Priceless (9 page)

“You are a very beautiful woman,” said Nat, for the fiftieth time that evening. He really had been laying it on thick. “And intelligent and funny too.”

Carrie looked into her glass. “Thank you.”

“I’m just saying what I see.”

There was no ambiguity about it now. He really was stroking her shoulder.

“I must be going,” Carrie said. “I’m very tired. Jet lag.”

But still she lingered.

The darkness of the bar at Claridge’s lent itself to moments like this. At the table to Nat and Carrie’s right, a couple were already engaged in a bit of tonsil hockey. Nat moved his hand from Carrie’s shoulder to cup her chin. She knew what came next. Her treacherous body leaned toward his in readiness.

Oh God. It would be so good to take Nat Wilde up to bed and make love with him. Just to know for sure that he wanted her.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Can I see you tomorrow?” Nat asked, almost forlornly. “After the sale?”

“I don’t have time,” said Carrie. “I’m sorry. Next time I’m back in London, perhaps.”

She felt a twinge of guilt as she said that. Next time she was back in London she would definitely not be going out for dinner with Nat Wilde.

“That’s no good for me,” said Nat. “I’m afraid I can’t let this evening end. Not yet.” He circled her wrists with his fingers, making handcuffs.

“One more brandy?” his voice implored. His eyes implored “bed.”

Did it really matter? she thought. As long as she didn’t talk business, then this could hardly be seen as the kind of unorthodox practice that had gotten Christie’s and Sotheby’s into trouble back in 2001.

“Have you ever stayed here at Claridge’s?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Then perhaps you might like to see one of the rooms?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

She could tell from his expression that Nat thought he had died and gone to heaven.

There were a great many reasons why Carrie shouldn’t have gone to bed with Nat Wilde. First and foremost there was the potential for awful repercussions in the professional world. Then there was Jed. Though he and Carrie had never had “the talk” about being exclusive, Carrie would have had to be an idiot not to know that was what he wanted and expected from her. His face haunted her as she kissed Nat Wilde in the elevator. But right then Carrie was better able to ignore it than usual. She was angry with Jed for the nasty message he’d left on her voice mail.

Then there was lust. Pure and simple. The champagne, the wine at dinner, the brandy. All had served to soften her resolve, so that sleeping with Nat Wilde seemed like another harmless indulgence. It would be the sexual equivalent of an after-dinner cigarette. A substitute for an after-dinner cigarette, in fact, since you could no longer have one of those, even in Claridge’s cigar bar.

Nat followed Carrie into her room, placing a guiding hand on her bottom as he did so. Carrie had a brief moment of panic when she spotted her calendar—black leather embossed with Ehrenpreis in big gold letters—lying on the floor beside her briefcase. A swift kick from her Manolos hid that beneath the bed. It didn’t really matter. Nat was too focused on getting Carrie out of her clothes to notice anything else in the room.

Carrie wriggled out of the Lanvin sheath to reveal her fantastic underwear. Nat murmured appreciatively when he saw the black silk brassiere and matching panties that set off Carrie’s caramel tan so perfectly. He took them off but requested that she leave her shoes and stockings on, as Carrie had known he would. Men of Nat’s vintage
were fairly predictable when it came to their “kinky” tastes. She didn’t mind. She knew that her legs looked great in the lace-edged hold-ups.

Carrie sat down upon the bed and pulled Nat toward her by his tie. He shrugged his jacket off. Carrie admired the flash of kingfisher-blue lining that gave the well-cut gray suit a certain dandy edge. She helped him with the buttons of his shirt—Hilditch and Key, perfectly pressed. Nat released himself from his trousers and underpants, revealing an impressive erection that brought an instant smile to Carrie’s lips.

“Ready for me?” Nat asked as he prepared to climb on board without any further preamble.

Carrie bit her lip and nodded. “Though you’ll have to put this on,” she said, reaching over and taking from her handbag a square packet of foil that contained a condom.

Nat grumbled but did as he was told, soon realizing that he wasn’t going to get laid without protection. After that the sex was brief and messy if enthusiastic and energetic. Carrie knew that she wasn’t going to get within a mile of an orgasm herself. It was all over too quickly for that.

It was only afterward, as Nat lay beside her panting like he had just run a marathon dressed as a rhino, that Carrie realized he had made love to her without first removing his socks.

Carrie was glad when Nat announced that he had to leave just half an hour later.

“Got to get into the office early,” Nat said.

“Of course,” said Carrie. She glanced at her watch. “The sale.”

Had Carrie been overseeing a sale of her own, she would have been in her office all night.

Nat dressed, though he didn’t bother to put his tie back on.

“Here’s my card,” he said. “I hope that you and I will see each other again very soon.”

“I’m sure we will,” said Carrie.

“Make sure you wave to me from the back of the sale, won’t you? Though only if you want to buy the painting I’m taking bids on.”

“Ha-ha.” Carrie gave an impression of a laugh. “I’ll see you around.”

CHAPTER 11

W
hat’s the matter with Wildey?” Sarah Jane asked Lizzy later the following day. “There’s something weird about him. That was a fantastic sale, but he seems positively subdued.”

