Song Without Words Read online

  'A few days after his seventeenth birthday, he split. He picked up the stuff he'd come with—his guitar and a crummy old suitcase—and just left. My parents called the police, but they couldn't do much. We didn't know what had happened to him until about six years later when "You Made Me What I Am" came out. Do you remember that song?'

  'Yes.' It had been a monumental hit the year it had been released and had triggered Michael Sebastian's meteoric rise. He'd used the leverage of suddenly being one of the hottest songwriters in the business to cut a deal with a small—some believed failing—record com­pany. Eighteen months later, the label was thriving and Michael owned the place. He had been all of twenty-five.

  'The first time I heard it on the radio, I couldn't believe it,' Jamie continued. 'I only had to hear the first few bars and I knew the song was his.'

  'But how?'

  'It was one of the tunes he used to play for me. They stuck in my head, even the ones without words. I always had this feeling that a lot of that music was very special to him… his way of letting things out he wouldn't say out loud.' He sighed. 'About four months after "You Made Me What I Am" came out, my dad got killed in an accident at work. So, it was just my mother and me.'

  Shauna's heart constricted. Jamie's tone said it all: the echoing sadness about his father and the bitterness about his mother told the whole story.

  'My mother's not a bad woman,' he went on, toying with his plate. 'She's just very self-centred. And a teenage boy who's just lost his father needs attention.'

  'You started to get into trouble to get her attention?' Shauna surmised. She understood his motives very well. The death of a parent leaves a child grasping for any and all attention… for any and all security. She recalled her desperate efforts to win her aunt's interest and love.

  'At first,' he agreed. 'After a while, I didn't much care what I did. The only thing that mattered was music. I got involved with a local band when I was about seventeen. A couple of the members were older and into drugs and I went along. I was pretty messed up by the time I was arrested.' He swallowed down the remainder of his coffee. 'I still don't know how Michael found out I was in trouble, but he did. Because it was my first offence and the charge was only possession, I was able to get a suspended sentence and probation. After that, Michael got me into a rehabilitation programme. When I gradu­ated, he talked my—our—mother into letting me come to live with him. We had some rough times, but he was always there for me. He was the one who helped put Tempest together when he saw I was serious about music'

  There was a long, reflective silence. What could she say after hearing a story like that?

  'Are you finished?' The waitress materialised by their table. 'Anything more I can get you?'

  For some inexplicable reason, this mundane question struck both of them as very funny. They began laughing. The waitress looked mystified and slightly affronted.

  'Yeah, thanks, we're finished,' Jamie got out, grinning.

  'Thank you,' Shauna echoed. 'May we have the bill?'

  'My treat,' Jamie declared.

  'No, I'll pay my share.'

  'I'm paying,' he said flatly, but his brown eyes started to dance. 'I don't ask a woman to spend the weekend on the road with me and then not feed her.'

  'Jamie!' Shauna blushed as the waitress handed him the bill and gave her an interested look before she hustled away with their dirty dishes.

  'Yes, Shauna?' he enquired with feigned innocence.

  'I think I'm taking back my acceptance of your apology.'

  'No, you're not,' he returned easily. 'Hey, did Michael make you blush last night? When he came into the bedroom and woke you up, I mean.'

  'That's none of your business,' she informed him stiffly, her cheeks blazing.

  'Just curious.' He dropped several dollar bills on the table, then checked his watch. 'Look at the time!' he exclaimed. 'I've got to get my act together and get to rehearsal. Do you want to come along?'

  It was the perfect opening to tell him about her decision to leave, but, somehow, the words wouldn't come.

  'I—I don't know,' she faltered. 'I have a few things I have to take care of…'

  'Oh.' He looked disappointed as they made their way out of the coffee shop. 'Well, I understand how it is. You can come over later, maybe. If you want to, of course.'

  'I'll have to see,' she temporised.

  'OK. To tell the truth, it isn't going to be that interest­ing. We have to run through a couple of numbers and iron out a few technical kinks.'

  'You were all terrific last night.'

