It hurt to admit it, but Warren had turned out to be a godsend. He wasn’t a sleazeball after all. Connor may have been too quick to judge both the man and his motives. Warren Edmond Canfield III was a miracle worker. A gentleman who knew people, who knew people. He’d arranged to have Sylvie transferred from Ellenville to a small hospital on Staten Island where she spent nine days. Connor was leery at first, not sure about the quality of the care she’d receive there. He’d hired round-the-clock nurses and physician assistants to watch over Sylvie and saw to it that whatever equipment they needed to care for her was brought in. He’d also stationed some 40 security people at the hospital to stand guard both inside and outside her room and to patrol the halls and the exterior of the building. In retrospect, the Staten Island facility was a good choice. No one would have thought of looking for her in an older, cash-strapped hospital in a working class neighborhood. The doctors there turned out to be excellent. With the agreement of the consulting physicians he’d hired, they removed her from the ventilator and the ICP Monitor and pulled out the feeding tube, catheter, and some of the drains. You could see an almost daily improvement in her condition. As the swelling diminished, she started moving her arms and legs. She also tried to use her hands, but it was difficult because of the stitches and swelling.
Sylvie started eating, or rather drinking and slurping, her meals. The bruising was so bad on her face she couldn’t chew. Estelle, God love her, took over that area of Sylvie’s care. She created creamy crab and lobster bisques, melt-in-your-mouth crab cakes and chicken croquettes, and a host of chicken and fish meals complete with vegetables, rice, or potatoes that she cooked and then put through a blender so that it came out looking like slurry. Sylvie was able to eat the food with no problem. Connor insisted she eat something every three hours. She needed to regain her strength so she could get well. Sylvie couldn’t feed herself yet, so Connor fed her. Sylvie cried the first time she tried to eat. She kept trying to hold the cup herself, only to spill the soup all over the bed. She felt so frustrated and so helpless that she’d turned her head away and refused to eat when anyone tried to help her. Connor had to cajole her into opening her mouth. The nurses offered to take over for him, but he never allowed it. She ate more with his encouragement; or, if she was being particularly difficult or cranky, a stern look of disapproval. He watched over her like a mother hen, questioning the nurses about her temperature, fluid intake, urine output, and whether she’d had a bowel movement when she used the bed pan. His sudden interest in her bodily functions mortified her. But she was on opiate pain killers and they caused constipation. Connor was worried that her inability to go might cause problems with her bowel surgery healing properly. She wanted to get out of bed and use the toilet like a normal person, but her legs were so bruised and swollen, she was unable to walk.
From Staten Island, Warren arranged to have Sylvie transferred to a small hospital on the sparsely-populated, easternmost end of Long Island. She was there five and a half days. After having spent 30 days in hospitals fighting for her life, they removed the last of the drains and IVs, packed her up with a pharmacopeia of antibiotics, pain, and other medications, as well as bandages, topical creams, unguents and anything else they could think of, and sent her home for Christmas Eve. But not home to the Adirondacks. It was to an isolated nine bedroom oceanfront mansion with its own heliport that Warren had found for them.
The man was a genius! Though he’d had Warren investigated and knew he owned vineyards and mines among other things, Connor suspected the distinguished-looking, well-to-do gentleman had a more clandestine background that no one was aware of. He seemed right at home with covert cloak and dagger operations. As though he’d been doing it all his life. Connor had never seen a plan come together so quickly. Old Warren knew what he was doing. He made a couple of calls and it was all arranged. He’d lined everything out to them as a fait accompli, explaining the rationale behind every choice he’d made, including the house with the heliport. He wanted to make sure that if Sylvie developed complications, she could be flown to any number of hospitals in the city for emergency care. At first, Connor had been irate that this uninvited stranger, this interloper, had made plans without consulting him. He had literally taken over! But you can’t quibble with success. Connor had to hand it to the guy. He knew how to get things done. He was beginning to think Warren had been some kind of spy in an earlier life, or maybe a Fed who shepherded people through witness protection. But then how did he amass his sizeable fortune? One thing was certain: the man was not what he appeared to be. Whatever he was, whatever his past…Connor owed him one. Not that he wanted Warren to marry his aunt…that would be taking gratitude too far. However, he did seem to be quite taken with Lettie. Connor supposed his aunt could do worse.
