Priceless (8 page)

“I agree. Unless there was something going on between the artist and his muse. My research tells me that the sitter was the daughter of a wealthy landowner. At the time this portrait was made, she had just become engaged to a distant cousin who decided to emigrate to America to make his own fortune there. Naturally, his young wife would be expected to go with him. Unfortunately, she was madly in love with the artist and wanted to stay in England to be closer to him. That, I imagine, is the reason why she looks so very sad. This is the last portrait he painted of her. In fact, it is the very last portrait anyone ever painted of her. She was married that autumn and traveled to the States with her husband the following spring. Alas, she went into labor during the voyage and
died of complications, two hundred miles from New York.”

“That’s terrible,” said Carrie.

“Her baby survived. Perhaps you’re a descendant.”

Carrie smiled coyly. “Nat Wilde,” she said, “you are too much.”

Nat grinned at her like a fox making eyes at a chicken.

On the other side of the room, Lizzy was having a slightly less enjoyable time. The moment she walked into the reception, she was pounced upon by Charlie Taylor. Unfortunately, Charlie, an old-school investment banker with halitosis, was not someone Lizzy much felt like flirting with. Not that he seemed to think the fact that he was thirty years her senior and had a face the same rich red as the gallery walls was any impediment to chatting her up. He kept insisting that he was interested in spending a “great deal of money” at the upcoming sale. Though, as far as she knew, Charlie Taylor hadn’t bought a painting through Ludbrook’s since 1993, Lizzy couldn’t risk calling his bluff. So she allowed herself to be backed into a corner. Charles boxed her in by leaning one arm against the wall and blasted her with breath that could have stripped paint. The only consolation was that Lizzy had a direct line of sight beneath his arm toward Nat and the woman he was talking to.

Who was she? The woman was beautiful. Lizzy saw that at once. She looked so poised. Her hair was perfect. Her face had the elegant planes and proportions of a Hollywood star from the forties. Her dress was obviously expensive. And her jewels. Lizzy could tell from the way they sent out glittering sparks each time the woman moved her head that those enormous diamonds were real.

Lizzy couldn’t help hating her. She almost certainly
had a rich husband who doted on her, and now Nat seemed to be falling under her spell too.

“Don’t you think?” asked Charlie.

Lizzy realized that while she had been checking out the competition, Charlie had asked her a question.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t catch that. It’s terribly noisy in here.”

“We could go outside?” Charlie suggested hopefully.

“I’m at work,” Lizzy reminded him.

Nat too was working very hard. He squired Carrie Barclay about the gallery, drawing to her attention paintings that he thought might be of interest. Nat was very skilled at figuring people out. With great subtlety he guided the conversation onto subjects that would give him an idea of her net worth. He talked about New York. She soon revealed she had an apartment with a lovely view of Central Park. Now, that was prime real estate. And Carrie didn’t seem in the least bit fazed as he took her to see paintings with reserve prices in the multiple millions. He soon decided that she was a big fish, and a jolly attractive one too, which helped. It made Nat’s work so much more pleasurable.

Carrie glanced at her watch. Cartier, Nat clocked at once.

“It’s getting late,” she said.

“Have you eaten?” Nat asked suddenly.

“No,” said Carrie. “I have a little work to do, so I thought I might just get room service back at my hotel.”

“You most certainly will not,” said Nat. “You cannot come all the way to London to sit in your hotel room and eat an overpriced sandwich in front of CNN. Will you allow me to take you for an overpriced sandwich at my club instead?”

“I don’t think so,” said Carrie.

“I know. You’re absolutely right to refuse. I’m a strange man in a strange town. It’d be madness. But just about anyone in this room will vouch for me, and I promise that if you agree to have dinner with me, I will not give you preferential treatment when you come to the auction tomorrow.”

Carrie laughed. “In that case … you’re on.”

