Tutoring Tucker

“She already has. There is something you can do,” he suggested tentatively.

“What? Jump off a bridge?”

“You could get a job.”

She laughed. “What in God’s name could I do?”

“I’m sure you could find something. You’re a college graduate.”

“From a school whose art history department is housed in Burrell Hall, and whose scholarship program is endowed by my grandmother. The dean was grateful enough to overlook things like grades.”

“Still, you must have learned something in four years.”

“I majored in art history,” she reminded him. “Which really only qualifies me to visit museums. I minored in classical mythology. Seen any openings for a CEO of myths lately?”

Dammit. How had she let this happen? She was smart. She had money. Why hadn’t she done something with her life? While shopping, lunching and partying filled time, they did not fulfill much purpose.

She hadn’t always been without goals. Once in seventh grade one of her boarding school instructors told her the poetry she’d written had merit. One night at a rare dinner with her mother, she had announced her desire to be a teacher. Shaping young minds had seemed like a worthy vocation.

Cassandra had laughed.

“There are always entry-level jobs,” Malcolm pointed out.

The idea filled Dorian with the same curiosity and disgust she’d felt while dissecting fetal pigs in high school biology. “I don’t think so.” She’d been far too hard on waitresses, clerks and receptionists over the years to try and join their ranks now.

“Face the facts, Malcolm. I have no marketable skills. No experience. I don’t even have a résumé. If I did, I’d have to list debutante as my former occupation.” Why had she never realized before today that she was practically useless to society?

Malcolm glanced at his gold Rolex. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a new client due. You have a lot to absorb, Dorian. Go to lunch with your friend. Think about what we’ve discussed and call me later.”

“I will.” She dropped her phone back into her bag and rose as the receptionist buzzed to announce Malcolm’s next appointment. She paused at the door. “I can’t do lunch. I have no credit cards or cash.” The words felt as strange and distasteful in her mouth as a jalapeño lollipop.

Malcolm pulled out his wallet and extracted four crisp twenties. “I’m not supposed to do this. Pru would have my head if she knew, but I think you need to meet your friend as planned.” He handed her the money. “It’s not much, but should cover lunch.”

“Thanks.” Dorian tucked the bills into her bag. Never had she felt so grateful for so little. What would eighty dollars buy? A few meals. A couple of tanks of gas. A massage. A manicure. A small jar of her favorite moisturizer. Not all of those things. One. She’d never had to make hard choices before.

Stepping into the outer office, she eyed the rough-looking man perched uncomfortably on a chair in reception. He rose when she entered, as though someone who had taught him good manners dictated he do so. He grinned, and his long-lashed blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

He obviously liked what he saw, but Dorian was accustomed to that reaction from men. She gave him her patented “in your dreams” look, expecting him to turn away.

He didn’t flinch. He stood on Malcolm’s silver-gray carpet with his hands clasped behind his back and looked her right in the eye. He forced her to avert her glance. The nerve! This Neanderthal couldn’t be the new client. He wouldn’t know what a financial manager did, much less require the services of one. He had laborer written all over him and couldn’t have gotten past security unless he was here to change the air-conditioning filters or unclog the toilet. Clearly blue-collar, he looked as out of place in the plush office as a frog in a punch bowl.

But not nearly as nervous.

Tall and sinewy, he sported the kind of muscles a man got by working hard, not from working out. And chances were he hadn’t paid to have his skin bronzed. His tan had the natural look of one acquired the old-fashioned way, by spending a lot of time outdoors, far from a tennis court or swimming pool. He exuded a hard-core masculinity so raw and elemental Dorian could almost hear him sweat.

She was inexplicably drawn to his blatant virility, then shocked by the gut-punch power of her response. Ridiculous! She needed some serious aromatherapy to clear her head. Raw and elemental was not her style. No way could she be attracted to anyone so…inappropriate.

The object of her short-circuited desire was dressed in a stiff pair of jeans that hugged his narrow hips, long legs and taut rear. His blue shirt still bore creases from the packaging, the sleeves rolled back on his brawny forearms. His drooping Magnum P.I. mustache was straight out of the seventies and his dark hair was cut like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, distinctive but passé. At least his ’do was a decade less dated than his facial hair.