Warren wasn’t the only one he owed. Sylvie wouldn’t be here snuggled safe in bed if it weren’t for the care she’d received. He’d wanted her in a big-city hospital; but truly, he didn’t think they could have done any more for her. He’d donated to a ton of big-name hospitals over the years. He planned to be equally generous with the hospitals that had saved Sylvie’s life. He would be donating $10,000,000 to the hospital in Ellenville, $5,000,000 to the one in Staten Island, and $1,000,000 to the Long Island facility.
He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep. The nurses had been bustling around placing equipment. There was a portable oxygen unit, heart and blood pressure monitor, respirator, defibrillator, IV equipment, and the like. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be needing any of it.
Sylvie was already starting to get feisty. He intended to make sure that she made a complete recovery. To that end he was establishing a strict daily routine that she would be following.
Her temperature would be taken every two hours. He was worried about the infections recurring and wanted to make sure that they could act immediately to restart the IV antibiotics or rush her to the hospital if need be. They’d almost lost her to fever and infection. He wasn’t going to risk that happening again. If her temperature went up even one tenth of one degree he wanted to know about it, so she could be treated immediately.
Meds would be taken without fuss or protest. Sylvie sometimes carried on like the nurses were trying to poison her. Gagging and spitting out the pills and syrups. Complaining that they tasted bad or made her nauseous. Especially the laxatives they tried to get her to take.
The better she got, the worse she behaved.
Though she’d eat the food Estelle prepared for her, she balked at the nutritional supplements the doctors had prescribed. They were supposed to taste like milkshakes, but Sylvie thought otherwise. She insisted they tasted awful and made her want to barf! She stuck up her nose and turned her head away, like a recalcitrant toddler, refusing to take the straw and sip the liquid as directed. Annoyed at her childish behavior, Connor told her she was expected to eat and drink everything put in front of her, no exceptions. But Sylvie was cranky and not easily cowed. She patently ignored him until he suggested that there might be other orifices they could use to get the nutrition into her body. That worked. She grudgingly drank the thick liquid down, but glared at him through bruised, puffy eyes the whole time.
She threw a fit when she was told she’d be confined to bed. She thought because she was out of the hospital that meant she could be out of bed. Not a chance! She wasn’t going to be up and around for the foreseeable future. Period…end of story! She needed rest. And he would make sure that she got it. No matter how much she griped and grumped. Sylvie would take a two hour nap in the afternoon and her bedtime would be 8 pm sharp. If tonight was any indication, he was going to have some serious problems enforcing his dictums. In the end, he’d turned her on her side, pulled up her nightgown, and, careful to avoid the bruises, given her two stinging smacks on her bare bottom. They hadn’t been very hard, just enough to let her know that her bad behavior wouldn’t be tolerated. She wailed like he was killing her, but it was all for show. The sting in her backside settled her. Sylvie sniffled a time or two, her still-swollen lips forming a pout; but then her eyes fluttered closed and she went to sleep.
The bruises and swelling had gone down somewhat, but she still had a long way to go before she’d look like Sylvie again. They’d removed the stitches and staples from her surgeries a while ago. But she had new ones, to close the holes where the drains had been. The nurses would take them out in a few days. She’d be starting physical therapy soon. That would help her regain the use of her hands and her ability to walk. The knee and ankle of her right leg were so swollen and sore from the dislocations that she couldn’t put her weight on them without bursting into tears. Her other leg was discolored and swollen too. Right now there was no way she could stand without assistance, let alone walk, even doped up the way she was. Her left hand was healing well, but she was having difficulty getting her fingers to work. The gash in the right hand had gotten badly infected and they’d had to clean it out and re-stitch the wound twice. It was finally healing, but still oozed pus and fluid. She could barely move her fingers without crying. The doctors had assured Connor that daily physical therapy would help and that she’d be up and around in no time. He was trying to keep what the doctors told him straight. They said it took approximately six weeks for a patient to recover from colon, kidney, lung, and the other types of surgeries Sylvie had undergone. They assured him she’d be fine in two more weeks if no infections or complications developed.
