“I don’t want to be just another blustering redneck in hand-tooled boots, with a big truck and a double-wide.”

“What do you want, Mr. Tucker?” Dorian whispered. Better question, what was this man doing to her?

He looked at her intently. “I want smart, powerful people to respect me. It’s the only way I can accomplish what I’m setting out to do. I know I have to earn their regard, and that’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

“Yep. I’m not worried about what’s in here.” He patted his chest with one hand. “Or here.” He tapped his head. “But I need you to teach me how to act the part so people will believe in me.”

The man was sincerity personified. There was nothing fake or phony or devious about him. Lord help her, Briny Tucker, the only millionaire in Slapdown, Texas, was the genuine article.

And she was charged with changing him.

Dear Reader,

Oh, baby! This June, Silhouette Romance has the perfect poolside reads for you, from babies to royalty, from sexy millionaires to rugged cowboys!

In Carol Grace’s Pregnant by the Boss! (#1666), champagne and mistletoe lead to a night of passion between Claudia Madison and her handsome boss—but will it end in a lifetime of love? And don’t miss the final installment in Marie Ferrarella’s crossline miniseries, THE MOM SQUAD, with Beauty and the Baby (#1668), about widowed mother-to-be Lori O’Neill and the forbidden feelings she can’t deny for her late husband’s caring brother!

In Raye Morgan’s Betrothed to the Prince (#1667), the second in the exciting CATCHING THE CROWN miniseries, a princess goes undercover when an abandoned baby is left in the care of a playboy prince. And some things are truly meant to be, as Carla Cassidy shows us in her incredibly tender SOULMATES series title, A Gift from the Past (#1669), about a couple given a surprising second chance at forever.

What happens when a rugged cowboy wins fifty million dollars? According to Debrah Morris, in Tutoring Tucker (#1670), he hires a sexy oil heiress to refine his rough-and-tumble ways, and they both get a lesson in love. Then two charity dating-game contestants get the shock of their lives when they discover Oops…We’re Married? (#1671), by brand-new Silhouette Romance author Susan Lute.

See you next month for more fun-in-the-sun romances!

Happy reading!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor

Tutoring Tucker
Debrah Morris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my sweet daughter, because she restores my faith in the world on a daily basis.

Caitlyn, I love you.

Don’t ever stop believing in fairy tales.

Books by Debrah Morris

Silhouette Romance

A Girl, a Guy and a Lullaby #1549

That Maddening Man #1597

Tutoring Tucker #1670

DEBRAH MORRIS

Before embarking on a solo writing career, Debrah Morris coauthored over twenty romance novels as one half of the Pepper Adams/Joanna Jordan writing team. Married, and a mother of three, she loves wrtiting down her daydreams for others to read.

You can visit Debrah’s Web site at www.debrahmorris.com. If you wish to hear about upcoming releases, send an e-mail to: Debwilmor@aol.com or write to P.O. Box 522, Norman, OK 73070-0522. If you would like an autographed bookmark, please send a SASE with your request.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Sometimes fairy tales come true

Once upon a time in the dusty village of Slapdown in a western land called Texas, there lived a handsome, bighearted young pauper named Briny. He worked hard, but compassion made him poor. Quick to offer a helping hand to others, he often said, “What good is money, if it does not do good?”

Briny labored in the oil fields, toiling long hours to provide fuel for people across the land. Although he possessed little education, he was blessed with native intelligence and an abundance of generosity, purpose and honor. So much so that people called him a prince among men.

If fortune cookies indeed reveal truth, that success is truly measured in friends, then Briny considered himself a wealthy man.

He had, in fact, almost everything he wanted: the esteem of people who mattered, a small house on wheels, a loyal dog and a truck that ran most of the time. He needed but one thing to make his life complete—a fair maiden to love. A special lady to share his simple life and adore him above all others.

That was the wish Briny held close to his heart.

Ever optimistic, he knew it would someday come true, for he believed in the everlasting power of love. He did not worry about fate or destiny or other matters beyond his control, because he trusted in the notion that good things rewarded good deeds.

So Briny lived day to day, never planning ahead, and rarely concerned by what the future might bring. But because he was hopeful, he clung steadfastly to a single ritual. Each week he stopped by the Bag and Wag to buy a six-pack, a pizza and a ticket in the Great State Lottery.

He selected his six magic numbers carefully, choosing those imbued with special meaning. Twenty-nine because that was his age. Six for the number of boys who had shared his cottage at the juvenile home. Thirty-two for all the puppies Reba had delivered since being rescued from a cruel fate. Twenty for the number of letters in his name, Brindon Zachary Tucker. Eleven because that was how many years he had worked for Chaco Oil.

The last of his magical numbers was one.

For the one woman he would spend his life with.

Over time, Briny bought many tickets. He never won, yet he nurtured the hope that Lady Luck would yet smile upon him. Careful not to ask too much for himself, he wanted only enough to repay his debts, a truck that ran all the time and a little house without wheels on land he could call his own.

Briny made a vow, pledged before God and the Bag and Wag’s aging proprietor. If by some miracle he should win, he would use his windfall treasure to make a difference in the world.

Cherishing his fanciful illusions, he slept soundly at night, little knowing his rare, simple life was about to change in ways he could not have imagined. For Briny, the generous young pauper who never dared to dream big, had no idea he was about to hit a jackpot beyond his wildest dreams.

But that was exactly what happened.

Chapter One

“I want to see Malcolm.”

