A Coulter's Christmas Proposal

Eli instantly wondered just how soft her lips were and realized with a start of surprise that it had been a long time since any woman had interested him this much, this fast.

Amanda jolted when someone bumped into her, and she quickly held her flute away from her dress as the champagne sloshed toward the rim. She turned, words of annoyance freezing in her throat as she looked up into pale green eyes. Eyes that heated as Eli’s gaze swept her from head to toe, returning to her face while he granted her an incredibly attractive, very male smile.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Amanda realized she’d been silent, staring up at him in fascination, and felt her cheeks heat as she flushed. “I’m fine,” she said quickly.

“I didn’t make you spill that, did I?” He gestured at the flute in her hand.

“No, not at all.” She looked back at him. “You don’t have a glass. Don’t you like champagne?”

“I prefer whiskey but champagne works, too,” he said with a drawl, his eyes inviting her to smile with him.

And smile she did, helpless to deny the charm of that smile and the focused, heated intensity in his eyes.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.

“No, I …”

“Good. Then you can join me. I hate eating alone,” he said smoothly. He lifted a plate from the stack nearest them and handed it to her, then settled his hand at her waist and turned her toward the table. “I have it on good authority that the little pumpkin pie things are good,” he told her.

“Tarts,” she said automatically.

“What?” He looked bemused.

“The pumpkin pie things—they’re tarts.”

“Oh, yeah. Tarts.” He smiled at her.

She smiled back, knowing she was asking for trouble. She should tell him her name and why she was visiting Indian Springs. He clearly didn’t know who she was, and the minute he found out, he’d stop smiling and tell her to leave. His brothers had been polite when she’d approached them to ask for their cooperation with the biography about their mother. But they’d firmly refused, then hustled her out of their offices and off the Triple C.

She didn’t doubt Eli would do the same.

But she didn’t want him to stop looking at her with that interested male awareness that made her shiver. Not yet. So she allowed him to pile food on her plate as they moved along the laden table.

When her plate was full, Eli cupped her elbow and guided her to an alcove that held a small table and two chairs. The intimate seating was out of the flow of traffic and semiprivate.

“I just realized,” he said as he held her chair before dropping into the other seat to join her, “you haven’t told me your name.”

Her heart sank.

“It’s Amanda … Amanda Blake.”

“And what are you doing here tonight, Amanda Blake?” he asked. “Are you a guest at the Lodge?”

His eyebrows lifted in query, his even white teeth biting into one of the tarts he’d insisted she try, as well.

“No, I’m not,” she told him. “I’m staying at the hotel in Indian Springs.”

“So you’re not a local girl. Let me guess.…” His eyes narrowed, studying her. “New York?”

She felt her eyes widen, again. Apparently, Eli Coulter had an endless ability to surprise her.

“You’re right. I live in New York. How did you know?”

“You couldn’t have found that dress and those shoes in Indian Springs, and it’s not casual enough for L.A. Plus, you’ve got a slight East Coast accent.” He smiled, his eyes curious. “New York’s a long way from Indian Springs. What are you doing here in Montana?”

Oh, how she wished he hadn’t asked that. Amanda lowered her fork, took a fortifying sip of champagne and smoothed her fingers over the snowy-white napkin spread over her lap.

“I’m doing research for a book I’m writing.”

“Really? What kind of book? Fiction or nonfiction?”

“It’s a biography, actually.”

His green eyes sharpened, alert as he studied her. “And the subject of the biography is …?”

“Melanie Coulter.”

His eyes flared with swift surprise, followed just as quickly by a darker flash of anger, before shutters slammed down, his face suddenly remote. “My mother,” he said flatly. “You’re writing a book about my mother.”

“Yes,” she said, mourning the loss of his warmth. He was still focused on her, but now the male interest was absent. He studied her with as much detachment as if she were a fly on the end of a pin, ready for a biology class experiment. “I’ve spoken with your brothers. I’d like to interview all of you.”

“No.” There was no emotion in the word. Just a flat rejection.

