Song Without Words

by Betsy Warren

  Combing her fingers through the tangles of her hair, she wandered back into the main room of her apart­ment. Staring dazedly around, she saw that she had neglected to properly lock the front door. With a bitter smile twisting her lips, she rectified her mistake.

  'It's Mike locking the b-barn door after the horse has escaped,' she told herself with a helpless, unsteady laugh that turned into a sob. Sucking in her breath, she dug her nails into her palms, willing herself not to start weeping again.

  Blindly, she walked over to the sofa and sat down, curling up in the corner. Her posture was wary and withdrawn.

  What had he done to her? What had she let him do? Even while her mind knew Michael Sebastian for a liar, a user, and a cheat… her body had responded to his. There had been a few moments—suspended between the anger and the fear—when she had wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

  I want you, Shauna. I need you. I need your passion and your poetry—

  She put her hands over her ears, trying to block out the searing memory of those words. But there was nothing she could do to stop the hot wave of physical remembrance that swept over her. She could still feel the heated, hungry tenderness of Michael's searching lips and fingers on her naked sensitised skin.

  'Shauna! Damn you, answer me!'

  She froze like a terrified animal trapped in the head­lights of an on-rushing car. For a few moments, she forgot how to breathe.

  Michael? Here?

  'Go away,' she said in a tiny, shattered voice.

  'Shauna, please!' The two words were punctuated by what sounded like a clench-fisted blow to the door. Her eyes dropped as she heard the rattle of the knob.

  Somehow, she got to the door.

  'Shauna? If you're in there, just say something.'

  She was trembling violently. 'I'm in here.'

  There was a long silence from the other side. Part of her wished desperately for a peephole in the door so she could look out into the hallway; the other part felt a kind of demented gratitude that she couldn't see him. She wasn't at all certain of what she would do if she did.

  'Thank God.' There was a thudding noise as though he'd leaned against the door. 'Are you—all right?' The question was low and strained.

  'Go away and leave me alone.'

  'Just tell me you're all right.'

  'I'm all right,' she replied bitterly, blinking hard against the hot flow of tears welling up in her eyes. 'As if you cared.'

  There was another long silence. When Michael spoke again, his voice was clear and utterly controlled.

  'I'm leaving your bag, Shauna,' he said. 'I don't expect you to open the door while I'm still here. I'll go away and leave you alone after I've said two things. First, I did not give the song—our song—to Carla Decker. Second, I do… care.' She had to strain to hear him. 'I care very much.'

  'Shauna, snap out of it!'

  Shauna was sitting at her desk, lost in an emotional fog. She'd taken off her gloves and hat, but she was still wearing her coat.

  I care very much.

  Those four simple words had possessed her, obsessed her, throughout the entire weekend… twisting her heart with hurt one moment and stirring it with insane hopes the next.

  Why had he said it? And why had she heard so much tension, so much hesitation, in the way he'd spoken? It had been as though he'd found the words unfamiliar and difficult to say.

  Were they difficult for him to say because they were a lie? Yet if he were the deceiver and manipulator she'd accused him of being, why would he have trouble with a four-word falsehood?

  Or were they difficult for him to say because they were the truth. Oh, God, what if they were?

  I want… I need… I care…

  Michael Sebastian had said all three things to her. He had not said I love.

  Neither had she. But she had, out of anger, hurt pride and jealousy, told him she hated.

  Supposing he did care? Would that change what he had done to her?

  What she thought he'd done to her. What if he'd been telling the truth as he stood outside her apartment door?

  'Shauna, are you all right?'

  She started violently, her heart racing. She glanced around wildly, suddenly aware of where she was and what she had been doing—or not doing.

  'What is the matter with you?' The question came from one of the Legal Department's other secretaries. She and one of SEE's junior lawyers were standing by Shauna's desk, their expressions fluctuating between impatient irritation and bewildered concern.

  'S-sorry,' Shauna apologised unsteadily. She rose and pulled off her coat. 'I—I had a rough weekend.'

