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“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.”
“But—”
“My apartment is quite large, and I have three extra bedrooms. You will hardly be underfoot, I assure you.”
“Well.” She winced as he drew the word out into two syllables. “I see your point, ma’am, but sharing living quarters doesn’t seem quite proper.”
“If you’re worried about impropriety, don’t trouble yourself. I promise not to compromise you in any way.” Surely her frosty tone let him know she would not touch him if provided with a ready supply of ten-foot poles.
“Oh, I’m not worried about that, ma’am.” His grin morphed into an embarrassed grimace. “I was thinking about your reputation.”
Her reputation? How gallant and provincial. Who considered such things these days?
Tucker gave Dorian a long, assessing look, his bristly brows bunched in indecision. Malcolm gave him an encouraging nod, and he said, “I suppose if Mr. O’Neal thinks it’s all right.”
“I’ll vouch for Ms. Burrell’s sincerity when she says you have nothing to fear in that area,” Malcolm said solemnly.
Tucker shrugged. “Okay, then. I guess I’ll move in with you. Truth is, it’s kind of a relief. Hotel living’s getting expensive, and Reba really hates staying there.”
“Reba?” Dorian blinked, startled by the unexpected revelation. Malcolm failed to mention the bumpkin had brought a bumpkiness along for the ride. “Your wife?”
“My dog. We’ve been together so long, I couldn’t bear to leave her behind in Slapdown. She would’ve pined away.”
“I see. How touching.” He must have greased quite a few palms to keep an animal at the Fairmont. She couldn’t decide which was more confusing. His loyalty to his dog or his willingness to pay to keep the mutt near. Maybe there was more to the man than met the eye.
What was she thinking? Of course there was more to him. Fifty million dollars more.
With Malcolm overseeing, they concluded their arrangements. Dorian gave Tucker her address, and he promised to present himself promptly at ten o’clock the following morning to begin the makeover process. They stood, and she extended her hand to close the deal. The suddenly rich former oil rig foreman engulfed her small, manicured hand in both of his, infusing her skin with electrifying warmth as he pumped up and down.
“I sure thank you for taking me on like this, Miss Burrell. I need all the help I can get, and with a lady like you, well, I know I’ll learn from the best.”
“I’ll certainly try to be of assistance to you, Mr. Tucker.” Dorian wanted to break the connection between them, to reclaim both her hand and her sense of control, yet couldn’t summon the strength. She was trapped, pinned in the vivid blue headlights of Briny Tucker’s long-lashed eyes. Eyes that looked deep into her and reflected more than she knew was there.
“See,” he continued, oblivious to his startling effect on her, “I won this money for a reason. Well, I didn’t really win anything. I was singled out for a gift from above and I’m supposed to do something meaningful with what I’ve been given.”