The head injury was a different story: the doctors said that although she appeared fine, it might take another month or more for her to recover. Sylvie had suffered minor memory loss from the attack. She was unable to remember what happened either before or during it. Connor thought that was a blessing, but the doctors didn’t agree. She also had headaches. The doctors said that wasn’t unusual, and the pain would go away in time; but she needed rest and quiet to insure her complete recovery.
The vaginal tears were healed, but the gynecologist told him he’d have to be extremely gentle with her when it came to sex. She’d been traumatized. It would take some time for her to be comfortable with intimacy again, so he should try to be patient with her and take things slowly.
Sylvie had a myriad of creams that were rubbed on her wounds every day to try to minimize the scarring. The symbols carved on her belly and breasts had already started to fade a little. As had the stun gun marks on her limbs and the burns to her nipples. The numerous cuts and gashes she’d sustained all over her body were also healing nicely with a minimum of scarring, except for her right hand. The plastic surgeons were holding off on any surgery until they saw what she looked like when the swelling went down. The wounds they were most worried about were on her temple and around her eye. They might be disfiguring. They were also concerned about her nose. Because of the trauma to her eye and skull, her face remained very swollen, so they couldn’t tell if her nose was going to have a bump or would be slightly crooked. As for the scars from the surgical incisions, they’d just have to wait and see. The doctors told him not to worry; that if need be, there were procedures they could do to make them less noticeable.
The physical injuries were one thing, the emotional and psychic ones quite another. She didn’t remember much about the attack. That was frustrating the cops. She was the only victim to have survived an encounter with the killer. But she could tell them nothing. All they had to go on was the description she’d given the police the night before the attack and that wasn’t all that helpful because she’d mistakenly thought the intruder was a black bear at first. They had photos of the boot and tire treads; but they needed more, much more, if they had any chance of catching the killer. Investigators had found the remnants of his tools in her oven and woodstove but had been unable to trace any of them. There was no DNA or fingerprints left at the scene. They’d found some cigar ash and had sent it off to a lab to see if they could determine the brand, but the investigators weren’t hopeful. They had only spoken to Sylvie once, just before she left Staten Island and she’d been barely coherent. She was so zonked out on painkillers she was slurring her words and could hardly keep her eyes open. They wanted to talk to her again, but Connor was holding off on that. He didn’t want her any more upset than she already was. She might not remember exactly what the killer did to her, but she reacted as though she did. Every little sound startled her. She’d stiffen when anyone came near the bed. Her respiration would increase and the monitors would show her blood pressure rising, heart pounding, and pulse racing. Sylvie didn’t like being touched and would visibly cringe and shrink back from anyone attempting to lay hands on her. He’d bent to kiss her the other night and he was shocked to see the terrified look in her eyes and the anguished gurgling sound coming from her throat.
He’d talked to a few psychiatrists and psychologists and they said the best way for her to get over the trauma of the attack was to help her confront her fears and anxiety. That he should encourage Sylvie to talk about her thoughts and feelings about what happened to her in the house on Peekamoose Road. They said the psychological trauma she’d suffered was as damaging as the physical trauma, even more so, since it was harder to get over and would likely haunt her the rest of her life. They told him he should watch for symptoms like irritability, anger, and hostility; nervousness and agitation; panic; depression; difficulty concentrating; nightmares and insomnia. A couple of the doctors said putting her on antidepressants and prescription sleeping medications might help her cope and alleviate the worst of the symptoms; but she was taking so many drugs now he was worried what adding more to the mix would do to her. He was worried she might be overmedicated now. There were times she behaved like a zombie. Unable to focus her eyes or think rationally. They said she needed sleep, at least 7 to 9 hours a night. That sleep deprivation would exacerbate her other symptoms. He was determined to see that she did, even if he had to tie her to the bed.
