A Coulter's Christmas Proposal

“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.”