by Betsy Warren
You are alone. You are an island—
The keeper of an untouched heart.
She hated him! He'd manipulated her… used her… seen her vulnerability and turned it to his own advantage. For the first time in her adult life, she'd unlocked the door to her heart to another person. He'd taken her trust and abused it, destroyed it… acting with the uncaring malice of a vandal.
And God, she'd been so easy for him! A few carefully dropped references about his childhood had stirred her sympathy and compassion. A few calculated compliments—his music, her words, their song—had prompted her to believe that he was attracted to her. And, of course, a handful of mind-drugging, soul-stealing kisses had aroused her long-hidden desires and passion for life. Oh, yes, she'd been a pitifully easy target.
Carla was on the last verse of the song, her sultry voice throbbing sinuously around the lyrics as she gazed squarely into the camera lens. Her eyes were liquid with yearning.
Some think for each, there is a moment—
A perfect time. A perfect place.
When finally, your search is over,
And at last, you can embrace.
We'll drink the wine. We'll make the music—
'NO!'
It was more a cry of anguish than a word. The sound came tearing out of Shauna's body, raw and aching, overriding Carla's smoky voice. The singer was giving the words a meaning that she had never meant them to have. It was a hungry, sensual meaning that brought hot, shamed colour into her cheeks as she heard and understood it.
Something inside her snapped. Driven totally by instinct, she stormed into her small bedroom and flung off her robe, tossing it heedlessly on the floor. Hands shaking, she pulled on jeans and a shirt, then quickly thrust her feet into a pair of sneakers. Returning to the other room, she paused long enough to snatch up her handbag and stuff her apartment keys into her pocket before slamming out the door.
It was cold outside, but she didn't feel it. Although her body trembled as she furiously signalled a passing cab, it had nothing to do with the temperature.
She gave the cabbie Michael's address in a taut voice, adding unnecessarily that she was in a great hurry. She sat on the edge of the seat, her fists clenched, staring blindly into space as the taxi took off. She did not see the sharp look the driver gave her in his rear-view mirror. He was clearly uneasy about her pale, set features and stormy eyes.
The doorman at Michael's elegant building was equally wary. Shauna didn't notice. She made her request that he ring Mr Sebastian's apartment with machine-like calm. If Michael wasn't there, she would wait. If he was, she was going to see him.
'Mr Sebastian?' the doorman enquired politely into the house telephone. 'Yes, it's Murphy downstairs in the lobby. There's a Miss Whitney here to see you. She says—' He stopped, obviously being interrupted on the other end. 'Yes, sir, Mr Sebastian. Right away.' He replaced the phone and looked at Shauna. 'Mr Sebastian says you should go right up, Miss Whitney. It's apartment number—'
'I know. Thank you.'
What if he wasn't alone? The possibility struck her as she stepped into the lift and pressed the correct button with an unsteady finger. What if someone's with him?'
She swallowed hard. What difference did it make? He'd already stripped her soul bare for the world to see. She was beyond caring if she had an audience now.
The lift arrived at his floor and the doors slid open. She got out and walked towards Michael's apartment. She raised her hand to knock, half expecting the door to open as she stood there. She rapped once, twice, then froze as she heard Michael's voice, sharp and cutting, coming from the other side. She couldn't make out the words, but the tone was savage.
She knocked again, louder this time. There was still no answer. Heart pounding, she tried the knob. It gave easily. She let herself in, following the sound of Michael's voice into the living room of the apartment.
He was on the telephone, standing with his back to her. The television set was turned on with no sound. It was turned to the talk show Shauna had been viewing. Obviously, Michael had been watching Carla.
From the look of things, he had not been home very long. His suit jacket and tie were draped carelessly over the back of the modular sofa and his shoes had simply been abandoned in the middle of the floor.
She thought later that she must have made some sound, alerting him to her presence. He turned, eyes blazing, his fingers raking back through his thick, dark hair.
'I don't care how, Emmett,' he said, his voice lethally soft. 'Just do it.' He hung up.