Connor was across the hall, taping on the keys of his laptop when he looked up. He’d rearranged the furniture so that he had a clear view of her bed while working. He was startled to see an empty spot on the bed where Sylvie was supposed to be. His heart went to his throat. He jumped up, sending his chair rolling backward and crashing into something behind him. Jesus Christ! Where was she? Had she fallen out of bed? Had someone kidnapped her? He ran into the room, his head twisting from one side to the other in panic. Then he heard a tinkling sound coming from the direction of the closed door on the far side of the room. Someone was peeing. Had she conned some nurse into letting her go to the toilet? Not likely! He’d left specific instructions with the staff that she was not to be allowed out of bed without his permission…ever. She was to use the bedpan until he instructed them otherwise. He’d made it quite clear that if anyone dared ignore his orders, they’d find themselves out of a job.
He stomped over to the door and twisted the knob. It was locked. ‘Sylvie, are you in there?’ There was no response. ‘Sylvie! Sylvie! Answer me!’
‘Go away!’ a squeaky voice replied.
‘What are you doing in there?’
‘What do you think?’ Talk about a dumbass question! ‘I’m going to the bathroom!’
‘By yourself?’ he demanded to know, his temper rising.
‘Of course by myself. This isn’t exactly the kind of thing I’d want to share with anyone. Now would you please go away? I’m not finished yet.’
‘Oh you’re finished alright. You can count on that.’
‘Do you mind? Can I have a little privacy here?’
‘No you may not. You’re not supposed to be out of bed, let alone sitting on a toilet behind a locked door. I distinctly remember telling you that you were not allowed out of bed.’
‘My bad,’ she said, sullenly.
‘How did you get in there?’
‘Isn’t that obvious,’ she harrumphed. ‘I walked.’
‘You walked?’
‘Okay, so maybe I hopped a little too. What difference does it make? I got here didn’t I? Regardless of what you think, I am not a cripple!’
‘I don’t appreciate that sassy tone little girl. You are not to get out of bed. You could have been hurt.’
‘But I wasn’t!’ He was carrying this overprotective stuff too far! ‘Give it a rest Hudson! I am fully capable of going to the bathroom on my own.’
‘Oh really? And just how are you going to wipe yourself? Your hands are bandaged,’ he reminded her.
‘I don’t use my hands to wipe,’ she said saucily. ‘I use toilet paper!’ She wasn’t about to tell him she’d removed the gauze wrappings.
‘Well I certainly hope you enjoy sitting on that toilet seat, because when I get through paddling your ass you won’t be able to sit again for a very long time,’ he threatened.
‘Yeah right!’ she challenged. ‘You can’t spank me. I’m sick…remember?’
‘Don’t bet on it…’ He heard what sounded like a little grunt coming from the other side of the door. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, worried. ‘It sounded like you grunted.’
‘Will you please get away from the door? I’m trying to go to the bathroom here. Pooping’s a solitary occupation, not a group endeavor! You’re not helping. As a matter of fact, you’re slowing up the process!’
‘Trying?’ he seized on her words. ‘Is there a problem? Is something wrong? Can’t you go?’
‘Jesus Connor! Will you get lost!’ she wailed. This was so humiliating!
‘Are you constipated?’
‘Gross Connor! That’s none of your business! I am not going to have this conversation with you,’ she said indignantly. ‘I refuse to have my bowel movements added to the list of things you are currently obsessing about. You want me to come out? Fine! But the sooner you leave and let me do my business, the faster that will be. Go Away!‘ She was straining. It felt like she had bricks in her belly. And they didn’t want to come out. The last thing she needed right now was a lecture or the third degree. Sylvie was so cramped up with gas; she didn’t want him within earshot if a fart exploded. Somethings you just don’t share!
