Tutoring Tucker. Debrah Morris
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.