Sylvie's Gift

by Adrianna Dane

  "Just talk to him about it,” Allison encouraged her.

  "I know, that's what he said. But to just hand myself over to him. This ‘obey every command’ thing bothers me. But I think my bigger problem is that I want to do what he says. It excites me, even as I fear the kind of power it gives him. You don't know what that's like, do you? To hand over all responsibility to someone else?"

  Allison shrugged. “I've tried it both ways—I admit, it isn't for me. I always fought for control so hard, it made it unpleasant for both me and whomever I was with. I finally realized I needed the control. But that doesn't mean there isn't a lot of responsibility attached to it. To be the dominant partner brings with it heavy obligations, too, you know."

  "Well, of course, I know. Look at the job I have. I'm responsible for a lot of people and projects. I understand that. I just don't understand why I apparently need to be in a submissive role to be sexually happy and fulfilled. It doesn't make sense to me."

  "Everyone is different in that way. But it apparently satisfies you, so why worry about it? It makes you happy, I can see that. Already, you're a different person."

  "Yes, but is that good or bad? What will I become if I continue in this relationship?"

  Allison stepped away from her. “Give it time, Sylvie, don't try to second guess everything and worry it to death. Go with the good feelings. You can trust Daimaen. Gotta get back. I'll talk to you later."

  Sylvie moved away from the counter. “Thanks for listening."

  Allison smiled and winked. “That's what friends are for, darlin'."

  Deep in thought as she walked back to her desk, she was startled when she looked up to find a beautiful bouquet setting on her desk.

  "I guess you must have had a nice weekend,” Jane said from behind her. “Don't know who they're from, but somebody wants to make an impression."

  Sylvie walked over and pulled the small envelope from the flowers. She recognized the bold, black handwriting. It was the same as the note in her kitchen. There were a sinful number of oriental pink lilies in a beautiful Waterford crystal vase. She opened the card. Exotic pink silk and velvet ... just like something else I'm extremely fond of ... Miss me yet? D. She felt the heat of a blush spreading along her neck and into her cheeks.

  "I take it you know the sender?” Jane asked, an eyebrow raised.

  "Mmmm-hmmm.” Her heart pounded in her chest. It was handwritten and the envelope sealed, so Daimaen must have ordered them before he left that morning. She slipped the card into the pocket of her white suit jacket.

  Her concentration on such mundane things as work was shattered for the rest of the morning. How did he do that? Just looking at the flowers he sent made her wet. It was going to be a very long week. For God's sake, he hadn't even made love to her yet. He kept telling her she wasn't ready, that he was building her passion, whatever the hell that meant. As far as she could tell her passion was pretty well flaming out of control already. She knew he wanted her, she'd seen the hard bulge, felt it beneath her hands. So what was he waiting for? She suspected it was his way of controlling her in some respect.

  He sent the flowers on purpose, knowing his words on the card would inflame her. She would be more than ready when he got back into town.

  At three o'clock, Jane stuck her head into Sylvie's office. “Call for you on line one."

  She looked up and refocused. “Important, Jane?"

  There was a gleam in Jane's eye. “I don't know. You tell me. Daimaen Sinclair. Should I tell him you're busy?"

  Sylvie felt heat rise into her cheeks. “No-no, I'll take it. Would you please close the door?"

  "Sure thing.” Jane grinned and backed out of her office, pulling her door shut.

  Sylvie's palm was sweaty as she pushed line one and picked up the phone. “Hello, Daimaen?” her voice sounded hoarse and she thought, rather needy.

  She heard a deep chuckle at the other end of the line. “Sylvie, that sexy tone better be for me. Did you get the flowers?"

  "Yes, I did. They're beautiful. You shouldn't have."

  "Didn't want you forgetting me while I'm gone. They're just a reminder."

  "A reminder, hmmm. Of what?” She wanted to remain nonchalant, but it wasn't easy.

  "Of what? The territory I'm going to be exploring when I get back on Friday."

  "Friday. You didn't seem too sure when you left as to when you would get back."

