From Friend to Fake Fiancé (16 page)

His Seduction Game Plan

by Katherine Garbera

One

“H
ello, sunshine.”

Ferrin Gainer forced a smile at the man who most days barely recognized her. She'd never been close to her father. He'd lived for football and for the trophies he displayed proudly in their formal living room. Having a daughter had been a huge disappointment to him. Having one who flinched every time a football came flying through the air at her had been an embarrassment.

She'd barely seen him after her parents divorced when she was ten. She was vaguely aware that two of his players—his honorary sons—had been accused of murder some ten years ago when she'd been fifteen. But even that hadn't made him want to bond with her. In fact, it had only been two heart attacks and a severe stroke that had made him reach out to her.

She was twenty-five and had hoped she'd be past the need for a bond with her father, but let's face it, she wasn't. She knew not all of her friends had good relationships with their families, but that was what she wanted for herself.

She and her mom were close. They talked to each other every day. Her mom hadn't been a huge fan of Ferrin taking a sabbatical from her teaching job at the University of Texas and coming to California to take care of her father, but had understood it.

As a professor of psychology, Ferrin had put herself under the microscope a few times and what she saw...well, it made her mad. She should be able to move on but somehow she couldn't. She didn't want to accept the fact that this relationship was horribly broken.

She would fix it.

Dammit.

“Hey, Coach. How are ya feeling today?” she asked. When she was little she'd tried calling him Dad a time or two but he always insisted she call him Coach. Even before her parents divorced.

“I'm okay,” he said, slurring his words. The last stroke had seemed to sap his will. There was something inside him that seemed to be keeping him from recovering. She wondered if not being able to work out and stay physically fit for the first time in his life was affecting him.

She had no idea. He barely talked to her. She was tempted to leave him in the care of the two in-home nurses, but she didn't want to be that kind of daughter.

And she felt guilty.

She knew if her mom were in the bed, well, Ferrin would be here no matter what. She owed at least as much to the man who'd given her half her DNA.

“That's good to hear. It's a beautiful day today so after breakfast, we're going out to sit in the garden.”

“No.”

She ignored him and went to the windows to open the drapes. Coach liked to keep the room dark; she'd thought at first maybe he had some light sensitivity from the stroke but his doctors informed her he didn't. The only thing keeping him in the dark was his desire to hide. It was as if there was something emotional inside that was causing him to retreat from the world.

She opened up one heavy drape and then the others. The Pacific Ocean was visible from Coach's bedroom. The frothy surf contrasting with the deep blue water and the rolling waves promised relaxation. Something that had evaded her since the moment she'd arrived on the West Coast.

“Leave them,” he said again, slurring his words.

She hated hearing him like that. As estranged as their relationship had always been, she'd liked that her dad was strong. And he wasn't anymore.

“Just while you eat your breakfast. Joy is bringing it up and I'm going to eat with you. You know I don't like eating in the dark.”

Ferrin had found if she ate with her father then he finished most of his food. She suspected he ate so he didn't have to talk to her, and she didn't mind. The doctors said eating well and getting him out of the bed were the keys to his recovery. So she'd do whatever she had to.

“Fine.”

He sounded surly, which almost made her smile. At least he wasn't pretending to sleep or ignoring her.

“You received another letter from the school yesterday. They are honoring you—”

“No.”

“No?” she asked, pushing the button on the bed that raised the back. The college had refitted his room with state-of-the-art medical equipment after the first stroke. And they'd hired Joy, the housekeeper, as well as two in-home nurses.

“I don't want their guilt offering,” he said. His words were a lot clearer than they'd been earlier.

She adjusted the sheets over his lap, reached for his empty breakfast tray and placed it on the bed. “It's not guilt.”

“How do you know?”

She knew guilt. “They're honoring you, Coach, because you brought a lot of accolades to the school.”

And money.

Winning meant money and her father had been one of the winningest coaches in the history of the college.

“Where's breakfast?” he asked, slurring again.

She went to the hall and signaled Joy to bring in the food. Joy set everything up and then left.

“I want you to think about accepting this honor,” Ferrin said as she ate her yogurt and fruit.

Her father had a difficult time eating but would accept no assistance from her. It was something she'd learned the hard way. He was slow lifting his right hand to his mouth and he chewed awkwardly. The left side of his face still wasn't fully functional. But he tried.

“If I take it,” he said, looking up at her, his usually hazy green eyes almost clear, “then that means I'm not going back.”

She didn't say anything.

He wasn't going back. But maybe believing he could would help him recover.

“I'm not sure it means that, but we can talk about it later,” she said.

She should try to get some of his players to come up here and talk to him. That would cheer him up, and maybe hearing from the people he'd always wanted to spend time with would give her a key to understanding her father. A man who was still a stranger despite the past two weeks she'd spent living with him.

The doorbell rang as Joy was helping clean up the trays.

“I'll get it,” Ferrin said, anxious to leave the doom of her father's room.

* * *

Hunter Caruthers rolled up to the Carmel mansion in the middle of the afternoon. He'd spent the day in the dusty archive room at his alma mater, the University of Northern California, trying to find more evidence to clear his name in the murder of his college girlfriend ten years ago.

All he'd found was that he hadn't outgrown his dust allergy. Even though his mom had always said he would. He was the youngest son of five from a big old Texas ranching family. His parents loved God, cattle, family and football. Since he'd never really loved the land the way his brothers had, Hunter had started playing football.

He'd found religion in football. He wasn't trying to aggravate anyone—especially his mom—when he said that, but he saw the world through football. He got that if no one had his back and he was wide open, he'd get the pass and then probably have to face down two or three opposing players by himself. Or he might run like all the demons in hell were chasing him and make a touchdown—become the hero of the game.

Same 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 the door open further, Hunter noticed that the strong coach he remembered was now a shell of that man.

Sunshine?
Coach had never seemed the type of man to give anyone a nickname. But he was seeing a different side of him.

“Hunter. He used to play football for you,” Ferrin said.

“Hunter Caruthers?”

“Yes, sir, he wants to talk to you,” Ferrin said. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I'll see him.”

* * *

Ferrin went downstairs to her father's den to work while Hunter visited with the coach. She was working on an article for a small magazine that she wrote for, but the ocean just outside the French doors distracted her. So did the man upstairs. She knew few details about Hunter but his piercing green eyes and disheveled dark hair lingered in her mind as she tried to work. Instead of typing in the Word document she had opened she was tempted to launch her internet search engine and see what she could find out about him.