Song Without Words

by Betsy Warren

  What would this man do if he knew he had her heart? That was something Shauna did not intend to find out. Michael already had too many weapons to turn against her if he chose. He had learned too many of her vulnerabilities.

  The poem she had written had a bitter-sweet irony to it now. Her heart was no longer untouched; it was no longer hers to keep. She had given it, unasked and in secret. Yet she was still alone, apart… an island.

  Refusing to let Michael use that poem seemed more imperative than ever before. The blending of her words and his music was just too intimate to be made public. And if she said yes to him once… could she ever say no again?

  With Aunt Margaret's stern dictates about idle hands and dangerous thoughts echoing in her head, Shauna did her best to keep busy over the weekend. But the endless round of minor household tasks and errands she found to do was an ineffective distraction at best.

  She dressed for work with particular care on Monday. Her first impulse had been to retreat to the safe, re­strained style to which she had clung for so long, but she discovered she could not. Michael's repeated jibes about 'Miss Whitney' had hit home and struck deep. He'd made her see how she used her appearance as a defence against life and as a denial of what she felt inside. If 'Miss Whitney' returned, he'd know it was because Shauna had something to hide and she suspected he'd probe until he found out what it was.

  But that wasn't the only reason she took such pains with her looks. She discovered, as she stood staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, that she couldn't bring herself to step back into the narrow and confining boundaries her aunt had tried to teach her were 'proper'. She also discovered that she wanted to look attractive for Michael. She wanted to provoke that emerald flare of interest in his eyes… that slow, teasing smile of appreciation he sometimes gave her.

  She got just the reaction she was hoping for when she brought him his morning coffee and a stack of neatly sorted mail.

  'New dress, Shauna?' he asked, leaning back in his chair, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out in front of him as he surveyed her with half-lidded eyes. He wore a white linen shirt, a Harris tweed jacket, and running shoes. A black leather belt with a heavy, handcrafted brass buckle circled his narrow waist, emphasising his masculine fitness. Even if she hadn't already consulted his crowded appointment schedule, his casual appear­ance would have tipped her off that the day was going to be devoted to artistic matters, not strictly business concerns.

  She shook her head, covertly searching his face for any sign that his weekend had been a troubled one, too. She could find none.

  'No,' she said. 'You just haven't seen it before.' The dress she was wearing was a soft, rust wool jersey, simply styled and infinitely flattering to the soft curves of her body. Instead of using the narrow matching belt, she'd wrapped her waist with a bronze, brown, and cream striped silk scarf. She'd swept her hair up into a loose topknot, leaving tendrils free at the nape of her neck and at her temples. Gold knot earrings and several slender gold chains at her throat completed the outfit.

  'Well, I'd like to see more of it,' he told her. 'If you're attempting to make me forget my rule about Mondays, you're on the right track.'

  'Your rule about Mondays?' she repeated, puzzled.

  'The one about not seducing employees. Remember? I mentioned it the day you came to my apartment.'

  Her lashes fell for a moment as she made an effort to hide her sudden surge of emotion. 'How—how could I forget?' she returned wryly after a few seconds, unthink­ingly twisting the free ends of the scarf she had knotted around her waist.

  'I certainly haven't,' he commented with a brief but devastatingly sexy smile. 'Did you want something else?' he enquired. 'Other than to have me admire your dress, I mean.'

  She took a deep breath, mentally squaring her shoul­ders. 'I… wanted to talk about Friday.'

  He picked up his coffee and took a sip. His eyes were very intent. 'Do you want me to apologise?'

  Her eyes widened with bewilderment. 'For what?'

  'Kissing you.'

  'Why should you do that?' she responded. 'It wasn't the first time you kissed me. You never apologised before.'

  There was a short but pregnant pause. Shauna swal­lowed, wishing she could take back the ill-advised words. His suggestion had been so far from what she had expected that she'd simply blurted out the first thing that came into her head.

  'You're right,' he agreed quietly. 'Do I take it you'd like me to go back to the beginning of our—ah—relationship and start apologising from there?'

