As an adult, after watching his friends marry and divorce over the years, he’d decided marriages had a lousy success rate.
Still, given the way Cade and Zach had looked at their women, and Mariah and Cynthia had looked back at them, Eli had a feeling his brothers had a better than average chance to beat the odds.
He took a plate and worked his way down the length of the white-cloth-covered buffet table. If the food tasted even half as good as it looked and smelled, he thought, Zach had found a chef worth keeping. He reached the end of the table and turned away, realizing too late he’d stepped back into someone.
“Sorry, I …” He glanced over his shoulder and paused, then pivoted fully to look down at the woman. “My apologies,” he said, flicking a quick, intent look over the female curves encased in a slim black cocktail dress.
Petite and curvy, she had world-class legs, with trim ankles and small feet tucked into black strappy shoes with impossibly high heels. The hem of the dress ended just above her knees, and the black material looked soft as silk, clinging to the curves of thighs, hips, narrow waist and full breasts. Her thick brown hair was streaked with paler gold and fell to her shoulders in a sleek curve. Behind the thin black frame of narrow eyeglasses that perched on the bridge of her small, straight nose, her eyes were hazel. Those thick-lashed eyes widened as she looked up at him, and the soft pink bow of her mouth parted in surprise.
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