Time stopped. For uncounted and agonising moments, they faced each other, motionless and staring. Anger, hurt, and a corrosive sense of betrayal welled up inside Shauna, threatening to overwhelm her.
'Shauna—' Michael took two steps towards her, his green eyes turbulent as they searched her alabaster-white face. He reached forward and caught her shoulder.
The touch was enough to shatter what little control she had left. How dare he! How dare he speak to her in that gentle, appealing way! He plainly knew why she was there; she could see it in his face. Was he so arrogant—so contemptuous of her—that he believed a little charm was all that was needed to soothe her?
She jerked away, shaking. 'You bastard,' she spat out, her changeable eyes growing glassy and wild. 'You bastard! I hate you!'
She hit him, putting the full force of her arm behind the slap. The impact of the blow snapped his head to one side. She felt an awful sense of satisfaction as she saw him wince. At least she'd been able to hurt him back in some small way.
She started to turn, but was pulled back around to face him with such urgency that she dropped her handbag. The fingers that bit into her flesh were iron hard and bruising.
'At least let me explain—'
She gave something perilously close to an hysterical laugh. 'Explain what? That you simply reverted to type? That you wanted something and you got it—any way you could? Oh, I'll give you this. You did warn me what you were—a taker. But I didn't believe that was really true. Do you know why? Because you filled my head with lies—lies!—about how you understood my feelings about my poetry and about that s-song. Our song?' She threw the two words at him as though the mere thought of them made her sick. 'I suppose that's what you and Carla call it, too!'
'Damn you, Shauna—' His voice was harsh.
She shook her head, too caught up in her own hurt to see the pain in his face. 'No. Damn you, Michael Sebastian. I trusted you! You made me see things—feel things…oh, God, why couldn't you just have let me go on the way I was?'
'I could ask you the same question.'
Shauna made a small, choking sound in the back of her throat. 'You could ask me—' she forced out.
'I want to tell you about the song,' he went on imperatively. 'Yours and mine. Not Carla's.'
'Oh, it's Carla's!' She tried to pull free of him, practically screaming the words. 'I heard her sing it tonight. I heard her say it was written by a special friend—a special friend.' She repeated the phrase contemptuously. 'I also heard what she made of the song.'
Michael would release her. Aroused, his own temper matched hers, fuelled by sources she could barely dream of 'She sang my music and your words, Shauna,' he told her sharply. 'And she didn't make anything out of .that song that wasn't already there.'
'No.' She denied it in a breathless, horrified voice.
'Yes! You poured your deepest, truest feelings into that poem—and into the others I read. You admitted as much to me. Why can't you admit it to yourself? You're a beautiful, passionate, responsive woman. Yes, your Aunt Margaret did a damned good job of trying to force you into some kind of emotional straight-jacket. But denying your feelings isn't the same thing as not having them. You've got desires and wants, Shauna. I've seen them. Felt them. I know.'
'You don't know anything about me.'
'Don't I?' The naked blaze of emotion in his eyes was enough to make her tremble. 'I know this—'
He p
ulled her against him, locking them together, making her utterly aware of how the yield and curve of her body complemented the strength and thrust of his. One powerful hand stroked up the fluid line of her back, tracing the sensitive column of her neck. She felt the snap of the rubber band as his fingers tangled ruthlessly in her hair. Freed from their restraint, the chestnut tresses tumbled down in a silken tangle.
Then his mouth covered hers, hungrily taking her lips, exploring the soft sweetness within. It was an act of possession and domination in the first angry moments, as he skilfully and single-mindedly overcame her automatic rebellion. He gentled the kiss, yet deepened his demand, as he felt her first unwilling but unmistakable quiver of response.
'Don't fight me, Shauna. Love, don't—' he breathed, trailing a burning pattern of kisses up the smooth line of her jaw.
'Please—' The appeal came out on a sob. Innocent as she was, she felt the way her body was straining to meet his. She also knew that in this battle, she was fighting herself.
