Tutoring Tucker. Debrah Morris
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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.”
“Is that so?”
“Why, sure. What good is money, if money doesn’t do good?”
Was this guy for real? He was either the biggest fraud or the most chillingly earnest man she had ever encountered. “Who said that?” She didn’t recognize the quotation.
“I did. I made a promise, if I ever hit the jackpot, I’d use the money to make a difference in the world. See what I’m saying?”
“Who did you promise?” Her words were necessarily breathy, since the unprecedented drop in oxygen level. What was sucking all the air out of the room?
He grinned, and another wave of unidentified emotion washed over her. He had the sweetest, purest smile Dorian had ever seen on anyone not officially a member of the seraphim or cherubim.
“Why, I promised me.” Tucker’s eyes turned heavenward. “And Him.”
“And you believe a promise is a promise.” Dorian wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone who shared that ideal. In her experience promises were easily made and easily broken, when keeping them became difficult or inconvenient. How long had she clung to her mother’s many promises before realizing they were nothing but empty words?
“Well, sure.” He exhaled, as though deeply relieved. “Boy howdy, I’m glad you understand where I’m coming from, Miss Burrell.”
But did she? Tucker clearly kept his promises. She had the unwelcome