He stood there trying to figure out his options. He could break down the door. But what would that accomplish? He could call the houseman and see if he had a key to unlock it. But what was he going to do if she hadn’t finished yet? Pull her off the toilet? Hardly! Frustrated, he sat down on the bed and commenced glaring at the door. She’d won this round. She’d challenged him and gotten her way. She must be feeling better. That was a good thing. Her defiance, insolence, and sassy attitude were not. She was mistaken if she thought he was going to let her get away with any shenanigans. He didn’t want her to think he was an ogre, but he intended to do whatever it took to get her well. Even if that meant paddling her naughty little ass every day until the doctors deemed her fully recovered.
He waited 15 minutes. It sounded like she was having some difficulty. Obviously the laxatives and stool softeners the doctors had prescribed weren’t working as well as they hoped. He’d have to discuss adding prune juice and more fruits and fiber to her diet; and if that failed to get the desired results, they’d have to start using suppositories and enemas. Sylvie wasn’t going to like that. Not one bit!
He heard the toilet flush. A moment later he heard the water running. ‘What are you doing? You’re not supposed to wet the bandages,’ he reminded her.
Should she tell him? Nah, not yet! She turned the spigot all the way on, the sound of the water drowning him out. She soaped her hands, wincing when the suds touched places that hadn’t completely scabbed over yet, then gently dried them.
She took a deep breath…time to face the music. She hobbled toward the door, using the double-sink vanity as a crutch. She could walk but it hurt like hell. The calves and ankles of both legs were swollen and discolored. Her right knee had blown up like a balloon and didn’t seem to want to bend. Both thighs were swollen and bruised, but the right one was still a dark purplish red. So was her hip on that side. She decided she wasn’t going to get her life back lying in bed. She’d devoted enough time to being a victim, being sick and injured. There was a mirror over the sink, but Sylvie kept her eyes downcast. She had no idea what she looked like now, but if the other parts of her body were any indication, she didn’t want to know. Baby steps, she told herself. Deal with one thing at a time. She’d seen the things he’d carved on her belly and breasts when the nurses changed the dressings. Sylvie felt defiled, degraded, debased. But she was lucky, she told herself. She hadn’t died. She’d survived. Now she had to get on with her life, regardless of what she looked like. ‘That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,’ she said under her breath. Sylvie had to get her strength back. Get her head on straight. And then…then when she was well…she’d figure out a way to find and kill the psycho bastard that did this to her.
She gingerly opened the door. Just as she suspected, Connor was on the other side, fuming. He saw her naked hands and went ballistic. ‘You took off the bandages!’ he yelled at her. ‘Are you out of your mind? They’ll get infected! What were you thinking?’
The man was such a drama queen! Before she could say anything, he swept her up into his arms and carried her back to the bed. She’d assumed he was going to lay her down on the mattress, but no dice.
He plopped himself down on the bed and in one swift motion pulled her over his knee and lifted her nightgown to bare her bottom. ‘So help me God Sylvie I will…’
‘Ow! Oww!’ Oww!’ she wailed.
‘What are you going on about? I haven’t even started spanking you yet!’
‘You’re hurting me. My belly! It hurts something awful!’
‘What?’ Connor hurriedly lifted her off his thighs. ‘Oh Sylvie honey, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.’ He sat her gently on his lap.
She wobbled her bottom lip as though ready to cry. ‘It hurts!’ she whimpered. Now who was the drama queen? He looked guilty. Good! Serves him right!
Connor looked not only sheepish at having caused her pain, but defeated as well. He knew that Sylvie would never win patient of the year. But he hadn’t expected her to turn out to be the patient from hell either. The rules were for her own good. Didn’t she realize that? He wasn’t her enemy. How the hell was he going to keep her in bed if he couldn’t spank her? The two smacks he’d given her at bed time wouldn’t cut it. Since his thighs were too hard for an over the knee spanking, he’d have to come up with another means of punishing her and keeping her in line. Actually, he shouldn’t be using his hand on her either; even with a mild spanking his hand might be too hard and could jolt her insides. He needed something thin and lightweight that would sting her fanny into submission. He’d have to think on it. Right now he just wanted to relish the feeling of having her in his arms again. So what if she was disobedient and obstinate, sassy and annoying. He was holding a miracle in his arms. She was alive! After all she had endured, she was still Sylvie: spunky and conniving, rebellious, cocky, and aggravating as all get-out.
