to see me,' she said finally, feeling at a hopeless disadvantage.

  'I want to do more than see you,' he replied, pausing as he fought back a yawn. 'Sorry. It was a long night. Come in.'

  'But, I—'

  'In, Miss Whitney.' The lazy indolence disappeared.

  Reluctantly, she obeyed, giving him a wary glance as he shut the door. The sheer physical impact of him made her nervous. His body was powerfully but leanly built, without an ounce of superfluous fat. She could see the smooth play of muscle beneath the tanned skin of his torso and arms. The tight fit of his well-worn jeans left little of the lower half of his very masculine physique to the imagination.

  'You don't have to look like that,' he said with an unexpected, teasing grin. He helped her out of her coat.

  'Like what?' she countered defensively.

  'Like you're expecting me to pounce on you at any second. Have no fear. I make it a rule never to seduce my employees on Mondays.'

  She stiffened. .'I'm not your employee,' she retorted unwisely, then winced, realising how the remark could be taken.

  One dark brow quirked upward and his green eyes ran over her in blatant but mocking assessment. His gaze made her disconcertingly aware of her body and its delicate femininity. 'Is that a challenge or an invitation?' he enquired.

  She took a deep breath, ruefully conceding that she had given him the opening for such a question. 'Neither,' she answered. 'It was a simple statement of fact.'

  'You're talking about the fact that you quit SEE, I take it?' he enquired mildly. 'Yet, here you are, aren't you? Just because Emmett Barkley said I wanted to see you. Tell me, did you inform him you'd quit?'

  'I—' She bit her lip. She had the distinct feeling she was being toyed with by an expert. It was not a feeling she liked. 'No. No, I didn't.'

  'Smart girl. It'll save you the awkwardness of explain­ing that you've changed your mind.'

  'That I've—Just what makes you think I've changed my mind?' she demanded, irritated by the arrogance she detected in his tone.

  'You lost your temper Friday night—'

  'I was provoked!'

  'Granted.' He shrugged that aside as a matter of little or no consequence. 'Justified or not, you still blew your cool. And I learned a long, long time ago, a woman in a flaming temper will say a lot of things she doesn't really mean.' His sensual, well-cut mouth curved into a faintly cynical smile. 'Especially when she's making a big exit.'

  'I don't say things I don't mean,' she informed him coolly. However much she might regret what had hap­pened at the recording session, she had meant what she'd said to him.

  'Then you're unique among your sex,' he drawled sardonically.

  'Look—'

  'I suppose you spent a serenely restful weekend con­templating the pleasant prospect of cleaning out your desk at SEE and hitting the pavement to look for a new job?'

  For a moment, furious hazel eyes met amused green ones in silent conflict. He was far too perceptive.

  'Well, Miss Whitney?'

  'What do you want me to do, Mr Sebastian?' she snapped, drawing herself up. 'Drop down on to my knees and apologise? Beg for my job?'

  'The first thing I want you to do is to stop calling me Mr Sebastian. My name is Michael. Use it. Because I intend to call you Shauna. The second thing I want you to do is to forget what happened Friday night. Forget that I was something less than my usual charming self to you and I'll forget that you pack a powerful right-hand wallop.' He gave her a slow, distinctly sexy smile as his jade eyes lingered briefly on her mouth. 'On second thought, maybe I'll keep the wallop in mind. It might help keep me in line.'

  Shauna felt a disconcerting tug of attraction. She steeled herself against it with a sense of unease. She had no intention of being manoeuvred—or seduced—into a flirtation with a man who was out of her league in just about every category imaginable.

  'Are you saying… I still have my job at SEE?' she asked cautiously, fighting an urge to edge away from him. It was one thing to be on her guard. It was another to let him know how badly off balance he made her feel.

  'Unless you like the idea of being out of work better.'

  'But—why?' she blurted out. The question held a mixture of hope, bewilderment, and suspicion.

  'I have my reasons, believe me. Look, come in to the living room and I'll lay things out for you.'

