Kitabı oku: «Tutoring Tucker», sayfa 3

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.”

Briny stroked his overgrown mustache protectively and glanced at the sly-eyed Emilio with trepidation. A guy who shaved his head as smooth as a billiard ball might have the wrong idea about what Dorian considered less. “Just so you know, bub, I happen to like my hair.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Emilio linked arms with his potential masterpiece. “Ooh. Muscles, too. Nice.” He led the way through a bamboo-detailed door at the end of the hall and into a sunlit room furnished with a bubbling fountain, towering ficus trees and a sheet-draped massage table.

Once inside, Emilio propped both hands on his hips and turned to Briny with a big grin. “Now. What do you say we get you out of those clothes?”

Three hours latter, wearing nothing but a towel, Briny was escorted from the sauna by a woman named Sydney who was ready to begin his next treatment. He didn’t dare ask. He’d already fallen victim to something called a shiatsu massage, an impressive form of torture named, in his opinion, with too many vowels.

After that he’d been subjected to the fifty-minute deluxe aromatherapy experience, kneaded like bread dough and oiled down until he smelled like a six-foot, five-inch stick of incense. Then there was the deep-heat boreh scrub. Another massage lady had slathered his body with a paste made of jojoba oil, rice powder, sandalwood, tumeric, and enough cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg to bake a dozen pumpkin pies. The powerful scent had launched his stomach into rumbling overdrive. In the craziest moment of the craziest day of his life so far, she had finished by rubbing him down with gloppy hand-fuls of grated carrots.

After showering and moisturizing, he’d slipped into a velvety robe and sandals, like something the Queen of Sheba might have worn to a chariot race. He’d been escorted out to the terrace where he joined a group of ladies, all dressed in the same robes and sandals, for lunch. At least that’s what the waiter called it. Briny wasn’t sure a bowl of “baby arugula tossed with grilled tomatoes and pine nuts and lightly misted with olive oil” actually qualified as lunch. Starving, he’d taken the man at his word. But after scarfing down every limp leaf in the bowl, he was still hungry.

“I think you’re going to enjoy the stone therapy, Mr. Tucker.” Sydney, the massage technician urged him into a reclining chair. “Are you familiar with the procedure?”

“Not really. And I don’t have enough imagination to guess.” Thankfully, this was a day spa, and the day was nearly over. He’d had just about all the self-actualization he could take. He climbed into the chair with a long sigh of resignation, feeling as naked in his terry loincloth as a baby jaybird. Fortunately, the staff didn’t seem to notice their clients’ state of undress.

Dorian had better have a good reason for throwing him on the mercy of Mr. Emilio and his smock-clad minions. She obviously considered the treatments a crucial part of his self-improvement program. Maybe she thought she could relate to him better if he looked more like the type of men she was used to. Sandal-wearing men who felt comfortable having avocado facials.

But he’d do what he had to do to connect with Dorian. He wasn’t crazy about what he was being put through, but he’d just cowboy up and tough things out. All his life he’d been an all-or-nothing kind of guy who, once committed, did not back down or give up. He’d spent eleven years working on oil rigs and supervising roughnecks. He could take anything these New Age nutcases dished out and come up smelling like…patchouli.

Sydney explained the treatment. “First I’ll rub your feet with essential oils, then I’ll insert hot stones between your toes. After placing warm, green-tea poultices over your eyes, I’ll ask you to relax to the soothing sounds of crashing waves and classical music while everything cools.”

“Pardon me for saying so, ma’am, but that doesn’t sound at all pleasant.”

Not to a sow’s ear reluctant to become a silk purse.

She smiled. “Your gratification is guaranteed.”

He settled back in the chair. He might never get the hang of being a rich man. When he was poor, he’d worn steel-toed boots to avoid stepping on hot rocks. Now that he had money, he had to pay a gal in a pink coat to poke them between his toes. Wasn’t that called irony? He’d ask Dorian so they’d have something to talk about over dinner.

“Whatever you say.” He kept thinking how she’d dropped him off with the same detachment she’d shown when they’d left Reba at the dog washer. She acted as if she didn’t need to explain anything because he was too dense to understand. That hurt. But at least her behavior put things in perspective. Despite that little Dori fantasy he’d indulged in back at her apartment, he could never be more to her than a job.

Sydney checked her clipboard. “I see you’re scheduled for a seaweed wrap and body polishing before your manicure and pedicure, Mr. Tucker. Then it’s off to the esthetician for deep-pore cleansing. Last stop, Mr. Emilio’s salon.”