“Good girl. If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” said Nat, “there are just a couple of people I should say good night to. Wait for me in the lobby. I’ll be out in less than a minute.”

In the ladies’ restroom, Carrie grinned at herself in the mirror over the basins. Fifty percent of her thought that this was a stupid idea, but the rest of her was more optimistic. This would be the last chance she would ever have to spend time with Nat Wilde incognito. Her last chance to have a little fun with the man she would be in competition with the following month. And, if she were honest, she was rather enjoying herself.

Seeing her chance as the blond headed for the ladies’ room, Lizzy crossed the room to catch up with Nat.

“How’s it going?”

“A good night, I think,” said Nat. “Busy.”

“I was wondering whether you wanted to go and get something to eat when this is finished.”

“Didn’t you get any canapés?” asked Nat.

“Missed the lot. I was stuck in the corner with Charlie Taylor.” She rolled her eyes. “I thought I might get Chinese when this lot go home. Want to come?”

“Can’t,” said Nat. “There’s an important client in from the States. I said I’d take her out to dinner.”

“Oh.” Lizzy tried to hang on to her smile. “The dark-haired one?” she asked, hoping that he would say yes. She
had seen Nat talking to a dumpy brunette before he’d gotten caught up with the goddess.

“No. The blond.” He confirmed her worst fears.

“She’s American?”

“Yep.” Nat nodded. “She just flew in from New York for the sale. Interested in the blue lady.”

Lizzy’s heart sank. The blue lady was the most valuable work in the sale. There was no way that Nat could be persuaded not to have dinner with someone who wanted that picture. “Got to keep her in the game. Work, work, work,” he said as he wandered toward the door.

Lizzy tried hard to hide her disappointment. Though Nat had slipped away with that American woman, the evening was far from over for the rest of his team. There were still a few guests hanging on, drinking the last of the champagne and trying to stretch the reception into a whole night’s worth of entertainment.

“Good evening, Lizzy.”

Lizzy put on a smile for the man at her shoulder. “You look very lovely this evening,” said Yasha Suscenko.

“Thank you,” she replied, though she didn’t feel it. It was as though Nat had taken her sparkle with him when he’d walked through the door. Her dress seemed droopy. Her earrings so obviously worthless.

“It’s been a busy party,” said Yasha. “So much for the recession.”

“Yes.” Lizzy nodded. “But then I think that paintings like these always do well in times of recession. People like to put their money into something that has already proved itself over generations. It’s the more contemporary stuff that suffers first.”

Yasha nodded.

“But you know that,” said Lizzy, feeling suddenly shy. Her companion was one of London’s most successful
dealers, assembling collections for people who would think nothing of having a Rembrandt hanging in the loo. On their yacht.

Yasha Suscenko was the owner of the Atalantan Gallery in Mayfair. Born in Moscow, Yasha had left the U.S.S.R. for the United States in the early 1990s, together with his parents. His father was an academic. His mother was an artist. It was she who had encouraged Yasha to make art his passion too. Those early years in the U.S. had been rough. Yasha had barely been able to speak English when he’d entered the American high school system at sixteen, and there had been very little money to spare for extra lessons at home. There was little money to spare for anything. Still, Yasha had graduated and gone on to study art history. He’d worked for several galleries in New York before setting up on his own, working out of his apartment. When the privatization of Russia’s industry had begun in earnest under Putin and the oligarchs had emerged, Yasha had been well positioned to make a killing, being one of the few international dealers who truly understood Russian art at that time. His older brother, who had remained in Moscow and become a successful nightclub owner, sent many customers in Yasha’s direction.

When he’d opened his space in Mayfair with an exhibition of Russian art that had drawn praise from the most grudging of critics, Yasha had felt that he had finally made it. Now he had a client list that read like the Forbes rich list. For that reason alone, Lizzy Duffy knew she should be more attentive to him.

“Seen anything interesting?” Lizzy asked.

“A couple of things,” he said.