  She met his gaze evenly for a few seconds then dropped her eyes, unnerved by the intensity of his expression. He knows, she thought. Somehow, he knows!

  'You don't have to apologise,' she said finally. 'Noth­ing happened. No harm done.'

  'Are you certain?'

  'Yes!' What was he driving at?'

  'I see.'

  She twisted her hands together. 'Michael—what I want to talk about is the… our… song.'

  He expelled his breath very slowly. 'You want to tell me the answer's still no, is that it?'

  She nodded.

  'Sit down, Shauna,' he instructed softly.

  'I don't—' She wanted to get out of the office.

  'Please.'

  She complied hesitantly, taking one of the chairs across the desk from him.

  'You know the song's good, don't you?' he asked persuasively. 'That we're good together?'

  His choice of words sent a peculiar tremor through her. It also strengthened her resolve. 'I just can't,' she told him.

  'Or you just won't.'

  'Either way, the answer's still no.' She had the feeling they were talking a code she couldn't decipher. If Michael possessed the key, he wasn't about to share it. 'Please, try to understand.'

  'I understand better than you think,' he shot back, running a hand through his hair. 'Shauna, are you ashamed of what you wrote? Are you ashamed of what you felt when you wrote—'

  'No!' Appalled, she started to get to her feet. Michael rose out of his chair in the same instant, reaching out across the desk in a gesture of appeal.

  'Don't,' he said harshly.

  The urgency in his voice stopped her. She froze like a wild, frightened creature on the verge of flight.

  'Don't,' he repeated in a more moderate tone. 'I'm sorry. I don't know what I said—I'm sorry.'

  'I'm not ashamed of my poetry,' she declared in a low, steady voice. 'But I told you before, it's private. That's just the way I feel. I can't help it.'

  He gave a brief, bitter laugh. 'No, I don't suppose you can. Any more than I can help—' He stopped.

  'Any more than you can help… what?'

  'Shauna, my whole life has been a matter of seeing what I wanted, going after it, and getting it. I never learned how to wait for something to be given instead of taking it.'

  'But you've said you always get what you want.'

  'Not quite always.'

  Confused hazel eyes met direct, darkening green ones. The message Shauna read in Michael's face made her breath stop at the top of her throat. Inexperienced as she was, she recognised that they were no longer talking about her poetry.

  Michael wanted her.

  She soared on a brief, explosive moment of happiness before reality sent her crashing back to earth.

  He wanted her… just as he had probably wanted dozens of other women. Yes, he felt something for her, but it was the kind of feeling he had described in the song he had written for Tempest. It was the kind of feeling that drew two people together for a night and then burned itself into meaningless oblivion with the coming of the morning.

  Better he should feel nothing at all for her.

  And was she even the one he really wanted? It had been her poetry that attracted him. He wanted the woman who'd written the poem—he wanted a Shauna Whitney in the image of his own choosing, just as her Aunt Margaret had.

  'The answer is no, Michael.'

  The hot, disturbingly hungry l
ook vanished from his eyes as completely as if it had never been there in the first place. It was as though he'd thrown a switch inside himself.

  'All right,' he replied. 'To every rule there is an exception. You, Miss Whitney, seem destined to be mine.'

  'I'm sorry.' She spoke almost defensively, and that made her angry.

  He shook his head. 'You don't have to apologise,' he said, echoing the words she had said to him only minutes before. 'No harm done.'

  'Do you understand… about the song?'

  'All too well.'

  'I'll—I'll give you back the lead sheets if you want them,' she offered awkwardly.

  'No. I told you those were yours, no matter what you finally decided.' His mouth twisted mockingly. 'I admit I hoped they might turn the trick. Seeing something writ­ten down, tangible, sometimes makes a difference. It can convince you something's real. But—' He spread his hands and shrugged. 'In any case, as I also told you, I've got my own copy. Right here.' He pulled open his top desk drawer, gesturing. His expression changed slightly and he reached in. He took something out of the drawer and extended the object to Shauna on his open palm.