Maybe she wasn’t having what her grandmother called a conniption fit, but Dorian Burrell had worked herself into a fine fizz during the nasty little scene at the bank. Normally she met with her financial manager over lunch at the country club. Driving through Dallas’s frenetic lunch hour traffic to his high-rise office building had only enhanced her already impressive head of steam.

She breezed past the startled receptionist, in no mood to wait for the woman to acknowledge her. She had questions. She wanted answers. A big-haired girl in a knockoff DKNY blouse would not have them.

“Excuse me. I’m sorry. Miss Burrell?”

Dorian paused and deployed her most withering look. The one calculated to strike terror into the hearts of waiters, sales clerks and secretaries who dared to challenge her. “Yes?” Her tone was chilly enough to wilt the potted philodendron.

The young woman behind the desk flushed an unbecoming shade of red and ducked her fluffy head to scan an open appointment book. The poor girl really should see a professional about those split ends.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find your name on the schedule. Is Mr. O’Neal expecting you?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll see me. Tina.” By emphasizing the receptionist’s name, Dorian let her know she would be ill-advised to displease a kid-glove client.

“Wait. Please. I’ll announce you.” In a desperate attempt to carry out her duties, Tina reached for the intercom phone on her desk.

“Don’t bother, I’ll surprise him.” This was a day for surprises. She’d had a few herself, none of which had been particularly pleasant. Dorian turned on three-inch heels and plowed through the heavy doors separating O’Neal’s luxurious office from the richly paneled public area.

Malcolm was on the phone but smiled at his unannounced visitor and motioned her in. She’d like to see him stop her. He made excuses and wrapped up his conversation, as though eager to give his favorite client his undivided attention. “Why, Dorian, dear. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Cut the chitchat, Malcolm.” She smoothed the short skirt of her ice-blue linen suit, folded her arms across her chest and perched on a corner of his massive teakwood desk. A long, silk-clad leg swung impatiently. “What the hell is going on?”

The man closed a folder, pushed his trendy little glasses up on his nose and frowned. “What do you mean?”

Malcolm O’Neal had a string of professional letters after his name and had handled the Burrell family’s personal finances for years. He might be preternaturally astute about investments and stock portfolios, but his smooth, self-serving manner was mildly annoying.

“Okay, now you can cut what is known on the street as crap. I have a lunch date with Tiggy Moffatt at the Venetian Tea Room in—” she checked the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist “—less than half an hour. I don’t have time for games.”

“You know I’d be happy to help you, Dorian, if I knew what the problem was.” Malcolm frowned and brushed invisible lint from his lapel.

What a vain, dapper man. His tailored designer suit, fine cotton shirt and carefully knotted silk tie had been purchased with the fees he charged her family. His dark hair was combed straight back, every thinning strand in place. He was clearly fiftysomething, yet there was no flash of silver there. He had to be coloring it.

“I’ll tell you the problem,” she said. “I stopped by the ATM to get some cash, and the machine ate my card.”

“Really?” Despite efforts to sound concerned, Malcolm simply did not act sufficiently surprised.

“Yes, really.” His underlying condescension grated on her already taut nerves, and she reined in the impulse to fling his Financial Planner of the Year paperweight across the room. “I figured the problem had to be a mistake or a glitch in the system, so I went inside.”

“And?”

“The teller summoned a weasel-faced vice president who informed me my account is overdrawn. Can you believe that?”

Malcolm tapped his pursed lips with a long, elegant finger. “Well, you have been overdrawn before.”

“I have not!”

“Perhaps you weren’t aware of the problem because your grandmother arranged with the bank to cover overdrafts in the past.”

She ignored the subtle yet pointed criticism. He was an employee, after all. If not hers, her grandmother’s. “It’s a couple of weeks until the next deposit from my trust fund, so I decided to get a cash advance on one of my credit cards. But weasel man confiscated them and would not give them back. Who does he think he is? I spent more money on shoes last year than he earned.”

“Please sit down, Dorian.” Malcolm waved her off his desk and into one of the straight-backed client chairs. “We need to talk.”

“Yes, we do.” She dropped into the chair, more confused now than angry. “Why would the banker do such a thing?”

“I’m afraid he was just following orders.”

“Whose orders?”

“Pru’s.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in disbelief. “My grandmother told some snotty little man to cut up my credit cards?”

“I’m afraid so.” Malcolm leaned forward and steepled his fingers on the parchment blotter. “And it’s not a ‘couple of weeks’ until the draft from your trust is deposited. It’s twelve weeks.”

“I’ve run out of money before. Granny Pru always covers my checks.” She pulled an iridescent red cell phone from her tiny designer bag. “I’ll just call her right now and get this mess straightened out.”

Malcolm frowned. “I’m afraid you can’t. She’s out of the country.”

“At the ranch?”

“She’s not out in the country, dear. She’s out of the country.”

“As in…” Dorian prompted impatiently.

“At the moment she’s on a Greek yacht in the Mediterranean, on the first leg of a rather long sea cruise. She instructed me to inform you she will be incommunicado for the next three months.”

Stunned by the financial manager’s bombshell, Dorian dropped the phone into her lap. “I don’t understand.”

“I believe your grandmother has cautioned you about your spending. Has she not urged you to live within your more than ample means?”

“Maybe. But she’s always advanced me money before when I ran out.”

Malcolm straightened his tie. “She said she warned you no more funds would be forthcoming if you were imprudent again.”