  The lawyer—the same one who'd tried to date her after news of her temporary position with Michael Sebastian had become known—made a face. 'Well, get ready for a rough week,' he counselled.

  'I beg your pardon?' Shauna sat back down, smooth­ing her hair in an unthinking gesture. She'd worn it pulled back off her forehead in front and loose and flowing at the back.

  'You don't have to be discreet,' Elaine, the secretary, said. 'Everyone knows. It's in the papers.'

  'I don't understand—'

  'Carla Decker,' the lawyer said. 'Come on, Shauna. This can't have been the totally unexpected bombshell the press is trying to make out. You've been up with Michael Sebastian for the past two weeks. Do you honestly think we'll believe you didn't have some inkling?'

  'Some inkling of what?' She was astonished she could get the question out at all, much less ask it with such quiet steadiness. Carla Decker… Carla Decker… the name was like a knife into her soul.

  Elaine rolled her eyes. 'Her contract with SEE has been ripped up!'

  'What?' Shauna felt the blood drain out of her face. For a moment, she thought she was going to faint.

  'My—you really didn't know,' the young lawyer said in a tone of amazed discovery.

  'What—what happened?'

  'That's what we're trying to find out,' Elaine told her crossly. 'All we know so far is that Michael Sebastian personally dropped the axe on the Divine Decker over the weekend. One of the trade paper columnists say it happened while she was doing that network talk show Friday night. Something about artistic differences over a song. But that doesn't make any sense—'

  'There's Mr Barkley,' the lawyer interrupted ur­gently. 'We'd better get back to work, ladies.' He moved away while Elaine darted back to her desk.

  'Good morning, Shauna,' Emmett Barkley said as he walked by. Although his tone was politely pleasant, there was a grim element to his usual dignity.

  'Good morning, Mr Barkley,' she responded, keeping her gaze carefully fixed on her desk top.

  Artistic differences over a song. Elaine was right: it didn't make any sense. Unless…

  Shauna closed her eyes, feeling as though the ground had dropped out from beneath her feet. 'Oh, God,' she whispered in a stricken voice as the explanation came to her.

  There had been a copy of the lead sheets for their song in Michael's desk upstairs. Carla had had access to it that day she'd dropped in unexpectedly. She'd been in Michael's office alone, behind a closed door, for more than an hour.

  It all fitted together with sickening neatness. Filled with shame and remorse, Shauna writhed inwardly as she reflected on what she had done. And the things she had accused Michael of! Perhaps there had been some small justification for her initial reaction, but there had been no excuse for her refusal to listen to his side of the story. She'd been so caught up in her own overwhelming sense of hurt that she'd ignored everything but the desire to hurt in return.

  And yet… and yet, Michael had come after her. He'd come after her to deny, in one simple sentence, that he had done what she believed him guilty of. He'd also come after her to say he cared… very much.

  Slowly, Shauna reached for the phone on her desk. Picking up the receiver, she dialled an extension she now knew by heart.

  'Michael Sebastian's office.'

  'Hello—Dee? This is Shauna Whitney. I—welcome back.'


  There was a wry chuckle from the other end. 'It's sweet of you to call, Shauna. To tell the truth, if I'd known what kind of mess I was returning to, I would have stayed away much longer!'

  'You mean… Carla Decker?'

  'Exactly. Just between the two of us, I'd had the feeling the Divine Decker had been turning Michael more off than on for the past few months, but I never expected such a dramatic break-up. The phone has been ringing off the hook since I got in.'

  'It must be a madhouse,' Shauna sympathised. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. 'Is—is Michael there?'

  'Don't I wish!' Dee returned feelingly. 'There was a message waiting for me first thing this morning. He's out. Period. I had to cancel about a dozen appointments.'

  Shauna's heart plunged. 'Do you know where he is?' she asked quickly.

  'No. And I don't think anybody else does, either. Jamie Cord's called twice trying to locate him. He wanted to know if Michael's coming to Tempest's recording session tonight. I told him it's still on the calendar. But who knows with this Carla Decker situation—oh, damn! There goes another line. Look, Shauna, is there something you want me to tell Michael—'

  'No, no. Thank you, Dee. It's something I have to—to take care of myself.'