Disappointed, Amanda stiffened her spine and continued. “If you want the world to know the truth about your mother and the history of her art, you can be assured that will happen if you agree to help me tell her story.”

“No.” He shoved back his chair and stood. “I’m sure I speak for all my brothers when I tell you that’s never going to happen. Go back to New York. There isn’t a story here.”

“But there is,” she said earnestly, rising to face him. “Your mother has become an icon in the art world. The story of her life is going to be told, either by me or someone else. If you allow me to interview you for my project, I promise I’ll not print anything you tell me in confidence. At least you’ll have some measure of control over how your mother’s story is presented to the world.”

“The world will just have to go on believing whatever the hell they want to believe.” His deep voice was grim, underlaid with a rumble of anger. “It’s what they’ve always done.”

He turned and stalked off.

What did he mean by that? The cryptic comment set off her investigative instincts. Frustrated, Amanda could only watch his broad-shouldered, powerful figure cleave through the crowd until he disappeared down a hallway. Clearly, there were deeper issues he hadn’t been willing to explain.

Still, she wasn’t sure if she was more disappointed that he’d refused to help with her research or if she mourned the loss of that focused, heated male attention as he’d stared at her and smiled.

Amanda lifted her flute and sipped, but she could hardly swallow past the lump of disappointment in her throat.

She was very much afraid it was the loss of his interest in her that grieved her most.

Chapter Two

Eli entered the kitchen and paused, realizing his anger had carried him out of the lobby, down the hall and through the doorway without conscious thought.

Damn, he thought with frustration. He’d known returning to the Triple C wouldn’t be easy but he hadn’t expected trouble to come from a pretty stranger. He’d been back on the ranch for less than an hour.

She’d caught him off guard. He hadn’t felt such an instant, powerful attraction to a woman in months. He frowned, considering.… Maybe it was longer than months. Maybe it was years.

Just his luck, she was writing a book about his mother.

No way in hell did he want somebody poking into life on the Triple C after his mother died. That bad chunk of time was better left forgotten.

But if she dug around, asked questions, she was certain to find out more than he wanted her to know about Joseph Coulter and his sons. And what she didn’t piece together from what folks told her, she could probably guess.

And wouldn’t that make sensational fodder for selling a book? Eli rubbed his eyes and bit off a curse, weary from more than the long journey from Spain to Montana. He lowered his hand and frowned blackly at the gleaming tiled island centered in the big room.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Coulter?”

The clear, polite female question brought his head up.

A woman stood at the stove, her slender body wrapped in a white chef’s jacket and black slacks. Dark blue embroidered letters on the jacket’s pocket spelled out J. Howard. Her fair skin, reddish-blond hair and slim curves added up to a very attractive package, but he realized with annoyance that he was still too focused on Amanda Blake to care.

“You’re the chef,” Eli said. It wasn’t a question. He inhaled deeply and nearly groaned aloud when the rich aromas of grilled beef and subtle spices filled his senses.

“Yes, I am.” Her level gaze assessed him. “And you must be Zach’s brother Eli. We heard you were expected. If you didn’t see anything on the buffet table that appealed to you, I’m happy to prepare something else.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Eli said. The words had barely left his mouth before his stomach growled—loudly.

The chef smiled. “It’s no trouble at all. And I can recommend the steaks. They’re from Triple C’s own beef.”

“I think I’d kill for a steak,” Eli said fervently.

Jane shot him a sympathetic glance. “Baked potato? Salad?”

“Yes to both.”

Eli crossed to the deep sink to wash up. By the time he’d dried his hands and taken a seat at the island, the steak was sizzling and filling the air with a tantalizing aroma. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.

While he waited for his meal, he brooded over his conversation with Amanda. He didn’t want a reporter digging into his mother’s life. He was convinced Amanda would inevitably ask questions about what happened to Melanie’s family after her sudden death. Neither he nor his brothers wanted the story of their father’s alcoholic rages and the unraveling of their childhood exposed in a book. His gut told him it would be like ripping open a barely healed wound when the inevitable publicity meant they’d all have to revisit bad memories. Life after their mother died had been a nightmare. He’d prefer to never again have to think about those years.