Dorian glanced down as she passed. Shoes revealed a lot about a man, and his were brand-new, pointy-toed cowboy boots. Figured. She favored Italian loafers herself, and the kind of men who wore them, but she caught Tina ogling Mr. Pheromone appreciatively as she ushered him into Malcolm’s office. Yeah, he was definitely the type who’d make the receptionist’s heart go pitty-pat. All hormones and hair.

New boots and no future.

By the time she arrived at the Venetian Tea Room and kissed the air beside Tiggy Moffatt’s cheek, Dorian had already forgotten Malcolm’s caveman cowboy. For the first time in her life she had real problems.

Best friends since grade school, Tiggy sized up Dorian’s mood with the experience of many years of shared confidences. “Who spit in your wheat grass protein shake this morning?”

“I have had the most incredibly horrible day.” She accepted a menu from the eager waiter, who was already flirting to increase his tip. She was not in the mood. “And it’s only noon.”

“What happened?” Tiggy folded her arms on the table.

They ordered, and Dorian relayed the story while they waited for their food. She even included the part where she had to accept Malcolm O’Neal’s paltry wad of twenties. A minor humiliation really, compared to the major disaster her life had become. Tiggy was sympathetic but on a tight allowance herself. Her trust fund was a mere shadow of Dorian’s, and since she wasn’t exactly the creative type, Tiggy had little to offer in the way of suggestions.

“Is there a problem with the Cobb salad, miss?” The waiter hovered at Dorian’s elbow.

Yes, there was a problem. She hadn’t wanted a salad. Compelled to scan the right side of the menu, she’d chosen the least expensive item listed. Then she’d lost her appetite when she realized for the first time that many people probably couldn’t afford anything on any menu. She’d had a disconcerting flashback to the night she and her friends had cut through an alley and seen a dirty man digging through the restaurant’s trash cans. They’d shuddered, joked and gone on their irresponsible way. Why hadn’t they given the poor soul some money?

They’d had more than enough.

“I’m just not hungry.” She pushed the plate of salad a few inches away. “Bring me another glass of wine, please.” If she had more cash, she’d order the bottle. Normally, she didn’t try to drown her troubles, but a little judicious soaking wouldn’t hurt.

“Do you want a to-go carton, miss?”

“Of course not.” How gauche to wag leftovers home from a restaurant. Then she thought of the empty shelves in her imported French cabinets. There wasn’t much in her restaurant-size chrome refrigerator, either, and she wasn’t about to spend any of her precious dollars on groceries. She smiled up at the waiter. “On second thought, why don’t you box that salad up for me, sweetie?”

“What are you going to do?” Tiggy asked after the waiter returned with the wine and removed the neglected salad.

“Eat leftover Cobb salad for dinner, I guess.”

“No, what are you going to do for money, hon?”

“I don’t know. Care to buy some jewelry?”

“I wish. But I can’t.” Tiggy glossed her lips with a tiny wand. “I’m living pretty close to the edge myself these days.”

“What am I going to do?”

Tiggy shrugged. “I heard one of mother’s maids say she lives on oriental noodles when she runs out of money before payday. You could probably buy a whole case of those for eighty dollars.”

“Maybe I’ll hole up in my apartment until this nightmare is over.”

“Yuck. How fun is that? Oh, no! Does this mean you won’t be flying to Cozumel with us after all?”

Dorian groaned. A large group of her favorite friends were planning a week at a resort on the exotic Mexican isle. This time yesterday, she’d assumed she would be sipping frozen margaritas on the beach alongside them. Now that seemed unlikely. She had never questioned their loyalty, but how would they react to her current state of forced insolvency? If their acceptance was based on her net worth, might they dismiss her as easily as they had the hungry man at the trash can?

She longed for Tiggy’s reassurance but didn’t dare share her misgivings with anyone, not even her best friend. Better to keep doubts hidden. They would grow in the light of day and eat away what was left of her shriveled self-confidence, like so many insect-devouring plants.

“Are you kidding?” Maybe derision would hide her insecurity. “I couldn’t finance a trip to a mud bank on the Brazos at the moment.”