Dorian glanced at the ceiling and sighed. True. Two weeks ago she’d been summoned to the North Park town house and reprimanded for what Granny Pru called “living too high on the hog.” Having been dressed down before about her spending, she had scarcely listened. She’d been in a rush to meet her friends and make the opening of an exclusive new West End club.

“So what are you telling me, Malcolm?”

“You want the nutshell version?”

“Please. I’ve already had the lecture, parts one, two and three.”

“Simply put, you are out of money.” At her disbelieving look, he elaborated. “Strapped. Flat broke. Busted. The industry term for your current condition is insolvent.”

She laughed, relieving the tension that had built inside her. If she didn’t laugh, she might cry. And Dorian Burrell did not cry in public. She saved her tears for the lonely darkness. “You’re kidding, right?”

Malcolm’s brows lifted, reminding her he rarely dabbled in kidding.

Broke? She slumped in the chair. Having known nothing but wealth and privilege, she could scarcely conceive of the concept. Icy fear snaked through her. She was broke. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

“That’s what we have to figure out,” Malcolm said gently.

Her thoughts raced to make sense of an impossible, improbable situation. Would she be forced from the apartment her grandmother had given her when she graduated college? Part of a luxury West End renovation project, the penthouse commanded a fantastic view of the city and was close to the trendiest restaurants and night spots. Maybe she didn’t hold the deed or pay the bills, but she had personally chosen every item in her home, the only place she felt secure.

The houses she’d grown up in had never been homes. They’d been cold and empty, decorated by professionals, managed by housekeepers and cleaned by maids in gray uniforms. Her mother had floated through the artfully arranged rooms like an amorphous spirit, beautiful and not quite real.

Always untouchable.

“What about my apartment?” Dorian voiced her concern.

“Pru was explicit. You’re to continue living there.”

Relieved, she blinked back another sting of tears. This time they were tears of gratitude—even rarer for her than those of sadness or self-pity.

“But I have no money?” She would have figured her chances of uttering that particular combination of words in her lifetime were considerably less than, ‘I’m catching the red-eye to Mars.”

“Not until your next trust deposit.”

“Which is in September.

“Right.”

“This is June.”

Malcolm consulted his fancy desk calendar. “Correct.”

“I don’t believe this. What am I supposed to do until then? Did Granny Pru leave any words of wisdom before going incommunicado?”

“She said she was confident you could solve this problem on your own. You do come from strong stock, you know.”

“Please, spare me the salt-of-the-earth story. I know all about how great-grandfather Portis started out with nothing but a hundred dollars and a wildcatter’s dream. How he pulled himself up by his bootstraps to build one of the biggest, richest oil companies in Texas.” She pushed out of the chair and paced in front of the desk, her blond bob swinging.

As heir to the Chaco Oil fortune, currently controlled by her seventy-nine-year-old grandmother, she was well acquainted with family propaganda. “What the hell are bootstraps anyway?”

He shuffled papers in an attempt to hide his smile.

“I’m glad you think this is funny, Malcolm. Because I don’t.”

“I think your grandmother hoped you would look at the next ninety days as a learning experience.”

“Right.” Uncertainty coursed through Dorian, an unfamiliar emotion for someone who’d always been sure of her place in the world. Now that world was threatened. How could she manage without her grandmother’s love and support? Her father was dead. Her mother barely deserved the title. Granny Pru was the only person she could depend on. “Does she hate me?”

“You know better,” Malcolm said. “She loves you. Always has.”

“Is she trying to punish me?” Other than being born into the right family, Dorian had done nothing to deserve the advantages handed her on an heirloom silver platter. She had always stuffed the feelings of unworthiness down in the place where she stored all unacceptable emotions.

“I’m sure that’s not the case.”

“Oh, my God.” She stopped pacing and whirled to face him. “Has Granny Pru gone senile? Please tell me she hasn’t lost her mind.”

“No, of course not.” Malcolm dismissed the idea as absurd. “Prudence Channing Burrell is the sharpest, most savvy and sensible woman I know.”

“Then I give up. Did she mention why she feels compelled to turn her only grandchild’s life into a waking nightmare?”

“Actually, she said if you asked, I was to give you a one-word answer.”

“Which would be?”

“Cassandra.” He leaned back in his chair, apparently pleased with his cryptic response.

What did her self-absorbed mother have to do with anything? Pru and Cassandra had engaged in a bitter mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law battle for over two decades. Since John Burrell’s death thirteen years ago, his merry widow had maintained a palatial home in Dallas, but spent most of the year jetting around the country with her snooty, old-money friends. The last Dorian heard she was summering at Hyannis Port, still trying to worm her way into the Kennedy enclave.

Cassandra Burrell hired out unpleasant tasks. She had gardeners to clip hedges, chauffeurs to drive cars, cooks to prepare food and maids to clean up. She would have rented a womb if she hadn’t accidentally gotten pregnant first. Since she found motherhood an especially odious chore, she’d brought in a succession of nannies to perform the duties she found distasteful.

Early on, Dorian had learned to torment and manipulate the poor women paid to care for her. All in the foolish hope that if she could drive them away Cassandra would become a sweet, loving mother who gave hugs and kisses and cuddles. Dorian’s childhood tantrums were legend. If she wanted a bed-time story, she ordered the nanny to read. If she wanted a cookie at five in the morning, she sent the nanny to fetch one. If she flung her expensive clothes from drawers and closets, she waited for the nanny to put them away.