  "I know, but I am now. And Sylvie?” That deep tone told her he was about to command her to do something outrageous, she just knew it.

  "Yes, Daimaen,” her voice was breathless with anticipation when she responded.

  "I'll be at your apartment at seven o'clock. I want you naked and wet when I get there. You understand?"

  She was right. “Naked?” she breathed.

  "And wet,” he repeated, drawing it out, his voice vibrating through her. “Do you understand?"

  "And what if I'm not, Daimaen?"

  "You'll be punished, you know that. We've discussed it. Remember?"

  "How will you punish me?” She was curious. What would her punishment be for defying his order?

  "It will be whatever I choose, you know that as well. But, take my word for it, you don't want to disobey. Why would you want to when there's so much pleasure waiting instead if you do as I ask?” Like bathing in warm chocolate syrup, his voice washed over her. “Are you wet now?"

  She hesitated before answering him. Damn the man. “Yes,” she breathed, not sure if she spoke loud enough for him to hear her.

  "When you get home tonight, I want you to take a warm bath, with lots of bubbles."

  "Yes...” The fire was banking as she listened to his requirements.

  "And I want you to think about what I'm going to do to you when I get home. And I want you to stroke yourself, like on the boat the other day. Remember?"

  "Yes, I remember.” It was tough forming the words; the heat blazed inside her to the point she almost forgot where she was.

  "And I want you to come."

  "God, how do you do that? I'm dying here and you're so calm, so unemotional."

  "Is that what you think? I'm hard as a rock just thinking about you pleasuring yourself. While you're fucking yourself slow and easy to a climax, I want you to think about me all alone here, fantasizing about you ... and what I'm doing with my fantasy of you."

  "Daimaen, stop, don't say another word.” She almost choked, visualizing him in his hotel room. “I wish you were here."

  "No more than I do, baby, no more than me. I've got to go. But don't come until you get home, hear me?” he ordered. “Never come, unless I expressly tell you to. Understand?"

  "Yes, Daimaen, but you're making this extremely difficult."

  He chuckled again. “Anticipation is half the fun. Take care of yourself, Sylvie. If I get a chance I'll call later in the week, but my schedule is real tight."

  She heard the click as he hung up. Her face felt hot. Damn, her whole body was burning up. She was going to have to calm down before she opened her office door. Her staff would have a field day with this one.

  * * * *

  As Sylvie expected, the week inched by. Her dreams were filled with Daimaen and her fantasies, but she'd kept her word to him. The bath and one climax he'd allowed her had hardly taken the edge off, serving only to drive home that she needed him—his hands, his words, his lips. And she expected that was exactly what he wanted her to realize. It still rankled that he understood her so well, and that he already controlled parts of her in ways she never would have thought possible.

  On Thursday she woke with a splitting headache and an upset stomach. As she got up, the room started to spin, and she had to sit back down for a minute. This was crazy, she never got sick. She wasn't going to get sick now, particularly with Daimaen expected back in town the next day. Slowly, she got dressed and went to work. Her stomach was too upset to eat any breakfast, so she went without.

  Unfortunately, neither the headache, nor the upset stomach
subsided, but seemed to only get worse. Around noon, her eyes started to burn. Is this what a migraine was like? She'd never had one before, but if this was it, she wasn't looking forward to dealing with it.

  It was when she started hyperventilating that she became worried and got up to go out to the front office to ask Jane to call her doctor and make an appointment for her that afternoon. She'd almost reached the door of her office, when the world tilted; it whirled and darkened and she couldn't catch her breath.

  "Jane,” she called feebly, just before she crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.

  CHAPTER 8

  Someone stroked her hair. Sylvie decided death would be preferable to what she felt like right now. She attempted to swallow and winced. It was like someone had shoved a metal pipe down her throat and scraped it raw. There was something over her nose and mouth. Slowly, she opened her eyes and tried to focus. The first thing she saw was Allison bent over her, a worried expression on her face.