“Oh, good. I’d hate to miss any of the fun.” A luxury day spa was clearly something a crazy person dreamed up for ladies with too much money and time on their hands. Except for the waiter and chirpy Mr. Emilio, he was the only male on the premises. Lordy, if his friends back in Slapdown ever got wind of how he’d spent the day, he would never live down the embarrassment.

The foot rub wasn’t half-bad, but Briny tensed as he watched Sydney use long tongs to lift heated stones out of what looked like a hibachi. She wedged the smooth stones between his toes, and the deep heat radiated through his body. Surprisingly enough, the treatment felt good.

“Close your eyes.” He did, and she covered them with what looked like limp tea bags. “Let the heat and music work their magic,” she crooned in a soothing voice. “Relax from the inside out. Allow yourself to be transported to a higher plane where you become one with light and warmth.”

Briny tried but felt ridiculous with tea bags on his eyelids and rocks between his toes. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how being wrapped in seaweed or having his pores steam-cleaned would make him a better man. He didn’t agree with Dorian’s tactics, but a born-rich person was bound to look at things differently than someone who’d had a pile of money dropped on his unsuspecting head.

Doubt stabbed him in the gut. He hoped trusting her wasn’t a mistake. O’Neal had assured him of her qualifications, but he hadn’t really listened once he’d heard a beautiful young woman was willing to sign a contract to spend time with him. Under ordinary circumstances, Dorian Burrell would not have given Briny Tucker, oil rig crew foreman, the time of day. Brindon Z. Tucker, multimillionaire, might play in her ballpark, but he still had a way to go.

If he quit worrying and rolled with the punches, everything would work out. He just needed to restate his objectives to make sure Dorian knew what he wanted. Over dinner he would remind her that his goal was to acquire the knowledge and confidence he needed to make his mark on the world, not to achieve smoother, more supple skin.

Briny squirmed in the recliner, ready for the hellish spa day to end, yet knowing he had several more hours—and Mr. Emilio’s so-called miracle—to endure. Even if he’d been a give-up guy by nature, he couldn’t escape now. He was dressed in a towel and had no idea what had become of his clothes.

Sydney noticed his restless movements and began to chant again. “Relax. Release the stress. Let yourself become one with the light and the warmth.”

Right. His stomach rumbled, protesting the rabbit food he’d eaten for lunch. He didn’t have anything against light and warmth. But what he really wanted to become one with was a big, juicy T-bone steak.

“Darling, come in and sit down.” Emilio jumped up from his cluttered desk and welcomed Dorian into the gilt-edged styling salon. He snapped his fingers, and a shampoo girl scurried forth with a tray and offered Dorian a tiny glass of Campari.

Accepting the liqueur, she took a small sip. “I know. I’m late.” Never apologize, never explain. Always a good rule to live by. “If you have the bill ready, I’ll sign so you can fax it to Malcolm O’Neal’s office. He’s handling Tucker’s expenses.”

Emilio tapped a few computer keys, and a piece of paper rolled out of the printer. He presented the invoice with a flourish. A less worldly person would have gasped at the expense incurred during a single day spent in his establishment, but Dorian was well-aware of the high cost of self-actualization. She scribbled her name across the bottom without bothering to read the itemized statement.

“Well, where is he? Bring him out, and we’ll be on our way.”

“No, non, nein, nyet.” Emilio ushered her over to a lush eggplant-colored sofa piled with pillows. “Sit, dear. Relax.”

“I can’t. I’m in a hurry.”

“You’re always in a hurry.” Emilio placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her down. “Sit. I will not take no for answer.”

She sat, not realizing how tired she was until she collapsed among the silken pillows. When the interminable Art League meeting had finally ended, she’d driven by Fluffy Pups to pick up Tucker’s horrible old dog, which admittedly did smell better. Later, when she had stepped out of the shower, she’d found the pony-size hound curled up asleep on the floor beside her bed. All she could think about was the damage the dog could do to her white carpet. Tucker had better be right about his pet being housebroken. If not, there would be hell to pay.

She’d freshened her makeup, twisted her hair into a chignon and slipped into a little black dress suitable for a quiet dinner in a posh restaurant. On the way to Emilio’s, she’d called and secured an eight-o’clock reservation at her favorite West End watering hole. Tucker had been unhappy when she had left him, and Emilio’s ministrations and trademark low-fat, lowcal, low-taste luncheon had probably not improved his mood. Unless she missed her guess, a big slab of beef would smooth his ruffled feathers. She could feed him, and provide his first etiquette lesson, in a painless nonthreatening fashion. She loved killing two birds with one stone.