The one thing Dorian had not been able to order was the thing she had longed for most of all. Her mother’s love. She’d given up that dream years ago. “Since when has my mother helped anyone? Especially me.”

“I don’t think Pru meant for you to seek Cassandra’s assistance, Dorian. I believe your mother is meant to be an object lesson for you.”

“A what?”

“Think about it.”

She was thinking, but not about her narcissistic, emotionally distant mother. “Wait. I know! I’ll liquefy something.”

“I assume you mean liquidate.”

Dorian waved her hand. “Whatever. I’ll sell the Mercedes and buy something cheaper, like a Lexus.”

“I don’t think the leasing company would approve of you disposing of their property.”

“Oh. Right.” She flipped a strand of chin-length hair behind her ear. “Tell me again why I lease?”

“Because you like to drive a new vehicle every few months.”

She knew there had to be a reason. “Then I’ll just take out a loan that I can repay in September.”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.” Malcolm leaned forward. “Your grandmother has pulled the plug, so to speak, on your finances. All your credit cards have been suspended, including your retail charge accounts. Even if you qualified for a loan, which you don’t since you have no credit history, you could not get one.”

“Why not? I’m a responsible adult.” Legally, at twenty-six she was an adult. But responsible? Dorian tried to recall the name of a girl she’d met in college. She’d worn discount-center clothes and ridden a rusty old bike, but she’d had goals. Purpose. She’d been a responsible adult at seventeen.

Mallory Peterson. Dorian hadn’t thought about the quiet, mousy honor student in years. They’d only spoken once, in the library, when Dorian had asked for help locating a book.

The girl had seemed eager to cultivate Dorian’s interest. Her mother waited tables, her father drove a truck. And yet she wanted to be a doctor, the first in her nowhere, west Texas town. Every month she received a small stipend, donated by townspeople, so she could stay in school and realize her dream. When she earned her medical degree she planned to return to take care of them.

Having earned a full scholarship, Mallory had received her good-faith money because people believed in her. Dorian, on the other hand, had done nothing to deserve the generous allowance her family deemed her due. She was in school because of her grandmother’s influence.

The earnest premed student had made Dorian feel so ashamed she had retreated to her shallow sorority sisters, spurning what might have become a real friendship with a person who could have taught her something about responsibility. Regret weighed like a stone on her mind as she refocused on what Malcolm was saying.

“I think you can forget about a loan, dear. Prudence Burrell’s influence is far-reaching. There’s not a lending institution, pawnshop or loan shark named Guido in the Dallas-Fort Worth area who’d risk giving you a nickel now.”

“She can do that?” Dorian knew her grandmother was powerful, but hadn’t realized just how powerful until now. She sank back in the chair, unable to decide if she was frustrated, angry or simply terrified of what the next ninety days would bring. Then there was the regret thing. And the awful suspicion that without money Dorian Burrell did not amount to much.

“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.”

“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 thought that any woman on the receiving end of so much sincerity would be lucky indeed. That confused her more than ever. Could the man she’d written off as a simpleton actually have layers? “I’m not sure I do understand.” He squeezed her hand. Longing to feel that rare tingling warmth more intensely, she fought the shocking urge to fall into his arms.

“I don’t want to be just another blustering redneck in hand-tooled boots, with a big truck and a double-wide.” His voice was slow, deep, hypnotic. “Why, a man like that is no more than a clown. Smart, powerful people would take advantage of him. He doesn’t deserve a gift.”

“What do you want, Mr. Tucker?” she whispered. Better question, what was he doing to her?

He looked at her intently, his gentle expression melting some of the ice inside her until she questioned her sanity again. “I want smart, powerful people to respect me. It’s the only way I can accomplish what I’m setting out to do. I know I have to earn their regard, and that’s where you come in.”

“Me?” The sound was more gulp than word.

“Yep. I’m not worried about what’s in here.” He patted his chest with one hand while clutching hers with the other. “Or here.” He tapped his head.

“I know what I have to do. But I need you to teach me how to act the part so people will believe in me.”

“That’s an admirable ambition.” And one heck of an assignment. Dorian slipped her hand free and gradually regained the power of thought she had lost when Tucker touched her. What was the matter with her? She didn’t do warm and tingly. Something was very wrong here. She would have to keep a tighter rein on all her body parts when this guy was around.

She crossed the room and opened the door, hoping he would take the hint and leave so she could pull herself together. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Oh, I’ll be there, Miss Burrell, ma’am.” He gave her a quick wink. “With bells on.”

Then he smiled again, and the heat slipped past her reserve to warm the cold corners of her heart. What had Malcolm called the man? Intriguing and ingenuous. Yes, he was those things. He was something else, too, something she was unfamiliar with and couldn’t quite name.

Not until his lanky form disappeared through the door and down the hall did she realize what set him apart from every other man she’d ever met.

The man was sincerity personified. There was nothing fake or phony or devious about him. She closed Malcolm’s office door and leaned against it. Lord help her. Briny Tucker, the only millionaire in Slapdown, Texas, was the genuine article.

And she was charged with changing him.

The doorbell rang as Dorian stepped out of the shower. Great. Leave it to Slapdown to be on time. She wrapped a thick towel around her wet hair and pulled on a short satin robe, which she cinched at the waist.

“First lesson of the day,” she admonished as she yanked open the door. “Never show up at the agreed-upon time. It’s extremely bad form.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Her gaze took in his grinning face, then dropped lower to settle on a most disturbing sight. “Omigod!”