The tinny strains of “The Eyes of Texas are Upon You” jangled from Dorian’s bag. She checked her phone, and Malcolm’s private office number appeared on caller ID. “What?” she asked without preamble. “Did Granny Pru discover your duplicity and demand you take your eighty bucks back?”

She leaned against the banquette and listened. Her financial manager swore he had the answer to her unprayed prayers. When he finished, she said, “Now I know you’re kidding. Oh, wait. I forgot. You don’t have a sense of humor. Which means you think I would seriously consider such a ridiculous suggestion.”

Malcolm refused to take no for an answer and threw in a crack about her temporarily desperate circumstances. He made her promise to return to his office immediately. Short on options, Dorian reluctantly agreed and placed the phone back in her purse. “I have to go.” She stood, picked up the plastic box of salad the waiter had placed on the table and fished in her purse for one of the precious twenties.

Tiggy tossed back her long, dark hair and placed a couple of bills in the check folder. “Let me get this. Save your money. You might need it.”

“Thanks.” She’d often picked up the tab for Tiggy and others in her circle. So why did she feel strange accepting her friend’s gesture? Did those who had to accept charity feel even worse? A guest at many fund-raising galas, she hadn’t once considered the recipients of those funds.

“What was that all about?” Tiggy asked. “Good news I hope.”

“Depends on your definition of good.” The two women model-walked through the dining room, turning male heads as they passed. “Are you ready for this? Malcolm claims he found me a job.”

“Already? Good Lord! Doing what?”

“Apparently some redneck I saw in his office today just won the lottery, and he wants someone to teach him how to be a man of culture. Kind of like Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle. Only reversed.” At Tiggy’s blank look, she added, “My Fair Lady? The movie? Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn?”

“Oh, yeah. And he’s willing to pay you to tutor him?”

“Apparently so. He wants someone to take him from roughshod to refined. To help him buy the right clothes, choose the right home, teach him to appreciate fine wine and gourmet food. According to Malcolm, he wants to learn to dance at balls and understand art and literature.”

“That sounds like your kind of job.”

“No, what it sounds like is a job for a freaking fairy godmother. Too bad I’m fresh out of magic wands.”

Stepping out of the cool restaurant into the bright midday sun, they crossed the parking lot and stopped to talk beside Tiggy’s Porsche.

“Malcolm says the man wants to be a real gentleman, so he can move with confidence in civilized circles. Apparently, he wants to understand how the millionaire mind works and use his nouveau riches for the good of his fellow man.”

“How noble,” said Tiggy sarcastically. “He’s a regular philanderer.”

“Philanthropist,” Dorian corrected absently. She was still trying to understand what kind of perverse fate made a poor man rich and a rich woman poor. Life simply wasn’t fair.

“So, do you think you’ll take the job?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should,” Tiggy urged. “Sounds like fun.”

“Fun would not be my primary motivation. Fairy godmother or not, I guess if an incredibly lucky bumpkin needs someone to spend his money and teach him the difference between a shrimp fork and a demitasse spoon, Dorian Channing Burrell is his woman.”

“You go, girl!” Tiggy used her keyless entry device to unlock the car door and ducked inside. “By the way, how much did he win?”

Dorian sighed. That was the biggest irony of all. “Fifty million dollars.”

Chapter Two

Briny Tucker glanced up from the magazine he was too nervous to read. The financial planner’s receptionist was staring at him. Again. She smiled, and he smiled back in what he hoped was a friendly yet discouraging manner. He didn’t want to hurt the poor girl’s feelings, but all the calf-eyed looks she kept shooting his way made him as jumpy as a tick on a hot rock.

He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans and eyed the door to Malcolm O’Neal’s inner office. What was taking so long? His errant gaze tangled with the receptionist’s again, and they danced through the smiley face routine one more time. Behaving like a gentleman could be a nuisance. He had accepted the coffee she offered when he didn’t want any, and he had tried to make small talk when he didn’t know how. He had even slipped the piece of paper containing her home phone number into his pocket, knowing he’d never give her a call.

Yeah, he sure enough needed lessons in how to be a gentleman.

