A Coulter's Christmas Proposal. Lois Faye Dyer
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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