“What’s wrong?” Tucker was startled by her one-word assessment of the companion panting at his side.

“You said you had a dog.” She looked accusingly at the quivering mass of flopping ears, drooping jowls and bloodshot eyes. “Is that supposed to be a dog?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He swept off his cowboy hat and tried valiantly not to acknowledge her state of undress. His awkward gaze swept down to her bare feet, up her legs, over her chest and back up to the towel on her head.

His efforts at not noticing made Dorian more aware of her nakedness beneath the thin layer of sapphire satin. She clutched the lapels of her robe together. “Are you sure?”

Gentleman that he was, he did not allow his eyes to wander. “Miss Burrell, meet Reba. She’s just about the sweetest old bloodhound in Texas. She was the best tracker in the county until she lost her nose.”

Dorian eyed the so-called dog and the damp slime trail of saliva on the foyer’s one-hundred-dollar-a-yard carpet. “That beast cannot live here.” She blocked the doorway, in case the motley pair decided to rush her, though the redoubtable Reba didn’t look up to rushing anything. “There are kennels, you know.”

Briny reached down and scratched the hound’s head. She looked up at him, her rheumy eyes filled with adoration. “Oh, no, ma’am. I couldn’t leave Reba with strangers. I understand if you’re not an animal lover, Miss Burrell, but my dog and I are a team. C’mon, girl, let’s go back to the hotel.” He picked up his ancient suitcase and turned to go.

“Wait!” She would live to regret offering these two a temporary home. But she didn’t want Tucker to think she was one of those promise breakers he held in such contempt. “Is she housebroken?”

“Sure thing. Reba’s trained. And quiet as a mouse, too. She’s so old, she mostly just sleeps. You’ll never know she’s around.”

“I don’t know about that.” Dorian sniffed. “She reeks to high heaven.”

“I guess the old girl could use a bath.” Tucker placed one hand on the doorjamb and swayed toward Dorian with a wide grin. “There’s nothing like a warm tub of bubbles to make a female smell good.”

She flung open the door and stepped back, to escape his thought-numbing nearness, and put an end to the unwelcome vision of him in a bubble bath. “Oh, stay, Mr. Tucker,” she said with resignation. “I wouldn’t want to come between a boy and his dog.”

He shook his head. “I can’t seem to get used to answering to Mr. Tucker. Since we’ll be living in each other’s hip pocket, I’d sure appreciate you calling me Briny.”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I’m sorry. I can’t, in good conscience, do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Briny is not an acceptable name.”

“What do you mean?” He stepped closer, his smiling face darkened by a frown, like a cloud passing over on a sunny day.

Dorian backed up. He had an exasperating way of invading her personal space. “For one thing, Briny simply is not suitable for a man in your position. It’s a good name for a child. Or for the buffoon in the double-wide you mentioned yesterday. But not for a man of substance.”

His frown melted, replaced by a wounded-puppy look. Dorian’s throat tightened with an unfamiliar urge to reassure him, but she didn’t know how. She had little experience with compassion. Life had taught her to inflict hurt, but she didn’t know how to soothe the pain she caused. So why did she feel like she’d just kicked old Reba in the ribs?

She was being ridiculous. She had accepted a job which came with responsibilities. One of which was speaking plainly even if doing so seemed harsh. “Briny is a cartoon character’s name,” she told him. “Do you understand why it simply won’t do?”

“Not really.”

“Is there another name you can adopt? We can invent one if we have to.”

“Funny,” he said softly. “I always figured the good a man did in the world was more important than what he called himself.”

“Your name is the first impression people have of you,” she explained. “You do want to make a favorable impression, don’t you?”

He nodded, but was clearly unconvinced. “Well, my mama named me Brindon Zachary Tucker. That’s Brindon with an i not an e.”

“Hmm.”

“I gotta tell you though, no one has called me that since she died quite a few years ago.”

“Brindon?” Dorian tried out the sound, repeating the name several times until she could visualize it splashed across the society pages of the Dallas Morning News. “Brindon Z. Tucker. Yes. That will do. Briny is gone forever. From now on, you’re to answer to Brindon and nothing else.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see what difference a name makes, but you’re the one with all the experience living on the upper crust. Since I’m paying you good money to whip me into shape, I won’t argue the matter.”

“Good. We’ll get along much better if you don’t.”

“Since we’re getting so friendly, do I get to call you Dori?”

She chuckled dryly. “No one has ever called me Dori.”

“Not even your mama?”

“Especially not my mama.” He had an exasperating way of cutting through conventions. Why would he want to give her a cutesy nickname when no one had ever done so before? “Sit down, make yourself comfortable. It’ll take me a while to get ready.” She eyed the melancholy Reba who promptly made herself comfortable by collapsing on the floor at her master’s feet. “I’ll set up an appointment with a dog groomer, and we can drop her off on our way.”

“Nice place you got here.” He turned in a slow circle, taking in the airy apartment decorated in the bright French-country style she loved.

“Thank you.” Brindon looked even more masculine among the dried hydrangeas, the blue-and-white porcelain plates, the antique furniture and the chintz fabrics than he had in Malcolm’s office.

“On our way to where?” His curiosity was mild for a man about to embark on a life-altering adventure.