And if Amanda Blake was hell bent on conducting research for the story of his mother’s life, she’d stir up all the old stories in Indian Springs.

Too bad she can’t just focus her work on the good days prior to Mom’s accident, he thought morosely as he watched the chef remove a thick steak from the grill.

“I appreciate this,” he told Jane when she slid a plate onto the counter in front of him a moment later.

“Not a problem,” she assured him. The door to the hallway pushed inward and crowd noise from the lobby was suddenly much louder. “Just stay out of the way of the servers,” she warned him with a smile as three women and two men hurried in, carrying empty trays.

Eli ignored their curious glances and focused on the food. Two of the servers left with loaded trays, and by the time another two exited, the first two had returned with more empty trays.

When Eli finished eating, he carried his plate and utensils to the sink, rinsed and stacked them, and waited to catch Jane’s eye to nod his thanks before leaving the room. He paused in the hallway, considering for a moment whether to return to the lobby. Did he want to avoid Amanda—or was he hoping to run into her again? He frowned, wondering why it mattered, before he pushed the question aside. He was too tired to figure out the answer. Instead of returning to the lobby, where the decrease in the level of noise told him the party must be winding down, he turned right down the hallway and entered the office.

Just as he’d hoped, a leather sofa stood along one wall, and he stretched out on the cushions, crossing his booted feet at the ankle. But each time he closed his eyes, the image of Amanda Blake’s hazel eyes and lush pink lips, parted in surprise as she’d turned to look up at him, flashed in vivid color on the inside of his eyelids.

Exhausted, he managed to doze fitfully as the sounds of the party became gradually muted outside the closed door.

With Eli’s departure, Amanda no longer found the Lodge so intriguing and she located her friends, said good-night and left the crowded lobby.

As she drove back to Indian Springs and parked outside her old-fashioned, two-story hotel, the memory of those moments spent talking with Eli Coulter dominated her thoughts. The instant he’d learned she was researching his mother’s life story, his green eyes had cooled, his expression suddenly remote.

His reaction matched that of his brothers Cade and Zach when she’d approached them with a request for an interview.

And look how well that ended, she thought wryly as she climbed the stairway and entered her quiet hotel room.

Apparently, none of the Coulters were willing to discuss their mother.

Sighing, Amanda stripped off her clothes, hanging her little black dress in the closet and tucking underwear and hose neatly into a laundry bag before turning on the shower.

Twenty minutes later, her face scrubbed free of makeup, the ends of her hair damp, she folded back the sheets, propped fat pillows against the headboard and settled into bed with her laptop and a mug of hot green tea.

She opened the file with notes on Melanie Coulter and spent several moments jotting down her impressions of the Lodge.

Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to stay focused on details of the Lodge. As she paused to sip her tea, her thoughts once again drifted to Eli. The brothers looked very much alike with their black hair, green eyes, powerful bodies and frames over six feet tall. All of them were unquestionably handsome and aggressively male.

But only Eli had made her pulse pound and her heart race.

The intense physical reaction she’d felt had surprised her. She’d never felt anything quite like it before. Even now, with time and distance separating her from him, her pulse beat slightly faster at the thought of him.

She’d met good-looking, charming men before, but there was something unique about the alert intelligence in Eli’s green eyes and the way he seemed to listen intently when she spoke, as if she were the only person in the room. He’d had an easy, unforced patience while he waited for her to choose as they’d filled their plates at the buffet table. In fact, everything about him had intrigued her and made her want to learn more about the man behind the handsome face and sexy body.

Clearly, however, nothing would come of her interest, since he’d obviously put her on the don’t-speak-to list.

She sighed, considering her options. She had four months left of a six-month leave of absence from her job as an editor and occasional reporter for the Artist, a glossy monthly periodical with offices in New York City. She’d spent the first two months researching Melanie Coulter’s art. It wasn’t necessary to leave her Village apartment in New York for the early research since many of the people she’d wanted to interview—Melanie’s one-time agent, the art gallery that had sponsored her first showing and prominent collectors of her work—lived either in the city or within driving distance.