  For a moment she just stared. Then she gave a sur­prised ripple of laughter.

  'My glasses!' she exclaimed, genuinely taken aback. She felt as though she were looking at a souvenir from some previous existence. 'I'd—I'd almost forgotten about them,' she admitted honestly as she took them from his hand.

  'I hope you won't go back to wearing them.'

  'I won't.' It came out firm and certain.

  'Good. I've got something else of yours, too.'

  It was the manila envelope containing her poetry. He placed it on the desk top between them. Shauna looked down at it silently, a small part of her mind registering the fingermarks and smudges on the outer edges of the packet. It looked as though it had been handled and opened repeatedly. She glanced at him questioningly, an alarming thought occurring to her. What if he had—?

  'Don't worry,' he said, seeming to reach to the core of her thoughts. 'No one else has read them but me. Your secrets are safe. They're all here.'

  'Thank you.' She picked up the envelope.

  'Well, then, I think that's it.' He drummed his fingers lightly against the top of the desk. 'Shall we get to work?'

  'Yes. Yes, of course.' She wondered why she didn't feel more elated at getting her poems back. Turning, she walked towards the door.

  'Shauna.'

  She looked back at him. 'Yes?'

  'Don't throw that envelope—or what's in it—at any­body else,' he told her softly. 'Please.'

  'I—I won't,' she promised him solemnly, and hurried out of the office. 'I won't,' she repeated under her breath.

  The rest of the day was hectic, giving her little time to brood about what had transpired between them. In many ways, she was grateful for this; she did not want to dwell on the disturbing implications of what she had seen in his eyes.

  The pace slowed a bit in the late afternoon. She used the break to dash down to the employees' cafeteria and pick up a piece of fruit from one of the vending machines. She'd had no time for lunch.

  Crunching on a mouthful of crisp apple, she raced back to her desk. The buzzer on the inter-office line sounded as she sank back into her seat.

  'Yes?'

  'Where were you?'

  'Getting something to eat,' she replied. 'I missed lunch.'

  'You also missed a telephone call.'

  'What?'

  'Come in and I'll tell you.'

  Puzzled, Shauna did as instructed. Michael was stand­ing with his back to the door, his dark head tilted consideringly as he studied the row of dummy album covers he had lined up on the window ledge behind his desk. The mock-ups ranged from an abstract starburst of vivid colour to a dramatic close-up of Jamie Cord's face. Each bore the name Tempest in lettering that matched the logo on the T-shirt she'd been given in Hartford.

  But it was Michael himself that held her attention. He'd discarded his tweed jacket and, as he crossed his arms in front of him, the fabric of his shirt tautened, hinting at the play of muscles on his shoulders and back. The snug fit of his jeans was even more revealing as he shifted his weight restlessly.

  As if sensing her presence he turned, casually hooking his thumbs into his belt. 'What do you think?' he asked.

  She walked over to him, acutely conscious of the movement of her body in relation to his. 'About the albums?'

  He nodded. 'Tempest has a gig on Long Island over the weekend and then they're doing some studio work on the new album on Monday. I wanted to show them what we've got in mind for the cover.'

  'I can guess which one Jamie will like best,' she commented with a laugh.

  He grinned. 'So can I.'

  'What will Griz, Sam, Hank and Frank think of it?'

  'If we use the one with the close-up of Jamie, their pictures will go on the back of the cover. It's not exactly equal billing, but they're smart enough to understand the realities of the situation.'

  'I suppose so. Is this picture by the same photographer who has the new rock-and-roll history book coming out?'

  'On the Road and Never Coming Back? Yes. You've got a good eye.'

  'I—I liked the portrait he took of you.'

  'You've seen it?' He seemed surprised.

  'It was in a magazine,' she explained. The black and white study had been unposed and emphatically infor­mal, capturing Michael backstage at a concert. The show business chaos surrounding him had seemed oddly in­substantial in comparison with the controlled energy and utter assurance he projected. 'It reminds me of the way you looked that night I came to deliver the contracts for Mr Barkley.'