  'I know,' he said cheekily. 'But the boss is going to be in the audience tonight, so Tempest has to be perfect.' Leaning forward impulsively, he dropped a light kiss on her nose. 'Gotta run. See you later.'

  When she'd come down for breakfast, Shauna had left her case at the front desk. Now, filled with a confusing sense of sadness, she walked over to retrieve it. She wondered how long she'd have to wait for a train back to New York City.

  You're doing the right thing, she told herself. Leave now, before anything else happens. You know some­thing else will happen if you don't.

  What are you afraid of? another small voice within her asked.

  'Excuse me—' She caught the attention of the prissy but polite-faced desk clerk.

  'Yes?'

  'I left my case here,' she said. 'It's brown, with an identification tag—'

  'Oh, that was returned.' The clerk smiled helpfully, then glanced beyond her. Like an animal finely attuned to a stalker, Shauna felt a ripple of warning run through her.

  'Returned?' she repeated.

  'I had it sent back up to the suite.'

  Even though, subconsciously, she had been braced to hear Michael's voice, she still stiffened with surprise. She turned away from the desk and tilted her chin up slightly as she confronted him.

  'I beg your pardon?' she asked coolly.

  'I had it sent back up to the suite.' He was dressed in well-tailored black slacks and a cream cashmere turtle­neck. Over that he wore a black leather jacket—buttery soft, beautifully styled, and obviously expensive. His hands were thrust casually into the pockets of the jacket and his legs were braced, slightly apart, as though he was prepared to move, instantly, in any direction. He pro­jected both polished sophistication and a street fighter's toughness. It was an unsettling combination.

  'I don't believe you,' she said, wishing he wasn't standing so close.

  'No? Then why don't you take this and check for yourself?' 'This' was a metal room key. He pressed it into her hand, his fingers briefly stroking her soft palm as he did so.

  She glanced automatically at the plastic tag attached to the key and gave a small gasp of outrage as she saw it bore the room number of the suite where she—where they—had spent the previous night.

  Shauna glared at him. 'If you think for one second that I am going to set foot in your hotel room again, Mr Sebastian, you are insane,' she said in a low, tight voice.

  'Last night it was my room. Today it's yours—although SEE will still be paying the bill, of course.'

  'What?' It came out louder than she intended and the clerk, who had been eavesdropping shamelessly, cleared his throat.

  'Excuse me, Mr Sebastian,' he interrupted. 'Is there some problem?'

  Michael gave him a brief smile. 'A small mix-up in accommodation,' he explained, taking a firm grip on Shauna's arm. 'We'll sort it out.' With that, he coolly marched her over to a relatively private section of the lobby.

  'Let go!' Shauna hissed, trying to jerk away from him. He let go of her.

  'Sit down,' he instructed succinctly.

  For a moment, she considered throwing the key she was still holding back into his strong, arrogant face and stalking away, but she knew instinctively that such an act of defiance would look childish—to say nothing of quite possibly being dangerous. After a brief hesitation, she seated herself on the edge of one of the blue and cream upholstered chairs in the alcove furniture grouping
he'd dragged her over to. She arranged her features into what she hoped was a suitably disdainful expression.

  His mobile lips twitched as he took the chair nearest her. 'I see Miss Whitney is back,' he observed, his green eyes running over her assessingly.

  'I have no idea what you're talking about,' she in­formed him huffily.

  'Hair up.' To her dismay, he leaned forward and brushed his fingers lightly down the side of her head. 'Securely buttoned in.' He nicked the closed collar of her shirt. 'And all defences firmly in place.' He withdrew his hand. 'The only thing that's missing is your glasses.'

  She was quivering inside. 'That's because you still have them,' she snapped, angry at her weakness.

  'So I do,' he agreed amiably. 'And as long as I do, there's a chink in your Miss Whitney armour, isn't there, sweetheart? Those beautiful eyes of yours are too ex­pressive, Shauna. They give you away every time.'

  She experienced—but swiftly fought down—a spurt of pleasure at the passing compliment and the casually used endearment.

  'Tell me,' she said evenly, meeting his bold, jade gaze, 'are my eyes giving away the fact that I think you are the rudest, most high-handed man I've ever met in my life?'