“Our first stop is Neiman’s to pick you up a few casual things from the racks.” She eyed the toned, hard-muscled length of his legs encased in tight denim. His turn around the apartment had provided her a nerve-jangling view of his body. He might have a little too much hair, but he possessed a physique male underwear models would envy.

“What are you? A forty-two long?” she asked. He nodded. “I made an appointment with a tailor for later in the week. Having your measurements taken will save time when we visit the designers for suits and tuxedos.”

“Tuxedos? As in more than one?”

“You’ll need a variety of evening wear for different occasions. I assume you don’t own formal clothes.”

“A corduroy sports coat is about as formal as I ever got. And that was just for weddings and funerals.”

“You’ll need black tie, white tie.” She surveyed him with a critical eye that quickly turned appreciative. With his wide chest, broad shoulders and trim hips and waist, he was the kind of man designers had in mind when they sat down to create. He’d look so good when she got through with him, rich bored women would close in on him like sharks on chum.

An image she found particularly disturbing. “Yes, you’ll definitely do justice to designer clothes.”

“I don’t really need specially made stuff. Do I? Can’t we just go to the mall and pick up some duds?”

Her gaze swept over his snug, faded-to-white-in-all-the-right-places jeans and plain cotton shirt, stiffly starched by the hotel laundry. Tucker looked comfortable in those clothes, so who was she to try and change him? Oh, right. She was his highly paid image consultant.

“Lesson number two. Clothes make the man. Buying from chain stores may be what you’re accustomed to, but millionaires do not shop in malls. Walking the walk and talking the talk are not enough. You have to look the part.” He had to sound the part, too, but they’d work on the drawl later.

His piercing blue gaze met and held hers. “So what you’re saying is, wearing fancy clothes will make people take me more seriously?”

Put that way, the idea sounded absurd. But Brindon’s raw, what-you-see-is-what-you-get honesty went against everything Dorian believed in. “Of course.”

“Whatever you say.” He cocked his head to one side like a curious cocker spaniel, and his bright eyes widened as if he’d just noticed she was naked under the thin robe. A chivalrous blush tinged his tan cheeks, which only made Dorian more conscious of her careless state of dishabille. She shivered and her nipples hardened as she turned away. She should have grabbed her thick, chenille robe. Unless he had superpowers, he couldn’t see through that.

“What else you got planned for me today?” His words rolled over her like warm honey. An easy grin spread from his lips to his eyes. How could a grown man look both innocent and provocative at the same time?

Or maybe she had imagined the provocative part. Dorian swallowed hard, unnerved by a fleeting fantasy of luring the newly christened Brindon’s blushing, work-hardened, testosterone-riddled body into her four-poster canopy bed and having her way with him on cool Egyptian cotton sheets.

Repeatedly.

Lord! Where had that come from? She shook her head, hoping to banish the lascivious thoughts from her mind. This was ridiculous and not like her at all. Nothing, no one, had excited her for a very long time.

“You do have plans for me, don’t you?”

His question snapped her back to the moment, but she couldn’t look him in the eye after that steamy little scenario. “After a quick stop at the mall, we’re off to Emilio’s.”

She’d called the exclusive suburban day spa and salon the day before, alerting the talented staff to clear their schedules and man the battle stations. She was bringing them a challenge, a client to sorely test their professional makeover skills.

“Emilio’s, huh? What’s that? A Mexican restaurant?” Brindon settled among the cushions on one of the overstuffed sunshine-colored sofas. He stretched both arms along the back and braced a booted foot across his knee. “’Cause I could sure go for some chili relleños.”

Right. Dorian expelled a deep breath. What in heaven’s name had she gotten herself into? How was she going to survive ninety days with this man? “Sorry, but Emilio’s is not a restaurant.”

“What is it, then?” He looked up, his blue eyes so trusting she wanted to urge him to flee before she succeeded at her job and changed him, and his life, forever.

“A surprise.” Dorian dashed for the relative safety of her dressing room and ducked inside before she could blurt out the warning screaming in her mind.

How could she explain a day spa to an innocent like Tucker? She’d thought the hard part would be getting him to sit still for his first manicure. But justifying the transformation of a rare, sweetly honorable man into another rich, jaded playboy was worse.

Obviously, when she’d signed the devil’s contract, she’d underestimated the consequences.

For both of them.

Chapter Three

Emilio’s was definitely not a restaurant. The fancy sign out front proclaimed Luxury Day Spa and Urban Retreat. Briny wasn’t sure what that meant, but instinct warned this was not a place he cared to visit.

Even for a day.

He bit back his protests. What did he know? Dorian was the expert in these matters. He should shut up and let her do her job, just as he had at the ritzy department store, where she’d turned out to be a regular force of nature. Without ever looking at a price tag, she’d ripped through racks of menswear like a Texas tornado through a trailer park, tossing one of these and two of those into the arms of a shell-shocked sales clerk who’d had to run to keep up with her. Having never seen shopping turned into an Olympic event, Briny had watched in dazed admiration. Of course, Dorian had assumed he was practicing his knot-on-a-fence-post routine.

He followed her inside the spa, lugging shopping bags filled with clothes he never would have bought on his own. He tried not to gawk, but the place was a marvel of sunshine and glass. There were enough plants under the domed skylight to put a rain forest out of business. It even sounded like a jungle. A gurgling brook, spanned by a wooden bridge and stocked with spotted koi, wound through the lobby.

Exotic birdcalls cackled and cawed from speakers hidden among the vegetation. Real parrots and cockatoos would have been too authentic, too messy for this perfect, fake environment.