He stroked his mustache and snapped his gum, two nervous habits he couldn’t seem to break. Normally he would be flattered by a pretty girl coming on to him, but wide-eyed, fluffy-haired Tina with her silky outfit and shiny nails was obviously out of his league. He was accustomed to dating girls who dressed up in rhinestone-studded T-shirts. Tina probably went out with men who wore ties every day and knew why a guy needed more than one fork. For the first time in his life he wondered if her interest was in him or his money.

Money? As in Who Wants To Be a Millionaire. Whoa! Hard to believe, but Briny Tucker really was one. About fifty times over. He still had trouble wrapping his mind around that amazing fact. Practicing the words in front of the hotel mirror last night had paid off—he could finally string them together in his thoughts without laughing out loud. Or looking around to see who else, besides God, was in on the joke.

Recent events did not seem real. Briny Tucker a millionaire. And all because he’d lucked out and finally picked the right string of numbers. Even after Uncle Sam’s sizable cut, he had more cash than any man had a right to bank in one lifetime.

But being rich wasn’t all fun and games. That’s why he’d asked around until he’d learned who handled his employer’s money. Anyone good enough for Prudence Burrell was good enough for him. The burden to do something meaningful with his windfall was a heavy weight that burned his gut and twisted his heart until getting out from under the responsibility was all he could think about. That’s why he was here. Trying to do the smart thing. He had a lot to learn before he could live up to the responsibility that had been heaped on his shoulders.

Careful not to let his gaze tangle with Tina’s, he angled a quick peek at the door leading to O’Neal’s office. His classy would-be tutor had disappeared through there when she barreled by a while ago. The financial planner said he needed a few minutes alone with Miss Burrell to explain the position Briny had to offer. What was taking so long? He checked his watch, the case scratched and battered from working on the oil rigs. Half an hour. Explaining must have turned into convincing. Or arm twisting.

Maybe he was wasting his time. The fact that Dorian Burrell was heir to the very company that Briny had worked for, up until a week ago, had seemed like another lucky coincidence when O’Neal first mentioned what he had in mind. Now that he’d had a second look at the pampered petroleum princess, he wasn’t sure she was the best hand for the job. Oh, the cool, blond, trust-fund baby could teach him what he needed to know in order to run with society’s big dogs—Dorian Burrell had flounced into the world with a sterling silver spoon clamped firmly between her perfect, pearly white teeth—that was not the problem.

Unlike the moony young receptionist, the hoity-toity oil heiress had looked at him down that pretty nose of hers as if he was something she’d stepped in while crossing the corral.

Briny didn’t know much about the world beyond the oil fields, but he was pretty sure flat-out scorn wouldn’t help him achieve his goals. The tutoring process was meant to increase his confidence, not blast it into fifty million pieces.

“If you have a better idea, Dorian, please share.” Malcolm O’Neal leaned back in his ergonomically engineered leather desk chair and adjusted his glasses. “This job didn’t fall into your lap out of pure dumb luck, you know. It’s definitely a miracle. I should probably notify the Vatican.”

“Very funny,” she muttered. Her overwrought fingers drummed a steady tattoo on the arm of her chair. Just because she’d had time to adjust to the fact of her impoverishment, didn’t mean she had to like the idea. “I’m glad you find my misfortune so amusing.”

“Dorian, as your financial manager, I highly recommend you take the job. I rather doubt you’ll find anyone in the universe willing to pay one-tenth of what my client has offered for your services, or any job better suited to your particular, ah, talents.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Malcolm.” Dorian knew he was right. She just hated that he was. Thirty thousand dollars was a lot of money for three months’ work. What was she worried about? She could handle this. Malcolm said she wouldn’t have to teach the nouveau riche Neanderthal everything. She could concentrate on appearance, etiquette, culture and the finer points of social grace while coordinating the numerous instructors, classes and training courses Briny Tucker would need to bring him up to millionaire-socialite speed.

Briny. What kind of name was that?

“As chief miracle worker, I get to call the shots, right? Run the show? Be the boss?” Otherwise she wanted nothing to do with this real-life Technicolor episode of the Beverly Hillbillies.

“Of course. Mr. Tucker has agreed to defer to your judgment in all things pertaining to his, ah, grooming.”

“Do I have to sign anything?”

“Just a standard business contract outlining your duties and terms of the agreement. Nothing to worry about.” He dismissed her concern with a hand flap and avoided making eye contact as he pushed a piece of legal-size paper across the desk. “I took the liberty of having this drawn up before you arrived.”