  "Allison,” she rasped, her voice barely above a whisper, muffled by the obstruction over her nose and mouth. It hurt to talk; she licked her lips and swallowed again.

  Allison stiffened. “Sylvie, thank God. How do you feel? Never mind, don't answer that, you need to rest.” Allison's eyes were dark, lines of worry etched around her mouth.

  Sylvie tried to lift her arm, but was unable to do so. She glanced down and saw an IV attached. Her gaze flew back to Allison, eyes wide in silent question.

  Allison looked away from her. That bothered Sylvie. “Allison?"

  "You're in the hospital. You collapsed in your office yesterday."

  Sylvie's mind was fuzzy, but hearing that it happened the day before panicked her. How could she have lost a whole day? What had happened to her? “Yesterday?"

  Allison nodded. “Yesterday afternoon. Jane called 9-1-1, and they rushed you to the hospital.” Allison bit her lip. What wasn't Allison telling her?

  "Allison?” she prompted again.

  "The doctors are running tests. They don't have all the results yet."

  Sylvie tried to acclimate herself to what was happening and where she was. “It's Friday?"

  Allison nodded. “Friday evening. You've been here a little over twenty-four hours."

  The oxygen mask on her face aggravated Sylvie and again she tried to move her arm to remove the offending obstruction.

  Allison stilled her hand. “Don't, the doctor says you need the oxygen right now."

  "I need some answers.” All of a sudden she felt what strength she had dissipate. She didn't want to go back to sleep. She wanted to know what was happening to her. “It's Friday?” She was repeating herself, but couldn't help it. Her brain was clouding over again. If it was Friday, Daimaen was due home, and she was going to miss him. He'd think she didn't want to see him, that she was avoiding him.

  "Daimaen?” She couldn't seem to manage more than just the one word and that was hardly a whisper.

  "It's all right. I called Daimaen's office and left him a message. Please, try to get some rest now. We can talk later."

  Sylvie's eyelashes fluttered and then fell. She wanted answers, but it seemed just the slight conversation with Allison wore her out. Daimaen would be irritated she wasn't at home. Would he come to the hospital? Did he even get the message? Would he care? Her brain refused to form answers to her questions.

  * * * *

  Daimaen's plane was late setting down. He had just enough time to make it to Sylvie's apartment. He'd pushed hard to get all the meetings in and documents signed, so he could get back home. He was exhausted, only the thought of Sylvie waiting for him kept him sane. Her lush, innocent responses had kept him hard all week, his fantasies of her, the only thing keeping him focused in finishing up. Meeting after meeting, most days running into the early morning hours as agreements were hammered out, until much to his relief the final signature was secured on the last document. He couldn't get out of there fast enough.

  His Sylvie. Would she be waiting as he requested? He was eager for that first sight of her after the long week apart. Naked and wet. Ready for his touch. His fantasies only took him so far. Her willing, eager body, flushed with arousal, damp with the need only he could assuage. She'd called him unemotional. Little did she know how eager he was to return to her, the self-control it took to remain focused on the negotiations. He'd never had such a difficult time maintaining his concentration. But he knew she would be well worth his patience and restraint. The thought of fucking her hard and fast, sinking deep into her velvety depths, hearing her moans of pleasure, hurried his steps to the elevator, and impatiently he waited as it took him to her floor.

  Patience, Sinclair. You've waited this long, don't blow it now. He took a deep breath and halted at her door, anticipating what, or rather who, awaited him. He pressed the doorbell and waited.

  Nothing.

  He pressed it again. Had she decided not to pursue their relationship? Even so, he told himself, she wouldn't hide from him. She was no coward, she'd tell him to his face. Still no answer. Where was she?

  He pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. Damn, he'd forgotten to turn it back on when he disembarked from the plane, his thoughts focused on his ultimate destination. He powered it up now and checked the voicemail messages, skimming through until he reached one from his assistant.

  Mr. Sinclair. You have a message from an Allison Hunter. She said it was urgent. She said to tell you that Sylvie Taylor had been rushed to St. Mary's Hospital.