  'Well, all right. By the way, you left everything in wonderful order up here. The office hasn't been this organised in ages! I hope the two weeks weren't too hard on you. Now, I've really got to go.'

  'Goodbye,' Shauna said softly, even though the other woman had already disconnected. She hung up the receiver gently, her thoughts fixed on what she knew she must do.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shauna had been arguing with the lobby guard for nearly five minutes. She stared at him now from behind her glasses, her pale features taut with a mixture of desperation and determination.

  'I have to see Mr Sebastian,' she repeated, struggling to keep her voice steady. At least the man had confirmed that Michael Sebastian was in the building for the Tempest recording session.

  'Miss, I'm sorry, but I have my orders. I can't let any unauthorised people up.'

  'Please!' She was pleading. 'This is very important.'

  The guard frowned, possibly taking into account the fact that she neither looked—nor acted—like the groupie type. 'Look,' he said slowly, 'I suppose I could call upstairs. They've broken for dinner or something—'

  'No!' Shauna shook her head vehemently. She was afraid that if he called upstairs, Michael would refuse to see her. 'I appreciate your offer, but—' She stopped abruptly as one of the lifts near the guard's desk hissed open. 'Jamie!' she exclaimed, recognising the passenger who got out. She moved to him quickly.

  'Shauna?' he looked surprised but pleased to see her. Yet there was an air of disgruntled weariness about him as he stood there, slouching a little, his hands jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket. 'Why are you here?' he asked. His eyes moved over curiously, and she thought she detected a strange flicker as he registered the fact that she was once again wearing her glasses and had her hair pulled back into a demure bun.

  'I—I'm here to see Michael,' she explained. 'He is here, isn't he?'

  Jamie nodded. 'Yeah. The rest of the guys took a dinner break about twenty minutes ago. We weren't accomplishing anything, so it seemed like a smart idea. I stayed behind to talk to Michael. Not so smart. He just about threw me out of the studio.'

  She bit her lip. 'What—what's wrong?'

  Jamie grimaced. 'Who knows for sure? Michael's always played it close to the chest… never really letting anybody get inside his guard. I think whatever's the matter with him now must have something to do with this Carla Decker mess. But what I can't figure out is why he's so worked up over her doing one of his songs. It's not as though he hasn't written numbers for her before.'

  'Actually—' Shauna hesitated for a long moment, the beginnings of a blush staining her cheeks. 'Actually, Michael didn't write the song Carla sang.'

  'What?' The word exploded out of Jamie. 'Shauna, come on. Michael used to play that tune for me when I first came to live with him after I got out of the rehabilitation programme!'

  'He wrote the music,' she amended. 'But… the words… I—I wrote them.'

  'You did?' Jamie stared at her.

  She nodded.

  He whistled, clearly taken aback. 'I only caught the last verse or so on Friday night. One of the roadies had a battery-powered television backstage and was watching Carla do her thing. I recognised the music right off, of course. But the words—they're yours? Really?'

  'Really.'

  'But you never said anything about writing lyrics—'

  She gave a rueful smile. 'I thought I was writing poetry,' she confessed. 'Michael was the one who de­cided I was a lyricist.'

  'But how did he get hold of—' Jamie's puzzled ex­pression changed abruptly, his eyes widening in specu­lation. 'The envelope you threw at him during the recording session!' he guessed. 'I thought his reaction was sort of strange when he opened it up. Of course, his reaction when he got that first good look at you was sort of strange, too. In fact—'

  'Jamie—' She could practically see his mind working.

  He looked her straight in the eye. 'You and Michael had some kind of fight about the song, didn't you?' It wasn't really a question.

  'Yes,' she said. 'I… I accused Michael of giving it to Carla without my permission.'

  'Oh.' The single syllable was freighted with a wealth of feeling.

  'I'm afraid he hates me after what I said,' she told him painfully, anguish stark on her face.