  'That… and a few other things,' he replied lazily. 'But I'm not offended. I don't think you've met very many men in your life.'

  She clenched her hands. 'Don't change the subject. I want—I want to know what you did with my suitcase.'

  'I already told you what I did with it,' he answered in a reasonable tone. He seemed perfectly relaxed.

  'You actually had it taken up to your room?'

  'Your room,' he corrected. 'I'm vacating the premises and doubling up with Jamie. Didn't he tell you that during your little tête-à-tête in the coffee shop?'

  'How did you—' She stopped herself abruptly. She didn't want to know how he knew she and Jamie had been talking. Had he been lurking around somewhere in the restaurant watching—or even listening? Had he seen how she had drunk in the moving story of what he had done for his half-brother? 'Yes,' she answered shortly. 'Jamie said something about your moving in with him here at the hotel.'

  'And did you say something to him about running away back to Manhattan? Was that affectionate peck on the nose he gave you meant to be a fond farewell kiss?' There was an acid edge to the enquiry.

  'I am not running away,' she returned defensively. She wasn't going to talk about the kiss from Jamie. It had been nothing—and it was none of Michael's business. He was a fine one to bring up the subject of kissing!

  'What would you call it?'

  'Being sensible.'

  'Playing it safe, you mean.'

  'And what's wrong with that?' she demanded.

  'What are you so afraid of?' he challenged, his green eyes pinning her to her chair as he asked the same question she had addressed to herself earlier.

  You! She wanted to blurt it out. I'm afraid of you. And I'm afraid of myself because of it.

  'I'm not afraid,' she said quietly, looking down at her balled fists. She relaxed her hands, swallowing hard.

  'Prove it,' came the trenchant response.

  Her head came up. 'How?' The single syllable came out of her reluctantly because she could already see where he was manoeuvring her.

  'Stay for the rest of the weekend.'

  'I—can't.'

  'You won't,' he countered.

  'It's impossible, don't you see that? After what hap­pened last night—' She gestured. 'And I answered the phone this morning when Carla Decker called, remem­ber? It's going to be difficult enough as it is filling in for Dee without getting myself more involved than I already am in a situation that's bound to cause plenty of gossip.'

  'And you think staying here another night would do that?'

  'Don't you?'

  He shook his head. 'No. Right now, as far as anyone is concerned, we were the victims of a simple mix-up. At most, it was an irritating inconvenience. But if you suddenly change your plans and go tearing back to New York, it will look a bit suspicious. Shrug last night off and people—if they should hear something about it—will shrug it off, too. React like a ravished hysteric and they'll start to speculate about what really happened.'

  Shauna remained silent for a moment. Distasteful as it was to admit, Michael was making sense. 'What about Miss Decker?' she asked finally.

  'Forget Carla. She won't say a word,' he replied curtly, closing off the subject.

  She hesitated, worrying her lower lip with her even, white teeth. 'You honestly think I should stay?'

  'Yes. Go to the concert tonight and go back to Manhattan tomorrow. And try to stop behaving as though I'm a depraved, would-be rapist with a highly contagious disease.'

  'I don't behave—'

  'A slight exaggeration,' he cut in smoothly. 'But your response to me is a bit unusual.'

  'I haven't fallen under the notorious Sebastian spell, in other words?' she asked tartly.

  'I suppose you could put it that way.'

  'What about the way you've been behaving towards me?'

  'Perhaps I've fallen under the notorious Whitney spell.'

  Their eyes met and locked for a moment, her gaze questioning, his supplying no answers.

  'I don't think so,' she said, shaking her head slowly as though trying to assimilate the pieces of a complicated puzzle. 'I don't think you're the type of man to fall under any woman's spell.' She caught her breath, not believing she'd actually said the words aloud.

  His lips curved into a cynical smile. 'You're probably right,' he replied. 'I learned to distrust women very young. It makes a man less susceptible to spells. How­ever… no one is completely immune.' He let this comment dangle enigmatically for several seconds be­fore his manner changed, his charm coming to the fore.