  Intrigued yet wary, Shauna followed him, taking in her surroundings with unwilling interest. The foyer of the apartment opened into a large, two-levelled room. The walls were an eggshell colour and the floors were dark polished wood. The upholstered furniture matched the walls and was of the modular, functional variety—designed to be rearranged as necessity or whim dic­tated. One wall was dominated by a built-in home entertainment centre which contained a television, video equipment, and an elaborate stereo system. Scores of albums, video cassettes, and audio tapes were neatly arranged on the shelves constructed around the equipment.

  The stark, high-tech feel of the place was softened by the eclectic collection of artwork—paintings, prints and sculptures—displayed throughout the room. It was casually but thoughtfully arranged, not simply used for effect.

  She was unaware of how eloquently the play of expression over her delicate features betrayed her ap­preciation and her surprise.

  'Not exactly what you expected, Shauna?'

  'I—' She met his curious gaze uncertainly. 'No—no, not really,' she went on honestly after a moment. 'I certainly didn't expect to find a grand piano here.'

  A Steinway concert piano was positioned in one cor­ner of the room. It was evident that its polished, classic elegance was not just for show. Two messy stacks of sheet music sat on the floor beside it along with a portable tape recorder. There were sheets of paper propped up on the rack over the keyboard as well.

  'You had me pegged as the Moog synthesizer type?'

  'Something like that,' she agreed. He gestured for her to sit down and she did so with unconscious grace. Without speaking, he picked up a moss green pullover that had been tossed over the back of a chair. He tugged it on over his head. The rich colour suited him perfectly and the snug fit of the knit emphasised the athletic lines of his upper body.

  'Can I get you some coffee?' he asked suddenly, running a hand carelessly through his already disordered hair.

  Shauna realised she was staring at him and dropped her eyes. 'No.' It came out more abruptly than she intended. 'No, thank you,' she amended.

  He regarded her narrowly for a moment. 'I make you nervous, don't I?' It was really more of a statement than a question. 'I wonder why.'

  Shauna studied her neatly trimmed nails. 'I'm not nervous,' she contradicted. 'It's just that—I'm not used to doing business like this.'

  'Like this?'

  'In… in someone's apartment.' She wasn't used to doing anything in a man's apartment!

  'Ah. I see.'

  She glanced at him sharply, but his expression was unreadable. 'Besides… after what happened Friday—'

  'I told you to forget that.'

  'How can I? To begin with, you've got my—'

  'Glasses?'

  She'd meant to say he had the wrong packet of papers.

  'I know, I realised I still had them after you stormed out. They're perfectly safe.' He studied her appraisingly. 'I like you much better without them. It's criminal to hide yourself behind those things.'

  'I don't hide behind my glasses,' she protested, aware of a perverse feeling of pleasure at
his implied compli­ment. 'I need them to see.'

  'You don't appear to be having any trouble with that.'

  'I—I happen to be wearing contacts at the moment,' she admitted.

  'In that case, I may keep your glasses for a bit longer. And if I can get you to let your hair down as well—'

  Involuntarily, she raised one hand in a defensive gesture as though to save her chignon from a repeat of what had happened the previous Friday. 'Mr Sebastian—' she began angrily. He was outrageous!

  'Michael,' he corrected calmly.

  She lowered her hand slowly. 'Please—'

  'I'm sure you can say it, Shauna,' he prompted, stressing her name with caressing deliberation. 'Two easy syllables. Michael.'

  'Mr—Michael!' She knew she wasn't going to get anywhere if she didn't give in on this point. 'Michael,' she repeated firmly. 'What I was trying to say—to explain—is that I… I gave you the wrong envelope on Friday night.'

  'So I noticed.' He sat down in the chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out.

  Shauna's heart plummeted. Deep down, she had cher­ished the desperate hope that he might not have checked inside the envelope.

