Tutoring Tucker. Debrah Morris
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