thing in life.
Sometimes he had to be out in the open, exposed, to make the big plays. There had been one guy who always had his back. Kingsley Buchanan. King had never wavered. He’d always stood right by his side.
They’d been arrested—and then later released—for a crime they didn’t commit and that had sealed the bond between them. Guys always wanted to talk to him about his trophy-winning college career, women wanted to sleep with him because—and he was quoting here—they thought he was “dangerous,” and no one wanted to really get too close to him because questions still remained.
Who had killed Stacia Krushnik? What had Kingsley and Hunter done that night? And answers seemed to be getting harder and harder to come by.
In ten years memories had faded and evidence already in short supply had disappeared.
So that was why he’d parked his Bugatti in the circle drive of the one man who might have answers. The sun was bright—but hell, that was what living in California was all about. He’d been a bit of a hick when he’d first come here. The Pacific Ocean had awed him. Until then, he’d only ever been to the Gulf of Mexico and it didn’t hold a candle to the Pacific.
Now he had a house on the beach in Malibu and when he wasn’t up here in Carmel chasing down the past, he spent a lot of time on his deck watching the ocean.
He knocked on the door, pushing his sunglasses up on his head and scanning the area. The yard was nicely maintained, probably by a service. He’d never known anyone who really spent their time off working in their yard.
The door opened and an air-conditioned breeze wafted out and surrounded him. He put a friendly smile on his face.
“Hello, there,” he said. The woman who’d answered the door was tall—at least five-seven—and had long curly black hair that framed her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a brilliant blue that was almost the color of the waves he’d surfed at dawn. She had a tentative smile on her face and her lips were full. She had a long neck and wore a thin summer-weight sweater over a pair of khaki-colored shorts that reached midthigh.
Her legs...
They were long, tan, slim. And he had an uncomfortable flash of them wrapped around his hips before he shook his head and stuck his hand out.
He was here for answers, not a woman.
“Hunter Caruthers,” he said. “I used to play football for Coach Gainer and I wondered if he might have some time to chat with me.”
“I’m Ferrin, Coach Gainer’s daughter,” she said. “Come inside and we can talk.”
“Coach has a daughter?”
“Yeah, he does. Be warned I’m nothing like him. Can’t catch, can’t throw, and it’s rumored I’m allergic to all sports.” She led him deeper into the house to a sunny kitchen.
“All sports?”
“As far as I can tell,” she said. There was a teasing note in her voice and the slightest bit of a twang that he recognized.
As they passed the den he noticed a trophy case on one wall as well as photos of Coach Gainer with celebrities, politicians and famous alums. The one Coach had taken with Kingsley and Hunter was notably absent.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asked as she gestured to the farmhouse table in the sunny breakfast nook.
“Um... I’d like to just see Coach,” Hunter said.
As cute as she was, Hunter was here on business and flirting with the coach’s daughter had dumb written all over it.
“We have to talk first,” she said.
“Lemonade talk or whiskey?”
She gave him a smile. “Lemonade. What kind of conversations have you had that require whiskey?”
He watched her as she went and filled two glasses with lemonade. “More than you want to know.”
She handed him a glass and sat down across the table from him. “Coach had a stroke earlier this year and I’m not sure what he’d be able to say to you.”
A stroke?
“Is he okay?”
“The doctors say he will be. I’m here to help him recover and get back on track, but he doesn’t like the medicine—never mind that. He has his good days and his bad days. I just don’t know if he will talk to you or not.”
Well, hell. There were times when Hunter thought he was never going to have any peace about Stacia. Maybe that was fair. Maybe the universe was leveling things out because he hadn’t been able to protect her.
He didn’t know. Even his mom with all her faith couldn’t help him figure this one out.
“Can I try?” Hunter asked at last.
“Yes,” Ferrin said.
He finished his lemonade, but noticed she didn’t touch hers and that she kept staring at him.
Hell.
Did she recognize him?
“I don’t know all of Coach’s players. When did you play for him?”
“Ten years ago,” he said. He really didn’t want to mention Stacia until he had a chance to talk to Coach.
“Were you one of his famous players?” she asked.
“Sort of?”
“NFL, right? Quarterback?” she asked.
“No, that was my friend Kingsley. I was a wide receiver,” he said. Apparently she didn’t recognize him from the Frat House Murder scandal.
“Dad will be happy to see you. Let me take you to him,” Ferrin said, leading the way out of the kitchen. He tried to keep his eyes on the framed team portraits that lined the wall next to the curving stairs but his gaze kept skipping back to her hips. Her clothing wasn’t at all come-hither, but the way she moved drew him.
She paused at the top of the stairs. “This is your team, right?”
He leaped up the last two steps and stood next to her. Yeah, that was them. Before everything had happened. He was standing next to Clive and Kingsley. God, he looked young.
And sappy. Who smiled that big for a group photo?
A guy who thought he was going to be a big-time NFL star and thought the world was his oyster, that’s who.
“That was a long time ago.”
She didn’t respond but continued walking down the hall to the last door on the left. She opened it and gestured for him to stay in the doorway.
“Coach?” she called. “You have a visitor.”
“Who is it, sunshine?” The words were slurred and as Ferrin pushed