Her trip to Montana was the first away-from-home research she’d done for the book. She’d keenly anticipated doing on-site interviews with the people who’d been a part of Melanie Coulter’s everyday life.

But while the residents of Indian Springs had been friendly and polite, they’d been surprisingly vague about details when it came to the Coulter family. And the brothers themselves had been downright uncooperative.

Amanda unconsciously tapped her fingertips against her thigh and frowned. She was tempted to think there was a local conspiracy to withhold any information about Melanie Coulter. Melanie was a well-known figure and, by the very nature of her work, had achieved a certain level of fame. While her name wasn’t a household word everywhere in America, she certainly was well-known in art circles.

Puzzled by the mystery, Amanda searched the internet, clicking on several sites, only to stop at a website she’d been to before. The Fordham Gallery in San Francisco had artist photos of their regular contributors and she clicked on the page that featured Eli Coulter. He wore a Stetson, the brim of the cowboy hat pulled low over his brow in a pose that did more to conceal than reveal. The head shot was clearly professionally done and Amanda guessed the photographer had purposely found a way to create a sexy yet mysterious photo.

She scanned the brief note below that told fans there were no exhibits currently scheduled for Eli but the Gallery hoped to hold one sometime during the following year.

Quickly clicking through the information pages, she noticed there hadn’t been an exhibit in more than a year.

She wondered where he’d been and what he’d been doing that resulted in his falling off the gallery’s list for such a long time. Could there have been a woman involved? This random thought filled her with inexplicable jealousy.

Despite spending the next hour searching the internet and browsing websites for information, Amanda didn’t find anything that would explain why any of the Coulters were so reluctant to talk with her about their mother.

She turned off her laptop, shifting it to rest on the nightstand before she snapped off the lamp and pushed all but one of the pillows to the far side of the bed. Lying flat, she tucked the sheet and blanket under her arms and stared up at the ceiling.

I have to find a way to get people to talk to me and share their memories of Melanie Coulter, she thought. The concept for her book relied on personal touches. She wanted to tell readers not only about Melanie’s artistic successes but also about the woman behind the unique artwork.

Eli’s eyes are like hers, she mused. Despite her need to find a way to break through the reserve of Indian Springs’ residents and get them to confide in her, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from returning to Eli.

She was surprised at how much his rejection bothered her. She’d worked as a reporter at home in New York for several years and having a potential subject of an article resent her questions wasn’t that unusual.

So why did Eli’s coolness bother her so much?

She had no answers. Frustrated, she rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, determined to not think about him anymore.

But when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of a tall, black-haired man with green eyes.

Eli woke to the sound of knuckles rapping on the hall door of the Lodge office, accompanied by Cade’s voice.

“Hey, Eli. You in there?”

“Yeah, come on in.” He sat up as Cade entered. “Is the party over?” He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake.

“Everyone’s gone, except for Zach, Mariah, Cynthia and me,” Cade confirmed. “It’s nearly midnight. Come join us in the kitchen.”

“Sure.” Eli stood, hearing bones crack as he stretched, yawning. Fully awake, he followed Cade down the hall and into the kitchen.

The big room was brightly lit, stainless-steel appliances and the polished floor’s black-and-white tiles gleaming. The quick efficiency he’d noticed in the chef and her helpers earlier was obvious in the kitchen’s appearance. Gone was the earlier clutter of platters, stemware and food—now everything was spotlessly clean, the counters neat and tidy.

Mariah and Cynthia perched on the tall stools at the island counter, their gowns bright splashes of crimson and blue in the black-and-white kitchen. Both women were barefoot; their stiletto-heeled sandals lay tumbled on the floor beneath their seats.

“Hey, Eli. Want dessert?” Zach lifted the tray he carried in one hand. It was loaded with miniature iced cakes.

Cynthia swiveled on her seat. “We were all so busy circulating that we barely touched the buffet, so we’re making up for it now.”

“Sounds good. Count me in.” He took a seat across the island counter from Cade as his brother settled onto the empty stool next to Mariah. “How was the party?” he asked.