  'That bad?' His tone was mocking. 'I had the distinct impression my looks turned you off that night, Miss Whitney.'

  'There was nothing wrong with the way you looked,' she retorted, stung. 'It was what you did.'

  To her surprise, he laughed. 'And you said I didn't have anything to apologise for.'

  Shauna took a deep breath, knowing she was being deliberately baited and recognising how dangerous it was to be drawn into whatever game he was playing. 'You said something about a phone call, Mr Sebastian?'

  His green eyes glinted gold. 'Jamie called you.'

  'He did?' She smiled with undisguised delight.

  His features hardened as he took in her response. 'That's right. I'm supposed to tell you that Tempest misses your inspiration and is ready to have you rejoin them on the road.' All expenses paid, of course.'

  'Paid by whom?' She gave a little laugh.

  'By SEE, I'd imagine. Isn't that what happened the last time?' Although his tone was bland, there were devils dancing in the depths of his eyes as though he was remembering, in vivid detail, all of what had happened 'the last time'.

  'It's your company,' she returned. 'What did you say to the idea?'

  'I told him you'd consider it,' he replied coolly. 'Jamie also said he hoped to be able to see you sometime dur­ing the weekend. And, naturally, you've got an open invitation to their performances.'

  'I'd like that.'

  He moved away from her abruptly, going to the window and beginning to collect the album covers. 'Had you heard from Jamie before this?' he asked, stacking the cardboard rectangles. There was something more than simple curiosity in his voice.

  Silvery sparkles of amusement lightened Shauna's hazel eyes. 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.' She did not add that Jamie's previous effort at communication had consisted of a joke postcard that had apparently been written and signed collectively by all five members of Tempest. The message had been succinct: 'This is an ugly postcard for a beautiful lady. Wish you were here—wherever that is!'

  Michael dropped the albums on his desk. 'I see,' he commented tersely.

  'Is there anything else?' she enquired.

  He frowned for a moment, appearing to be on the verge of saying something. 'Shauna, I—No.' He sat down at his desk. 'No, that's it.'

  'Then I'll get ba
ck to my work. Thank you for passing along the message from Jamie.'

  His brows came together. 'You're welcome.'

  She was nearly out the door when his voice halted her.

  'Shauna!'

  'Yes?' She was a trifle wary now, uncertain of his mood and of what might have provoked it.

  'There is one thing. Carla Decker is finishing an engagement at Lake Tahoe. Dee has a listing for a florist in her Rolodex. Call them and arrange for some flowers to be sent in my name. The usual order, the usual message. Have it put on my account.'

  'The usual order,' she repeated. The light-heartedness she had known just a few minutes before dissolved.

  'That's right. Two dozen red roses.'

  Shauna's stomach knotted. What did you expect? her mind hissed. Did you think he'd send her a little bouquet from a street vendor like the one you found on your desk the first day? She bit her lip at the memory of those modest flowers. Through judicious pruning and careful rearrangement, she'd made at least a few of the blos­soms last the entire working week.

  She felt like a fool recalling that… a jealous fool!

  Michael Sebastian and Carla Decker are lovers, she reminded herself. You're nothing to him, except a tem­porary secretary and an even more temporary diversion.

  She tilted her chin slightly. 'I'll take care of it,' she said, and turned gracefully on her heel.

  Tuesday passed fairly uneventfully. But on Wednesday, fresh from her successful engagement in Lake Tahoe, Carla Decker made an unexpected appearance. A dis­creet call from the lobby security guard gave Shauna a much appreciated warning about the singer's impending arrival and she braced herself for almost anything.

  Carla swept in looking every inch the sexy star she was. From the tips of her artfully permed hair to the lizard-skin toes of her high-heeled boots, she radiated a knowing, dynamic appeal. She was dressed in black velvet designer jeans and a white silk blouse with a mink coat draped casually over her shoulders like a cape.

  'Well, well, we meet again,' she greeted Shauna throatily, her pansy-hued eyes wide but assessing. 'I thought you were just temporary.'