  'I brought the papers Mr Barkley wanted you to have,' she said, opening her shoulder bag and extracting the proper manila envelope. She extended it to him. 'I'm very sorry about the confusion. I—I hope it didn't cause any problems.'

  He accepted the envelope and tossed it offhandedly down beside him without checking the contents. 'No problem,' he said laconically.

  She waited for a moment, her stomach knotting with tension. 'I—Do you have the envelope I gave you?' she asked finally, sounding anxious.

  'I've got it, and you'll get it back in due time. First, I have a proposition for you—a business proposition.'

  'Oh?' She struggled to keep her voice neutral.

  'Yes, "oh". I need a secretary-assistant here in New York for two weeks. Starting next Monday.'

  'But you already have a secretary!'

  'True. Unfortunately—or fortunately, if you're a romantic—Dee has suddenly decided to get married. She's heading off on her honeymoon on Friday.' He gave a crooked grin. 'She's been in a pink haze for the past month.'

  'But—'

  'The girl who usually fills in for her is on maternity leave,' he said, correctly deducing what she was about to say.

  'There must be someone else.'

  'No.'

  Shauna saw the stubborn set of his lean jaw. 'What about a temporary service?' she suggested tentatively.

  'No way. I've gone down that rocky route before. Either you get a temp whose skills are excellent but she knows nothing about the music business or you get one who's so fascinated by the entertainment industry she forgets how to type. I'm not sure which is worse: having a secretary who thinks New Wave is something you get at a beauty salon or having one who turns into a gibber­ing idiot because she's asked to get Mick Jagger's manager on the phone.'

  'But why me?'

  'Why not?' he countered.

  She could think of a great many reasons why not.

  'I've already cleared this with Emmett, by the way,' he added.

  She stared at him in disbelief, her eyes widening with indignation. 'Then why are we even discussing it?' she flared. 'It doesn't seem to me that I have any real choice in the matter.'

  'You could always quit again,' he observed lightly. 'But the reason we're discussing it, Shauna, is that—as a matter of principle—I prefer my… employees to be willing.'

  The slight pause before the word 'employees' trig­gered a peculiar fluttering in her stomach. He was so damn sure of himself. And of her, it appeared. For a moment, Shauna wondered what he'd do if she threw his 'business proposition' back in his handsome face. The desire to put a dent, no matter how small, in his galling self-confidence was almost overwhelming.

  But would the momentary satisfaction of doing so be worth losing her job for? Would it be worth jeopardising the struggle for independence she'd fought so hard since her aunt died? The impulse faded as her good sense asserted itself. For one reason or another, Michael Sebastian had decided to overlook what had happened between them Friday night. She did not think his for­bearance would extend to accepting a rejection of this offer.

  'What—what would being your secretary involve?'

  The quirk of his mobile mouth told her he'd read capitulation into the question.

  'The work would be similar to the kind of thing you're doing. You may be called on to help with the care and feeding of some of SEE's more difficult clients, but I have a hunch you can handle them.'

  Shauna nodded automatically. It was handling him she was worried about.

  'The schedule will be more demanding than it is in the legal department. Will that present any problems?'

  'Problems?'

  'Any boyfriends or lovers who'd object to you work­ing early hours—or late nights—with me?'

  She stiffened, hot colour flooding up into her face. 'I don't really think that's any of your business,' she told him steadily. 'And if there are any problems, I'll deal with them.' There were no boyfriends—and certainly no lovers—but she was not about to admit that to him.

  'Hm.' It was a neutral sound. 'Family?'

  The probing bothered her. 'My parents died when I was a child,' she said starkly. 'I was raised by my father's sister in Connecticut. She's dead now, too.'

  'I see. So you have no close family, then?' There was an unexpected gentleness to the question.

  'No close family,' she confirmed briefly, not adding that it had been a long time—long before her aunt's death—since she'd felt that she had a family.

  'OK.' He became more businesslike, easing over the sudden tension. 'I take it I've got a fill-in secretary?'