  'Shauna, I'm not proposing anything complicated or indecent. We've run into each other three times. Four, if you count that little episode with Carla in the elevator. None of those meetings has been a triumph in human relations. Even without the kind of gossip you're wor­ried about, I don't think that's a track record that bodes well for our working together during the next two weeks. So, let's just spend a quiet day together. You get to know me. I get to know you.'

  'Well…' She realised she was casting about for excuses to refuse. She wanted to spend the day with him … She wanted to get to know Michael Sebastian. But she was still afraid.

  'Don't think about it, Miss Whitney. Just do it.' He extended his hand to her as he rose in a fluidly athletic movement.

  She didn't make a conscious decision to take his hand. Impulse—ever present, always dangerous—compelled her to do so.

  As she stood up, she tried not to think about what she might be getting herself into.

  What she got herself into was a remarkably enjoyable day. Gradually—so gradually, in fact, that it seemed like the most natural thing in the world—she found herself succumbing to Michael Sebastian's attraction. While his manner was sometimes teasingly flirtatious, it had little of the dangerous mockery or the disturbingly sexual directness that had so disconcerted her on pre­vious occasions.

  He stayed by her side through everything: Tempest's rehearsal, a laughter-filled lunch with the road crew, and the concert that evening. He was flatteringly curious about her, and if some of his questions—particularly those about her time with her Aunt Margaret—were too perceptive for comfort, she still found herself wanting to give him the answers he was seeking. It felt curiously right to be talking with him. It also felt curiously right to have him lean close to whisper an explanation or a wry remark, or to have him drop his arm lightly over her shoulders as he guided her through the chaos backstage at the auditorium before the concert.

  It was only when the concert was over and they returned to the hotel for the night that her earlier uneasiness returned. Shauna and Michael were in the lift alone, Jamie and the other band members having got off at their floor with a chorus of hearty good nights. Wordlessly, Michael thumbed the proper button.
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  'I thought you were rooming with Jamie,' she said after a moment, hoping her tone didn't betray her sudden resurgence of nervousness.

  'I am,' he replied. 'But I have to get my things from the suite.'

  'Oh.' She digested this. 'I—I repacked your bag for you and put it by the door,' she volunteered after a pause.

  'Thank you. I'm surprised you didn't throw it out.'

  'I did consider it,' she confessed with a laugh. She felt light-headed and oddly keyed-up.

  The lift rose smoothly to the top floor. Stepping out, they walked to the suite in silence. Shauna unlocked the door, entering first. She quickly flipped on a light.

  'There's your bag,' she said, pointing unnecessarily.

  He nodded but made no move to pick it up. 'Do you want me to look around for you?' he asked, the gold in his eyes glinting. 'You can never tell what might be hiding in the bedroom.'

  Shauna shook her head once. 'No… no, I don't think you need to do that,' she returned, restlessly reaching up and patting her hair.

  She'd changed her clothes before the concert, unpin­ning her chignon and donning jeans, boots, and a softly cowled white sweater. Layered on top was an extra-large black T-shirt, a present from the band. Emblazoned across the front in bold silver stencilling was the legend 'TEMPEST NATIONAL TOUR'.

  Despite the bagginess of the garment, the move­ment of her breasts was evident as she lifted her arm. The delicate fullness drew Michael's eyes. His gaze lingered there for a few seconds before returning to her face.

  'Don't be afraid, Shauna,' he said softly. So softly that she thought she might be imagining the words.

  Whether she came to him or he to her—or whether they simply met half-way—she was never certain. All she remembered afterwards was that one moment she had known he was about to kiss her and the next moment he was doing so.

  His mouth was teasing yet tender as it moved over hers, tasting her lips with deliberate gentleness. He made no effort to deepen his slow, sensual caress until she began to open to him with shy sweetness.

  With leisurely expertise he explored her, drinking in her secrets and savouring the flavour of her flowering response. One of his hands moved down her back, fingers stroking the indentation of her spine through her clothes, finally coming to rest just below her waist. The other hand slipped around her neck, cupping the back of her head.