“What is this place?” he asked.

Dorian didn’t bother checking in with the girl at the desk. She set her purse strap firmly on her shoulder and took off down a long corridor, seeming to know exactly where she was going. Briny had no choice but to follow, which allowed him to admire the feminine sway of her determined, stay-out-of-my-way walk. “This is the first stop on your journey toward self-actualization,” she said over her shoulder.

“Humph.” He didn’t believe in that self-actualization mumbo jumbo. He might not be Mr. Suave, but he wasn’t Mr. Stupid. He knew exactly who he was and what he wanted. Not only that, he usually knew what other people wanted, too. Growing up in a rough-and-tumble home for “troubled youths” had put a fine point on his character-judgment skills.

This time his instincts had let him down. He couldn’t quite get a handle on Ms. Dorian Burrell. Who was she? And what did she want besides the thirty thousand dollars he’d agreed to pay her? Perplexed, he watched the heir apparent of Chaco Oil traipse down the hall as if it was her own personal Paris catwalk. Did that kind of confidence come from having everything and working for nothing? Or could the skill be studied and acquired? He wanted to think so, but merely being who she was entitled her to privileges he would never have, no matter how much money he had in the bank.

He wanted to understand her self-assurance. And he wanted to possess it. He’d tried to figure her out, but the more time he spent with her, the more confused he became.

Earlier, when he had arrived at her apartment, she’d looked as pretty and wholesome as a tall sunflower. She’d seemed approachable in that little robe, with her feet bare and her head wrapped in a towel. He had been jolted into an unexpected awareness of her soft, womanly side.

Theirs was a business arrangement, so getting a bed’s-eye view of the petroleum princess’s lingerie so early in the game had been unsettling. But not nearly as unsettling as the sudden urge to pull her into his arms and stroke her freshly scrubbed, flower-scented skin. For a moment he’d been hypnotized into believing she really could be a girl named Dori, a girl who could learn to care for a man named Briny.

That illusion had been shattered when she emerged from her room an hour later. She’d slipped back into her glamour armor, complete with poufed hair and artfully made-up face. The sunflower was gone, replaced by a rare orchid that should be admired but never touched. Her butter-colored, ultrachic silk suit had “hands off” written all over it. Hard diamonds flashed a warning at her ears and around her neck. Even the heels on her shoes were sharp enough to pierce a man’s heart.

Unlike Dori, Ms. Dorian would not take kindly to cuddling.

“If you rearrange the letters in spa,” he observed with a self-amused chuckle, “you spell sap.” He hoped being here didn’t make him one.

“Very interesting.” Her tone belied the words. She kept checking her watch as if running to catch a plane.

Briny glanced around and his voice tightened in accusation. “This is a beauty parlor, right?” With its white columns and green marble, Emilio’s looked nothing like Dixie’s Glamarama back in Slapdown. But if he checked behind the ornate, gold-handled doors, he bet he would find a hidden stash of hair dryers and shampoo sinks.

Dorian scoffed. “No. It’s not a beauty parlor. A spa is a gentle oasis of relaxation and tranquility, where the body and spirit can be renewed.”

“All well and good. But what the heck is this place?”

She sighed in exasperation. “It’s a little like Fluffy Pups, okay? Except for humans.”

He groaned. He was no longer in the real world where most things made sense. He was stuck in Rich Land where not much of anything did. At Fluffy Pups he’d seen fat dogs trotting on treadmills, while others lolled around a big-screen television watching videos of squirrels scampering up trees. A few wore paper party hats and lapped up bowls of ice cream, enjoying what the attendant had called a birthday celebration.

Briny counted many dog lovers among his friends, but didn’t know a single person who gave their pets ice-cream parties. Poor old Reba had looked as out of place among that pack of beribboned froufrou dogs as he felt in this it’s-not-really-a-beauty-parlor joint.

“I’ve already had a bath today.” He stopped walking and Dorian continued down the corridor alone, hurrying as much as her tight skirt and high heels allowed. He was willing to go along to get along, but a man had to draw the line somewhere. “I don’t think I need to be here.”

She stopped in her tracks, then spoke without turning around. “Of course you need to be here. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to set this up? Now, come along.”

He dropped the shopping bags and folded his arms across his chest. Just because he’d agreed to let her be the boss didn’t mean she had to act so darned bossy. “Not until I know exactly where we’re going and what we’re gonna do when we get there.”

She marched back to him, all five feet ten inches of her pulled into the exasperated pose of a weary mother dealing with her stubborn child. “After I place you in the very capable hands of Mr. Emilio himself, I have to zip off to a stuffy old Art League meeting. But I’ll be back in time to take you to dinner.”

“What about lunch?” he asked warily. “Where I come from, we sit down to at least three meals a day.”

“They’ll serve you something.”

“When?”

“Between treatments.”

“What do I need to be treated for? I’m not sick.” Uncouthness wasn’t a disease in west Texas, but it could be in Dallas. Dorian seemed to think the lack of refinement was contagious.

Before she could answer, a little man in a leopard-skin-print silk shirt, tight black leather pants and high-heeled boots swooped out of nowhere. Tiny gold earrings dangled from both ears. He let out a squeak and clasped one hand to his heart when he spotted them.

“Dorian, darling, it’s so good to see you.” He smeared her hand with noisy kisses. “You’re looking exceptionally ravishing today.” He turned to Briny. “And what have we here? Oh, my, you are a brawny one, aren’t you?”