“Pretty darned sure of yourself, weren’t you?”

“Like I said, if you have a better idea…”

“I don’t know.” Signing a contract was a bigger commitment than Dorian had ever made before. A contract sounded official, binding. Scary.

“Three months isn’t such a long time.” Malcolm clearly wanted to close the deal, but Dorian refused to be rushed.

“Maybe not to someone with money coming in,” she snapped. The eighty dollars in her purse wouldn’t last through tomorrow afternoon. And if Malcolm thought she’d give the money back because he’d found her a job, he was in for a surprise. She glanced at the contract to confirm the figure he’d quoted her. “This Tucker person is really willing to pay that amount?”

“It’s all spelled out in black-and-white.” Malcolm slid a fancy platinum pen toward her. “Just sign, and we can move on.”

She was sorely tempted. As an ex-debutante with no employment history, minimal prospects, and if truth be told, no marketable skills whatsoever, she knew exactly how miraculous the offer was. Almost too good to be true. A ready solution to an unexpected cash flow problem. And far more palatable than bagging burgers at a fast-food counter.

She would definitely not look her best in a cardboard hat.

“What’s more, he’s willing to pay one month’s wages in advance.” This time Malcolm slid a check across the desk. “As his financial manager, I’ve been authorized to offer you the first payment today.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” This out-of-the-blue, too-easy solution smelled like a trap. She should kick off her new Ferragamo pumps and sprint to the nearest exit before she did something stupid. She had to be crazy. Why else would she even consider spending the next few months in forced proximity to a totally unsuitable man with whom she had nothing in common? One whose physical presence had made her aware of his inappropriateness in the most alarming way both times she’d passed him in Malcolm’s waiting room.

“He is an altogether intriguing, ingenuous young man,” Malcolm went on. “You’ll like him, if you give him half a chance. And I think Pru will agree, this may be a growth experience for you as well as him. She’ll be pleased you solved your problem and impressed by your resourcefulness.”

Anything to get back into Granny Pru’s good graces. “Oh, all right. I’ll sign.” Without bothering to read the fine print, Dorian grabbed the contract and scribbled her name across the bottom before she changed her mind. She tucked the check into her purse before Malcolm changed his. Growth experience or not, she was not sure she could ever forgive her grandmother for thrusting her into this horrible position.

Malcolm rubbed his hands together in satisfaction and rocked forward in his chair. “Excellent.” He punched the desk intercom. “Tina, please show Mr. Tucker in.”

Dorian groaned. “And please show me where you keep the Valium.”

Five minutes of Mr. Tucker’s company told Dorian ninety days would not be nearly enough time to buck Darwin’s theory and polish the hairy missing link into something remotely resembling a socialite. She had expected him to be rough around the edges. She was wrong. Tucker was a gum-chewing, hobnailed yokel of staggering proportions, who readily admitted he studied “rich folks” by watching Dallas reruns on satellite television. Raw and unpolished to the core. An unlikely, mustachioed blip on Lady Luck’s radar.

Dorian assessed the new millionaire. “Given time constraints and the current state of technology, complete molecular reconstruction is out. So to achieve positive results, the transformation process will have to be intense.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am. Like I told Mr. O’Neal, you’re the boss.”

For maximum effect, and for her own convenience, which she prized above all things, Dorian suggested her student move out of the hotel where he currently resided and into her West End apartment. “If not for the duration, at least until I can help you find a suitable place to live.”

“I don’t know about that, ma’am.” Tucker’s baritone was marred by a west Texas drawl. “Doesn’t seem quite right. Me living with you and all. I’d hate to get underfoot.”

His polite demurral possessed a certain Jed Clampett-esque charm, but a dialect coach would rid his speech of its twangy nuances soon enough. One of the first things Dorian had learned in her snooty Connecticut boarding school was the inverse relationship between regional dialect and perceived IQ. The stronger the accent, the less intelligent people thought you were.

“Don’t be foolish,” she told him. “We need a base of operations for your studies, and I prefer to have you close at hand. I can’t promise results if you’re not fully immersed in your new lifestyle, 24/7.”