  Daimaen's chest tightened as he about-faced and raced back to the elevator. Dammit, he wished he had Allison's cell phone number.

  Considering it was Friday night, he made unusually good time weaving through traffic. What had happened to Sylvie? Was she in an accident? Dammit, he should have been here. When had it happened? How bad was it? His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He should have called more frequently this week, made time to call her, check on her. Sylvie was his responsibility now. So many should-haves and not a one of them mattered right now. All he could see in his mind was Sylvie's broken body lying in a hospital bed. He had to get to her.

  Daimaen parked the car and hurried through the sliding doors into the hospital and stopped at the information desk. “Sylvie Taylor. She's a patient. Which room?"

  The volunteer behind the desk checked the computer. “She's on the seventh floor, Room 731."

  "What's her condition?” He held his breath, waiting, his eyes burned.

  "It says here she's stable."

  Daimaen released his breath. Thank God. He strode toward the bank of elevators. He hoped she wasn't alone. But common sense told him that if Allison was the one who called, Allison was probably still with her. What happened? When did it happen?

  He pushed open the door to her room. Although he noted Allison's presence, he had eyes for no one but Sylvie, lying hooked up to IV lines and an oxygen mask over her face. His heart stopped in his chest. He'd never known fear such as this before. Already, this woman had invaded parts of his heart he'd managed to keep intact all his life. But then he'd known she was different the moment he saw her.

  He walked farther into the room, noting her pale face, so still. He needed to assure himself she breathed. He walked to the bed, and smoothed a hand lightly along her neck, noting the strong pulse beneath his fingers. His eyes detected every needle that pierced her skin, every bruise that marred its translucent, ethereal perfection. She looked so fragile.

  He turned his gaze on Allison, who'd stepped back, making room for him. “What happened?” he bit out, trying to hide the emotions twisting inside.

  Allison motioned him outside. He was torn. He didn't want to leave Sylvie now that he saw her, but he needed to know what happened. Reluctantly he followed her into the hall.

  Daimaen noted her tense face. “What happened?"

  She took a deep breath. “Someone tried to kill her, Daimaen.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears. “They poisoned her. She doesn't know."

&
nbsp; "What? Who would want to poison her?” He couldn't believe it.

  Allison shook her head. “Yesterday afternoon, she collapsed in her office. They called 9-1-1. Luckily, the EMTs were sharp enough to suspect poisoning. They managed to stabilize her and got her here quickly.” She stopped speaking and he could see she was having trouble continuing. When she looked at him, he saw the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Daimaen, someone put cyanide in her coffee. We almost lost her."

  He pulled her into his arms and hugged her. He didn't know Allison well, but she was Sylvie's closest friend, and he would do what he could to comfort her, needing comfort himself. “What are the police doing?"

  Allison pulled away from him and wiped at her tears. “They need to talk with Sylvie, but she hasn't been strong enough to see them. In the meantime, they've been talking to people at work. She hadn't had time to clean her coffee cup from the day before, which was good. They found traces of cyanide in the cup. Unfortunately, they didn't find any fingerprints to help them identify who might have done it."

  "I have some connections. I'll see what else they may have found out. Right now, I want to get back inside. She shouldn't be left alone. Thank you for staying with her."

  "She's my best friend, Daimaen, of course I'd be here. Don't think just because you've waltzed into her life that I'll go away, because I won't."

  "That's not what I meant, Allison, don't get your fur up. I'm just glad she wasn't alone. I should have made it easier for you to get in touch with me, but I was in such a hurry to wind up negotiations ... I never thought—"

  "No one could have. Who could possibly want her dead? She didn't make enemies. As far as I know, everyone thinks highly of her. I just don't understand it."

  Daimaen could see she was worn out. “Have you been here all night?"

  "Yes. I was afraid to leave her alone. She's been so ill.” She looked up at him. “They had to pump her stomach. And she stopped breathing. Thank God they knew what they were doing. And she's a fighter."

  Daimaen's blood froze at the thought of how close he'd come to almost losing her. Someone had come very near to succeeding. But why?