Tutoring Tucker. Debrah Morris

      “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