  She looked at him, knowing this was her last chance to back out. Instead, with the sensation of leaping off a cliff into uncharted darkness, Shauna nodded her head once in acquiescence.

  'Fine,' he smiled. 'Now, I want to talk to you about the envelope you gave me.'

  She became very wary. 'That was a mistake.'

  'I don't think so.'

  Her eyes widened with indignation. 'You think' I deliberately—' she began angrily.

  'No.' He shook his head, cutting her off. 'I admit there were a few moments Friday night when I thought you might have staged the whole scene in order to get me to read your work. Don't look so surprised, Shauna. As­piring songwriters will go to amazing lengths to get exposure for their work.'

  'I suppose that's why you asked me if I was naked underneath my coat?' she demanded scathingly.

  He grinned. 'I asked you if you were dressed,' he corrected. 'There's a big difference.'

  Shauna took a shuddery breath, mentally berating herself for bringing up the incident. 'Mr Seb—'

  'Michael.'

  'Michael! I am not an aspiring songwriter! And if you actually believe I'd deliberately subject myself to the kind of humiliation—'

  'I didn't say I believed it. I only said I'd thought it might be a possibility at the time. Then, of course, I decided a would-be songwriter probably wouldn't slap a record company executive across the face.'

  'You know why I did—' she choked out, then stop­ped, forcing herself to regain her composure. It was diabolical the way this man could infuriate her! And she was going to be working with him for two weeks! She'd probably be driven to murder—or a padded cell—within two days.

  'Yes?' he drawled, one brow raised.

  'For the last time,' she said, her voice back under control and her manner a trifle rigid. 'I do not write songs.'

  'OK.' He conceded the point with a shrug. 'You write lyrics.'

  'I write poetry!' She caught her breath. It was the first time in her life she'd ever admitted that to anyone.

  'So I've read,' he said quietly.

  She swallowed convulsively. 'You had no right—'

  'No right? You tossed your work in my face!'

  'But I didn't mean for you
to read—Besides, there's a world of difference between poetry and song lyrics.'

  'Shauna, some of the best contemporary poetry around can be found in pop music lyrics.'

  'You mean poetry like "ooh-ooh, baby" and "hey—"'

  Michael laughed. 'You, lady, are a cultural snob. Those "ooh-oohs" help pay your salary, you know.'

  'I'm quite aware of the type of music SEE deals with,' she informed him stiffly.

  'And you don't approve?'

  'I didn't say that.'

  'Then what are you saying?'

  'I want my poetry back.' She waited for some kind of response. 'Please,' she added finally.

  Michael stretched in his chair. There was a coiled spring quality to him even when he relaxed. He said nothing.

  'It's—My work is private,' she said at last, making the admission in a taut voice.

  'Oh, I know that.'

  Something in the way he said it sent a queer sensation running through her. The unfamiliar physical awareness he evoked in her came back in full force and, with it, a renewed sense of her own vulnerability. 'What—what do you mean?'

  'I mean I'm willing to bet you keep your poetry private for the same reason you wear those damn glasses and pin your hair up. I'll be honest with you. If you hadn't blown up at me in the studio the way you did, I don't think I would have believed the poetry in the envelope was yours. That calm, cool, touch-me-not routine of yours is very convincing.'

  'It's not a routine,' she denied.

  'It's not reality, either, if you can write the kind of poetry you do.' He leaned forward, suddenly intent. 'It must scare the hell out of you sometimes.'

  He was unnervingly on the mark with his last words. There were moments when Shauna was deeply disturbed by the words that came spilling out of her.

  'It—it's an outlet,' she conceded slowly. 'But it's personal, don't you understand? My poems aren't for public consumption.'

  'They should be,' he declared flatly. 'You're good. Some of the stuff you've written practically sings itself.'

  'Now you're talking about lyrics—'

  He cut her off with an abrupt gesture. 'Don't start that again. If you want to think of yourself as a poet, fine. The bottom line is that with the right collaborator, I think you could be writing songs for SEE instead of typing up contracts.'