“So you’ll be at the sale?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. Your boss always turns these things into quite the party.”

A cloud passed over Lizzy’s face as she thought about Nat and his plans for the evening again. She couldn’t help feeling jealous. She tried to tell herself that Nat was just schmoozing. He might be taking Carrie Barclay to dinner, but it wasn’t a date. He was thinking about Ludbrook’s bottom line. Really, he was.

Yasha Suscenko noticed Lizzy’s frown. “You look much prettier when you smile,” he said with a wink as he left.

CHAPTER 10

N
at had a feeling that his club would not especially impress Carrie Barclay. Her Manhattan-style elegance would be out of place among the crusty old codgers who seemed to live in the leather chairs. He decided that schmoozing Carrie Barclay required something altogether more chic.

“I’ve got us a table at Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s,” Nat announced as he caught up with Carrie in the lobby.

“You’re kidding?” She was impressed. “I’m staying there, and they couldn’t find me a slot.”

Nat tapped the side of his nose. He could get a table just about anywhere. Keeping concierges sweet was all part of his job. “Let’s get there before they give it away.”

He hailed a taxi and helped her inside.

Carrie had slipped into the role of rich young divorcée quite easily, giving in to all her most princesslike tendencies. She resisted the urge to open her taxi door for
herself as they pulled up outside the hotel. She happily accepted Nat’s help with her chair in the restaurant itself, and when the menu arrived, she simply handed it over to him.

“You choose for me,” she said.

“Well,” said Nat, “that’s a tricky one. I hardly know you. Would you say you’re a red-blooded kind of girl?”

“Oh yes,” she said, holding his gaze.

“In that case, you’re having the venison. It’s very good.”

“Lovely,” she said with something approaching a growl.

The venison was terrific, and Nat did not skimp on the wine to accompany it. Though Carrie knew that he would doubtless expense this particular outing—she was a potential client, after all—she was still impressed at his extravagance.

After a while, Carrie took off her jacket. The satin shift dress beneath showed her body at its very best. Her slender arms were one of her favorite features. She wore her Cartier watch and tennis bracelet slightly loose to enhance the delicacy of her wrists. She could sense Nat’s eyes traveling over her body, lingering on her bare shoulders, her well-turned biceps. She knew that he was extrapolating from what he could see, wondering if her stomach muscles and buttocks were just as well toned. Carrie gave a small secret smile. And then she returned the favor, letting her own eyes drift down the front of Nat’s crisp white shirt to where his belt encircled an impressively slim waist for an Englishman of his age.

Despite his trim figure, Nat insisted that they eat dessert. He suggested that they might share, but Carrie shook her head and ordered her own tiramisu, though she knew she would eat less than half of it. When she
offered Nat a bite, he leaned forward, as though expecting her to spoon-feed him. She made it clear that he should take the spoon himself. But her little gesture of distance only made Nat try harder. He covered her in compliments as though shooting them at her from a scattergun.

“A digestif?” he suggested.

Carrie shook her head, but while Nat visited the men’s room, she took the opportunity to check her phone, and found another message from Jed, telling her she was selfish and rude. It turned out that she had forgotten that night was the anniversary of their first date. He’d planned something special and she’d ruined it. When Nat came back, she told him she had changed her mind. She would have that drink after all.

“Well, Mr. Wilde,” she said as they drank their fine brandies. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

“The pleasure,” he assured her, “was all mine.” He looked deep into her eyes across the top of his brandy glass.

Carrie lifted her own brandy glass to her mouth automatically, not sure whether she was shielding herself from his charms by echoing his own move or sending a mating signal. Nat Wilde clearly assumed the latter. He put down his glass and moved so that his arm was along the back of the chair. His fingers were within millimeters of her bare shoulder. Carrie licked her lips and moved ever so slightly closer herself. His fingers brushed her skin. She felt, much to her guilty delight, a distinct shiver of pleasure at the contact.