  'Are you crazy?' Jamie was thunderstruck. 'Hey, look, whatever hot and heavy emotions you've stirred up in Michael—and it's pretty obvious you've stirred up a bunch, considering the way he's been acting—hate is not one of them. Hate he could handle. But what he feels for you… no wonder he's been behaving like he's gone off the deep end. He has.' He seemed peculiarly pleased.

  'I don't—'

  'And you're not exactly indifferent to him, either, are you, Shauna?'

  She wasn't sure whether she should laugh or cry at this question. Indifferent to Michael Sebastian? She was in love with him! Even when she'd believed he'd betrayed her and abused her trust, she'd responded to him. She'd wanted his kisses, his touch… and more.

  'No,' she said with a heart-rending smile. 'I'm not exactly indifferent to him. That's why… I came here to talk to him.'

  'So, talk to him!' Jamie urged instantly.

  She glanced over at the guard. Although he was busying himself with his work, she had the feeling he'd been listening to their conversation. 'I wasn't auth­orised—' she began.

  Jamie caught on immediately. 'Got you,' he said, then raised his voice pleasantly. 'Uh—Fred, isn't it?'

  The guard looked up. 'Yes, Mr Cord?'

  'Fred, I know everybody appreciates how careful you are about letting people in and out of this place, but Miss Whitney here is a personal friend of mine and she does have to see Mr Sebastian. I'm going to escort her upstairs.'

  'Sure thing,' the man nodded. 'Sorry if you were inconvenienced, miss.'

  'Come on,' Jamie said.

  They rode up to the third floor in silence. Shauna twisted the belt of her wrap coat nervously with one hand. Reaching up with the other, she gave her neatly styled hair a reassuring pat. Glancing over at Jamie, she saw his mouth curve into a mysteriously satisfied smile.

  The lift came to a stop and the door slid open. Jamie hit the hold button with his thumb and looked at her. She was startled by the affectionate understanding she saw in his face.

  'Will you tell me one thing?' he asked, tilting his head quizzically.

  'What?'

  'Up in Hartford. Did Michael really wake you up by turning on the light?'

  She flushed but managed to meet his gaze. 'He—Michael didn't turn on the light when he came in. He just got undressed and got into bed… with me. It was a very b-big bed and neither of us realised we were sleeping together until much later.' She g
ave a small laugh. 'That's when he turned on the light. But we didn't—I haven't—He… he did spent the rest of the night in the other room of the suite,' she finished lamely.

  'Yeah, I thought I detected more than a hint of frustration the next morning,' Jamie answered out­rageously. Shauna thought he looked like the proverbial canary-eating cat. 'It's going to be fine, Shauna. Believe me.'

  She took a deep breath. 'I'm not sure what to say,' she admitted.

  He smiled warmly. 'The lady who wrote the lyrics for Michael's music won't have any problem finding the right words,' he told her. 'It's the same studio as before. Ignore the "Keep Out" sign.'

  Once out of the lift, she didn't look back. Following the path she had taken so fatefully once before, she walked along the corridor to the studio. The tap-tap of her boot heels on the floor held equal parts of eagerness and anxiety.

  There was a horrible moment when she pushed open the door to the control room and realised it was empty. Stomach knotting, she glanced around. He was gone! Somehow, he'd left—

  But no. Looking through the glassed front of the control booth, she saw him. The lights in the studio had been dimmed, and Michael was sitting, partially in shadow, at Griz's keyboard. His head was bent and he was picking out notes, apparently at random, with one finger.

  Trembling a little, she opened the door that went from the control room to the studio and walked through.

  She never knew what alerted him to her presence. Her heart was pounding so thunderously that she thought he might have heard it as she approached him. When she was about ten feet away, he looked up suddenly.

  They confronted each other for a long moment, an emotional minefield stretching between them. Shauna felt Michael's green eyes go over her ardently.

  'Michael.' She barely breathed his name aloud. He looked awful. There were lines of strain around his mouth and his lean features were rigidly schooled. His body had gone taut as though preparing for an attack.