Chapter 9
DEVLIN
Devlin lay there, a fog of confusion disorientating him. Why did Darcy want to know about him and not about Devlin Storm the billionaire. Devlin Storm the CEO. Devlin Storm the famous entrepreneur and his penthouse suite and bulging bank balance. He was normally batting away questions about how many zeros he’d added to his wallet that week, or what type of private jet he was flying on that weekend. Darcy was skipping those important questions and hitting straight for the personal, mundane stuff. Devlin didn’t get it. He scratched his head like a cartoon and behind him, Darcy sighed.
He wondered if she would lash out at him, if she would ask him more questions or maybe throw some insults his way, but she just rolled over so that her back was to him. He felt terrible for reacting to her questions the way he had, but she’d hit on such a nerve. His mum had passed so recently that it still felt like a raw wound, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it. Besides, if she knew the truth about why he was here, why he’d risked their lives, she’d probably laugh at him. The whole world would laugh at him. That’s why he had kept it a secret.
The only thing was, now he’d spent time with Darcy, he knew she wouldn’t laugh at him, not even a little. Darcy seemed genuinely kind and caring. She was annoyingly argumentative, sure, and quick to defend herself — not exactly a bad quality — but beneath all that, there was a deep compassion. There’s no such thing as a small act of kindness , she’d said. Every kindness is a great act, and can change a life for ever . She’d gone out of her way to help him ever since they arrived at the cabin — splinting his arm, and finding him clothes, pain relief, and the map — and she’d shown none of the false affection and clinginess that he got from other women. He had no doubt that if she found out the truth of why they’d crashed on the mountain, she’d be perfectly kind about it.
But he wasn’t going to tell her . . . not yet. Not until he’d thought of a plan to get them home. The truth was, he had no idea what to do next, and if he didn’t think fast then they could be in serious trouble. He screwed his eyes shut, feeling the pain start to ebb back into his arm. Darcy had splinted it well, and the painkillers had been effective, but a broken arm was a broken arm, and it was excruciating. He couldn’t think straight. It would be better to get some rest, then try to figure things out in the morning.
Besides, how was he supposed to think about escape when all he really wanted to do was roll over and look at the woman who lay beside him? Although the conversation had taken an unfortunate turn, and the conditions weren’t exactly ideal, he’d enjoyed talking with her. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken so freely about anything to anyone — and he was sure he had never come close to breaking down with anyone else before. Usually, he clammed up when people asked him about his life, or he gave a flippant, scripted reply that made him look like the shitty rich man the world knew him to be and he didn’t care. But there was something about Darcy that made him feel like he could open up to her, like he could tell her anything.
It’s the endorphins from the near-death experience talking , he told himself. There’s nothing special about her .
Then why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? He moved carefully onto his back and glanced over at her. She was so close he could smell her hair — a hint of coconut that made him feel like he was lying on a tropical island, not in a cabin on the mountainside. What he wouldn’t give to curl himself into her, to bury his face in her hair and his hand on her waist and . . .
“If I die first, you have my permission to eat me if you need to.” Darcy’s sudden statement was so out of the blue it made Devlin bark out a laugh.
He coughed to try and hide it, bending his good arm behind his head and resting back onto his hand.
“Noted.”
Darcy shuffled around onto her back, too, the movement tugging at the covers and making Devlin’s skin fizz as they brushed against his clothes. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to think about eating Darcy. Why had she said that? Now all he could think about was catching her standing almost naked, shivering in her underwear. He wanted to eat her, to run his tongue along her collarbone, to dip his fingers and taste her. Something stirred deep inside him, and he shifted his hips, trying to focus on the patch of damp that looked like a map of Australia blooming above his head. The covers were heavy, but not heavy enough to disguise how his thoughts were making him feel.
She sighed, and the sound made his head spin.
“Well?” she asked, expectantly.
Devlin froze. Was Darcy feeling the same way he was? Did she want him to taste her now? He cast his eyes sideways. Her profile was like the Alps, peaks and troughs forming her perfect nose and lips. Lips that he bet tasted as sweet as the rest of her would. A heat buried itself deep in his stomach, pulsing through his body enough for him to forget his broken arm.
“Are . . . are you sure?” he stuttered. He didn’t know what had come over him. Put him in bed with a gorgeous woman and he was never lost for words or moves. Darcy, though, she was something else.
“Well, I’m not sure I am anymore,” she said, and Devlin silently cursed his hesitancy. “I offer myself up as a meal in the worst-case scenario and you don’t return the favour. I mean, I get that it’s not the easiest decision to make, but you could offer me a finger to chew on or some ribs.”
She drew silent for a moment and the reality of what she had actually been offering sank in. Devlin felt like an idiot. Of course she didn’t want him to devour her in the same way he wanted to.
“Though maybe it is an easy decision for you,” she went on. “Given that you’re a survival expert and I’m a loser who doesn’t like adventure. It would be best if I go first anyway, there’s not an inch of fat on you. I’d have to rely on gristly muscle. Whereas my backside could feed you for a week.”
Devlin lifted the pillow and buried his face in it, groaning. This woman had no idea what effect she was having on him and it was more painful than the break in his bones.
“I know, I know,” she continued. “Stop talking and get some sleep because tomorrow is going to be hard. But I’m still cold and my feet feel damp and I’m sharing a bed with a man who flew a helicopter into a mountain after promising to keep me safe. It’s not conducive to forty winks, let alone a great night’s sleep. And I normally wear an eye mask.”
Devlin answered with a grunt, trying not to picture Darcy in a blindfold. She was right, though, he was cold, too, and his arm ached, and at the end of the day they were stranded because he’d been reckless. Darcy shuffled again beside him, turning onto her side and curling into a little ball, her back brushing his hip.
“Not even a little toe,” she mumbled, before her breathing settled into the unmistakable rhythm of sleep.
Devlin pulled the covers up to his chin, watching Darcy’s back rise and fall through the blankets. When was the last time he’d shared a moment like that with a woman? It had been years. For all his reputation as a womanising playboy, he was actually terrified of relationships — especially after the way his father had treated his mother. He’d always been better off on his own. Devlin Storm the island, Devlin Storm the mountain , aloof and indifferent.
So what was it about Darcy that made him feel so different? What was it about her that made him feel like he was at risk of coming undone?
As if trying to answer him, the wind rattled the cabin, throwing sleet and snow against the window. Devlin shuddered, glancing at the fire. The logs they’d thrown on were burned away, so reluctantly, he cast off the blankets and walked through to the room at the front of the cabin. He tucked one log underneath his throbbing right arm, then managed to scoop another two in his left. He was halfway through the door again when he paused, looking across the room.
His suitcase sat there, by the front door. He wished he’d had the foresight to fill it with equipment, the same supplies he would have taken with him if he was going out on a cross-country ski run: a flare gun, utility tools, emergency food, foil blankets, and of course, a satellite phone for emergencies. But they all lay at the bottom of the ravine along with the helicopter and mobile phones that would be useless up here anyway. Instead, other than his passport, the case held only one thing.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll make it right.”
Feeling the sharp pains of grief and regret, he walked back into the living room, threw the logs on the fire, then lay down and tried to sleep.