He was wooing her with soft, erotic whispers, but the words made no sense. She was deafened by the drumming of blood in her ears and the primitive pounding of her pulse. She was afraid: afraid he would take her further, afraid he would not. She shuddered as he murmured something unintelligible into her ear and then lightly licked the lobe with his warm, moist tongue.
His lips moved to reclaim hers once again, this time with a searching, caressing deliberation. At the same moment, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her swiftly over to the couch. Without breaking the kiss, he placed her down, pressing her back against the cream-coloured cushions. Shauna twisted rebelliously, struggling against the seductive lure of the body that moved against and imprisoned her own.
Deftly, he pulled her shirt free from her jeans and slid one hand under the material and up her torso. The heat of his flattened palm seemed to brand her skin as it moved over her, moulding and memorising the exquisite lines of her upper body.
She gasped, arching in shocked awareness, as one hand closed possessively over the swell of one of her breasts. The response of her flesh to the skilled, intimate touch was instantaneous. Shauna felt as though she was being pulled, drowning, into a vortex of liquid fire. She moaned, trying to fight the attraction.
Michael lifted his mouth from hers, drawing a shuddery breath. His features were taut. 'Look at me,' he commanded huskily.
She shook her head, her refusal coming out as a whimper from the back of her throat. If she looked at him, she would be lost. The touch, the taste, the scent of him held her captive. But to see him—
'Shauna, look… at… me.' The command became a plea—a plea from a man who took rather than asked to be given.
She was lost. Her lids fluttered open to reveal the emotion-clouded depths of her hazel eyes. Helplessly, she stared up into the molten depths of his consuming green gaze.
'I know you,' he said fiercely. 'I think I've known you since the first time I saw you. I ache with it… burn with it. But knowing isn't enough. I want you, Shauna. I need you. I need your passion and your poetry—'
His voice dropped to a whisper. In her struggles, the top buttons of her shirt had come undone, the fabric parting to display the quivering upper curve of her small breasts. Slowly, reverently, he bent his head and pressed his mouth to the fragrant, shadowed cleft.
The word poetry burned across her already fevered brain like a whip of flame. He wanted… dear God, he wanted…
For a terrible moment, the pain and shock of what she was on the verge of giving in to left her rigid. Then, frantically, she lashed out, pushing at him with a furious and unexpected strength.
Her sudden stillness gave him a little warning, but not enough. The desperation of her struggle caught him off guard enough so that she had a chance to break free of him. She scrambled off the couch, her face deadly pale and her eyes huge and wounded.
'Shauna—' Michael got to his feet, his own expression full of anguish. He was visibly fighting for control.
'Don't touch me!' She was sick with loathing for herself and for him, her slender body going hot and cold by turns. She flinched as he took a step towards her.
The colour drained out of his face, leaving him white beneath his tan. He looked as though he had just received a body blow. 'I don't want to hurt you,' he said.
She lifted one shaking hand to her cheek, only vaguely registering the hot flow of tears that had started to fall from her eyes. 'It's not a matter of what you want, Michael. It's a matter of what you've done. But don't worry—' She blinked here and managed a derisive smile. 'You can't hurt me any more. There's nothing left you can do to me.'
The telephone rang. The sound was shocking in its shrillness.
She saw Michael tense, but his eyes never moved from her face.
'Shauna, please,' he said. 'Don't—'
She shook her head. 'You'd better answer that,' she said in a flat little voice. 'Maybe it's Carla Decker. If it is, you can tell her she can have the song… my poem. I don't care about it. Not now.'
At that, her control broke and she turned and ran, finding her way out of the apartment on pure panicked instinct. Bypassing the lift, she dashed for the stairwell, racing as though her life depended on it.
That she made it down more than a dozen flights without stumbling was a miracle. She was too blinded by tears to see properly and too uncaring to take any precautions. In a way, she would have welcomed a fall. Physical pain would have been nothing compared with the emotional agony she was experiencing.
She scarcely checked her headlong pace as she came out of the stairwell and into the plush lobby area. She brushed by a well-dressed, middle-aged couple standing by the bank of lifts, not caring that they regarded her dishevelled appearance with undisguised shock.