Dorian hurried the introductions. “Emilio, this is Brindon Tucker, the, ah, gentleman I told you about. Brindon, Mr. Emilio is the best in the business. He’s a makeover wizard and has promised to give you a whole new look.”

Mr. Emilio was definitely not a barber. Briny extended his hand warily, hoping the fella wouldn’t feel obliged to slobber on it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Believe me,” Emilio gushed. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Briny extracted his hand and turned to Dorian. He’d spent years trying to turn an unwanted, scabby-kneed kid into a decent man. He thought he’d done a pretty fair job, too, but the woman he’d hired to apply the finishing touches obviously found more than his manners lacking. Her job was to overhaul his social skills, not change who he was. He’d tolerated her rejecting his name, but enlisting this poofy little man to make him look like somebody else was going too far.

“What’s wrong with how I look?” he demanded. No one had ever objected to his Billy Ray hairstyle or cowhand mustache before.

“Nothing if you were the new front man for the Sons of the Pioneers!” Emilio struck what could only be called a pose and examined his latest assignment from head to toe. “Hmm. Dorian, dear, you were so right. I certainly do have my work cut out for me. But, oh, the possibilities!”

“I’m in a rush,” she said. “Just work one of your miracles on him.”

“Do you have a particular look in mind?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Rich.”

“And dangerous?” The spa man smirked. “I love doing dangerous.”

“Think polished. Old money.”

“Casual elegance?”

“If you can manage that, you truly are a wizard.”

“Whoa!” Briny resisted being nudged forward like a shy child at a recital. “Don’t I have any say in this?”

“No,” she answered.

“Did you just say no?”

She glanced at her watch again, and her face wrinkled in displeasure. “That’s right, Mr. Tucker. I said no. You have heard the word before, haven’t you? Or are you used to having women back in Slapdown sigh ‘yes, yes, yes,’ as they melt into puddles at your feet?” Her tone indicated his dubious charm could not possibly work outside his small town. Or on her.

“I haven’t had to melt too many,” he allowed. “Most of the time they’re willing.”

“That’s what I am.” She adjusted her purse strap again. “I am ready and willing to fulfill my end of the bargain. But the question is, are you willing to let me do that?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how—”

“You hired me to teach you how to swim in deep water. I can’t teach you anything if you won’t wear the regulation life vest.”

He shook his head, amazed at how quickly her line of reasoning could leave him in the dust. “What are you talking about?”

This time she did more than nudge. Before Briny could brace himself, she pushed him into the outstretched arms of the makeover man. “He’s all yours. You boys have fun.”

“Yum!” Emilio’s appreciative look made Briny do a quick two-step. Now he had something to be nervous about.

Dorian sighed. “I know I’m giving you a sow’s ear, Emilio. But when I return I expect to find a silk purse.”

“I do love a challenge.”

Briny bristled. “Where I come from, a sow’s ear would be a lot more practical.”

“This isn’t where you come from,” Dorian pointed out archly.

Put firmly in his place, Briny was about to ask what the transformation procedures would entail, but didn’t get the chance.

“Your wish is my command, darling.” Emilio bowed and rolled his hand at Dorian in an exaggerated Ali Baba show of obeisance.

She checked the time again and uttered a girly curse. “Oh, great! Now I’m late. Make sure he gets the full treatment, everything from the toenails up. Here are his new clothes.” She scooped the shopping bags off the floor and shoved them into Emilio’s arms. “I’ll be back by six. Ciao!”

“You’re not leaving me here, are you?” Briny was in uncharted territory and didn’t know the trail. That’s why he’d hired Dorian. She rolled her eyes at his question, making him feel as abandoned as Reba had looked when he handed her over to the doggie spa attendant.

“Don’t whine,” Dorian scolded.

“I never whine.” In his experience, the squeaky wheel got the most lickings and demerits. He’d learned at an early age the truth about attracting more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Their gazes locked for a long moment, and her expression softened. He thought he might have glimpsed a flicker of compassion in her dark eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure. For the first time since they’d met yesterday, she looked at him like a person and not a project.

She quickly averted her gaze, retreating behind her armor. “I have to run. I’m expected to put in an appearance at the Art League meeting and can’t get out of the obligation. Burrells have always supported the arts.”

Briny wished he had some gum. Or a beer. Something to ease the tension coiled in his mind and muscles. “Well, I guess if you have the family honor to uphold, I can manage on my own.” Which would be nothing new. He had been on his own since he was seven years old.

“Of course you can,” she said. “Prepare to be pampered. I’ve ordered the VIP treatment all the way. Ordinarily, a booking here takes weeks to get, but Emilio was a sweetheart and squeezed you in.”

“Anything for you, Dorian, dear.”

“I really need to go. Emilio, take care of him now. Ta!”

“Oh, it’ll be my pleasure.”

Briny watched her turn and rush down the corridor, her tall, thin heels clicking on the fake-marble floor. She was unlike any woman he’d ever known.

She might act cool and bored, but there was an appealing softness beneath her calculated indifference. Most people probably didn’t take the time to see the vulnerability she tried so desperately to hide.

“Oh!” She stopped and spun around. “Emilio! Don’t forget to feed him. He may get hungry.” She clicked on for a few more steps, then stopped again when additional instructions popped into her mind. “Go with less hair.” Her finger fluttered under her nose. “And let’s lose the cowboy cookie duster.”

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