‘Do we have a Christmas tree?’ she asked, making herself at home, cuddling against his chest. Sylvie wanted to savor every moment with him. She knew it wouldn’t last. Connor felt sorry for her, that was all. She’d gotten hurt and he felt responsible. He sat beside her bed and saw to her every need not because he cared for her, but because he felt guilty. Oh he was fond of her, sure. She was an ex-employee. But it didn’t go beyond that. When she was well again, it would be over and they’d go their separate ways. She’d accepted that. Sylvie hadn’t been a raving beauty before this happened. She’d always considered herself skinny and plain, quite unremarkable. Now her body was scarred and her face disfigured. She’d felt the size of her nose and the dent in her head, and the bulge around her eye. As soon as he’d done what he thought was his duty, he’d go scurrying back to Seanna or his Victoria’s Secret model. That was the only way it could end. She could live without him she told herself. But in the meantime, while they were together…
‘You have a little Christmas tree. Right over there,’ he said, pointing to a little tree he’d placed on her dresser.
She pushed back away from his chest and frowned. ‘Is that the only tree we’ve got?’ she asked, obviously disappointed. ‘It doesn’t feel much like Christmas without a tree.’
‘Right now you’re ill. You’re supposed to be confined to bed so I don’t think you’d enjoy a tree much anyway.’
‘Yes I would,’ she contradicted. ‘We could put it over there in front of the window with lots of multicolored lights and some pretty glass bulbs and candy canes and silver garland and a big silver star on top.’
‘And if you had a pretty tree to look at, would that help keep your sassy ass in bed?’ he asked, looking at her skeptically.
‘It might,’ she said, smiling sweetly at him. ‘Are we negotiating terms?’ she asked.
‘More like renegotiating. The original deal was you stay in bed or I blister your ass.’
‘I never agreed to that!’ she scowled.
‘No you didn’t. Very well, we’ll get you a tree for your room. Is there anything else I can do to assure that you keep your butt glued to that bed?’
‘You could sleep in it with me,’ she said. ‘It’s very lonely and scary in here at night by myself. If you were with me I wouldn’t be scared or lonely and I wouldn’t dare get up.’ She grinned at him. ‘Of course I’d have to take a shower first ’cause I’m a little groaty.’
Scary? Was she really afraid? He had the distinct feeling he was being played. It wouldn’t be the first time. ‘I can’t sleep in here,’ he argued. ‘I could roll over and hurt you. You’re not all healed yet. And besides, I’d keep you awake with my snoring. I’ll arrange to have a nurse sit by your bed all night.’
‘No! I don’t want one of them. I want you! I don’t care about your rolling over or snoring. That’s why God created elbows. Please!’ She looked so hopeful.
He tried to change the focus of the conversation. ‘As for the shower, the nurses give you two sponge baths a day. You’re perfectly clean.’
‘I don’t feel clean. I feel yucky and sticky. I need to shower,’ she whined.
‘I’m not convinced that’s a good idea; but fine. I’ll ask the doctor tomorrow if you can have a shower. But if he says no, we will abide by that decision. Is that understood? No more discussions! No more whining!’
Sylvie grudgingly nodded and gave him a dirty look.
‘And as for the sleeping arrangements…alright, if you insist, I will sleep in here with you. But just so you know, nothing has changed; you will still be going to bed at eight. I’ll come to bed when I’m done working. Agreed?’ Lying in bed with her and not being able to touch her would be sheer torture! That’s all he thought about now. How it would feel to hold her in his arms again. To kiss her. To suckle at her breast. To lick the nectar from her nether lips. To sink into the welcoming warmth of her velvety slit. His cock was getting hard just thinking about her. How would he survive it? Can a man die of blue balls?
This was not exactly what she wanted, but it was the best she could do at the moment. They’d be renegotiating this deal again very soon. ‘Agreed.’