'Miss Whitney, please—' The uniformed attendant who had admitted her earlier reached out a detaining hand as she got to the door. He was holding the house telephone in the other. 'Mr Sebastian—miss, please!'
She darted past him, out the door, and into the night.
She ran. The direction and the distance didn't matter. She ran until she couldn't run any more and then, gasping for breath, she spotted an empty cab waiting at a red light.
She reached it only a few seconds before the light changed. Wrenching open the back door, she slid in.
'Hey, what the—' the driver exclaimed, turning around. His surprise turned to concerned alarm as he got a good look at Shauna. 'Lady, are you OK?'
'Yes,' she managed to get out, making a futile attempt to wipe the tears off her face. Glancing down distractedly, she saw that her blouse was still partially unbuttoned. She made an equally futile attempt to do it up.
'Lady, you look like you need a policeman or a doctor.'
'No,' She shook her head. 'I'm just—I need to go home. P-please.'
The light had changed by this time. The car behind them sounded its horn in an impatient blast.
The cabbie swore.
'Please,' Shauna repeated, terrified the man might order her out of his vehicle.
The driver said something under his breath as he shifted back and lifted his foot off the brake. 'Tell me where I'm going,' he instructed gruffly. 'But I still think you'd be better off if I took you to a precinct house or a hospital.'
It wasn't until the cab pulled up in front of her apartment that Shauna realised she'd left her handbag in Michael's apartment. Her panic-stricken eyes met the driver's wearily comprehending ones in the rear-view mirror.
To her surprise, the man turned around and slid open the Plexiglass partition that separated him from his passengers. She was even more startled when he extended a handful of tissues.
'Let me guess. No money, right?'
Her fingers trembling, Shauna took the tissues and used them. Struggling for some semblance of control, she drew a shuddery breath and made a choked sound half-way between a sob and a hiccough. It had been a long, long time since she'd cried.
'I'm sorry,' she told
him through unsteady lips. 'My bag… I left it—I—I have some money in my apartment if you c-can wait—'
The driver, whose homely face had a very lived-in look, shook his head. 'Nah,' he rasped. 'To tell you the truth, I didn't throw the meter anyway. Call it my good deed for the night.'
'But—' This unexpected act of kindness threatened to bring more tears.
'Hey, now, don't start crying again! It's OK, lady. Whatever it is. You're home now, right? Just like you wanted. Now, is there somebody to let you in?'
'Let me in?'
'Uh-huh. If you don't have your bag, you're probably locked out.'
'I'm afraid—' Suddenly, she remembered sticking her keys into her jeans' pocket. 'No, wait—' Twisting, she fished them out. 'I didn't put them in my bag,' she explained needlessly, gesturing with them.
'OK.' The man nodded. 'Are you really sure you don't want any help—'
'No. I'm going to b-be all right.'
'Nothing's ever as bad as it seems.' This unoriginal bit of philosophy was dispensed in a comforting tone. 'Now, I'll watch until you get inside.'
'Thank you. I—I appreciate it. You've been very kind.'
The man shrugged a little, possibly embarrassed by his own burst of good Samaritanism. 'Good night, lady,' he said.
The phone was ringing when Shauna unlocked the door to her apartment. It was an angry, demanding sound. She knew who was on the other end. She let it go on ringing, gritting her teeth against the noise.
She'd left the lights on and the television playing when she'd run out. Walking over to the set, she clicked it off in an abrupt gesture.
The phone stopped ringing.
She walked into her bedroom like a zombie and stripped off her clothes, dropping them in an unwanted pile on the floor. She retrieved the robe she had discarded so hurriedly and put it on, wrapping it around herself like a security blanket.
The face that looked back at her from the bathroom mirror was white. She spent a few moments splashing cold water on her skin in a vain effort to bring some colour back into her pale cheeks.
'I'm going to be all right,' she whispered to her reflection. The words sounded even hollower now than they had when she'd said them to the cab driver. The haunted, anguished expression in her clouded eyes and the bruised softness of her mouth told the real story.