“The media people were impressed, so I’m counting it a success,” Zach said, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

“Everyone I talked with said they loved the way you restored the Lodge,” Mariah commented. “In fact, an older couple from California told me it looked exactly as they remembered it.”

“That must have been Nico Tomaselli and his wife,” Zach told her. “He’s a movie producer who was a friend of Mom and Dad’s and stayed at the Lodge in the old days.”

“So many people asked about reservation information that I lost track of how many cards I gave out,” Cynthia said with a laugh. “I think we’re a hit.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Mariah lifted her glass.

“You’re toasting our success with milk?” Zach asked her in disbelief.

“I had enough champagne earlier,” she told him with a twinkle.

“Which was really good, by the way,” Cade told Cynthia. “I think you should keep that supplier.”

“I’ll make a note,” she told him as she slipped down from her stool and walked to the fridge. “He has great imported ale, too.”

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Zach told her. “Champagne and wine are okay but real men drink beer, right, Cade?”

Eli sat quietly, a half smile on his face as he listened to his brothers tease the two women. He hadn’t wanted to return to Montana but he couldn’t deny he’d missed the good-natured harassment that always happened when his brothers got together.

“What are you drinking, Eli?” Cade asked.

“I’ll have a beer.”

Cade snagged another bottle out of the fridge and returned to the counter, sliding the bottle across the tiled top to Eli. “Here you go. Did you eat earlier?”

Eli nodded as he twisted off the bottle cap. “The chef grilled a steak and added a baked potato and salad. Great food.”

“That’s Jane,” Cynthia said with pride. “She’s a fabulous cook.”

“Damned straight.” Cade looked at Mariah. “Between Jane and Mariah’s boss at the café, who makes the best desserts in three counties, Indian Springs is turning into gourmet land.”

Zach laughed, Mariah and Cynthia joining him.

“Gourmet land?” Eli said with a bemused grin. “Did I make a wrong turn somewhere? This is the Triple C, right?”

“Yeah, it’s the Triple C, but a lot of things have changed since we were all here last,” Zach said.

Smiles disappeared and faces grew solemn. The kitchen suddenly seemed full of the ghosts of memories, not all of which were good, or happy.

“I suppose now’s as good a time as any to talk about Dad’s will, Eli,” Cade said. “You’ll need to see Ned Anderson, the estate attorney, tomorrow to get the official version, but basically, Dad left the Triple C to all of us, share and share alike. But he left specific parts of it to each of us that are ours alone. As Zach told you when you called from Spain, he left you Mom’s studio and the contents.”

“I’m still having trouble believing it,” Eli told him. “It would be easier to accept that the world had just shifted on its axis and was spinning upside down.” He shook his head, frowning first at Cade, then Zach, looking for explanations. “He blamed us for Mom’s death. And he hated my artwork. When I was ten, he threatened to lock me in the cabin’s cellar if he caught me drawing. Why would he give me her studio?”

“I know it doesn’t sound logical.” Cade’s deep voice held a wealth of understanding. “Zach and I had the same reaction when we found out about Dad’s will.” He nodded at Zach. “He left the Lodge to Zach and the cattle to me. Brodie gets the horses.”

Eli’s gaze sharpened. “What horses?”

“We’re not sure, but we think the Kigers might still be up on Tunk Mountain,” Zach answered. “We haven’t ridden out there to check yet.”

“And we won’t until Brodie comes home,” Cade said. “I figure he should decide when and how he wants to deal with what Dad left him.”

“From the brief info you gave me on the phone, it doesn’t sound likely Brodie will be able to check whether the Kigers are in the far pasture,” Eli said. “Even four-wheel drive can’t make it through that rough country, at least not all the way to Tunk Mountain, and Brodie might not be able to sit a horse.”

Cade shook his head, worry creasing lines beside his mouth. “Hard to say whether he will or not. The doctors say he won’t, but Brodie says he will.”

“Then he will,” Eli said with easy conviction. “You know Brodie. He’s never let anyone tell him what he can or can’t do.”

“I sure as hell hope you’re right,” Zach said with feeling.