Nat came out of his office moments later. His forehead was creased with irritation. Carrie Barclay had not been at the sale. He had been so sure she would be there, and he had intended to ask for her number afterward. But she hadn’t turned up. Nat was frankly astonished that she didn’t want to see his performance in the salesroom after such an impressive performance in bed.

“Sarah Jane,” he barked, “you’re supposed to update the database. Why can’t I find the details for Carrie Barclay?”

“Who?” Sarah Jane replied.

“Carrie Barclay. New York divorcée from the old masters launch. Black dress, blond hair.”

Sarah Jane was nonplussed, but Lizzy knew exactly who he was talking about.

“The one you took to dinner?” Lizzy said. “The really important client?”

“Yes. Where are her contact details? I can’t find them in the database.”

“Perhaps they haven’t been inputted yet,” Lizzy suggested.

“For God’s sake,” said Nat. “Why do I have to deal with such incompetence?”

Sarah Jane and Lizzy shared a look. “He definitely didn’t get laid,” Sarah Jane mouthed once Nat went back into his office.

Lizzy couldn’t keep the relief off her face.

Nat had recovered his equilibrium by Monday of the following week. The Trebarwen sale was his. Though, as he explained to Lizzy, there had never really been any danger that the Trebarwen estate would go to Sotheby’s or Christie’s. “This should serve as an example to you of how important it is to keep up with those old-school ties.” Lizzy nodded, hanging on his every word as usual. “Which school was it you went to? Cheltenham Ladies’?”

“No. I was at the High School for Girls in Gloucester,” she reminded him. “State grammar.”

“Ah, well,” said Nat with a subtle frown. “Anyway, since you’ve been such a star of late, I’ve decided to give you the all-important job of making sure this sale runs smoothly.”

Lizzy’s heart leaped.

“You’ll need to go down to Cornwall and make a proper inventory.”

“Will you be coming?” she asked.

“I don’t think there’s any need. You know what you’re doing.”

“It’s quite a responsibility. Your old school friend … Perhaps Sarah Jane could come with me.”

“No,” said Nat. “I need Sarah Jane here in London. Don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have at least one of you looking after me.”

Lizzy found that thought much less amusing than Nat did.

“Right. Have we got a date for the sale?”

“End of April,” said Lizzy. “We can fit it in on a Wednesday.”

“That’s good. But it means that you’ll need to get cracking right away. The catalog deadline is …”

“In five days,” Lizzy told him.

“Then you better book yourself onto a train for tomorrow.”

“Where should I stay?”

“Oh, you can stay in the house. But watch out for Julian Trebarwen. He may be good-looking, but he’s a terrible shit. Can’t be trusted. Understand?”

Lizzy nodded. She was at least slightly mollified that Nat cared enough to warn her off another man.

“I got the Trebarwen job,” Lizzy told Sarah Jane. “And I’ve got to take Marcus with me.” She nodded at the bespectacled junior.

Sarah Jane patted her hand in sympathy. “It’ll be great. I would kill for a few days out of London. Fresh air. Countryside.”

“I’ll swap,” said Lizzy hopefully.

“No chance,” said Sarah Jane.

CHAPTER 12

L
ife in Cornwall was much the poorer for Louisa’s death. Katie had sulked about it for weeks, though Serena suspected that her daughter was pining more for the right to ride on the Trebarwen boys’ old rocking horse than for her dear auntie Louisa.

Serena still wondered what would happen to the place. Since Julian had gone back to London “on business,” the house had remained empty. Two months had passed. The shutters were closed, like sleeping eyelids. It was eerily silent. The dogs had been packed off to “a relative.” Serena suspected that relative might actually be a dogs’ home. The lone peacock that had roamed the grounds had also disappeared, leading Serena to conclude that perhaps she really had heard a shot one night while she’d lain in bed rereading
Pride and Prejudice
.

It being early in the year, the garden remained pretty much under control. Everything was dormant. But it wouldn’t stay like that. If the Trebarwen boys decided to put the house on the market, they would need to make sure it looked tidy. Would they put it on the market? Serena definitely didn’t fancy the idea of having Mark Trebarwen, his brittle wife, and their whey-faced teenagers as neighbors. Just as she was sure that the brittle wife and teenagers would not want to be so far south of Exeter. But would Julian’s work allow him to live in Cornwall? What did Julian actually do for a living? And if neither brother took the house, would the alternative be any better? Serena had a horrible vision of Donna Harvey buying the
house with her divorce settlement so that Tom could be closer to his daughter. She imagined all Louisa’s beautiful furniture and paintings replaced by an interior designer’s version of country chic—all of it straight from the furniture department at Harrods.

Bloody Donna. Tom had called that morning to make arrangements for the Easter holiday. Donna wanted to take Katie to Majorca, where she had a villa, so that they could “bond.” Serena took it as another sign that the cow that had stolen her husband was staying on the scene. She feared for her little girl, growing up with a woman like Donna Harvey in her life. Someone so controlled and controlling. Someone who might eventually convince Katie that her mother was the loser Serena so often felt herself to be.

It was almost time to pick Katie up from school. Feeling somewhat flabby and frumpy after her conversation with Tom, which seemed to have been nothing more than a list of places where he would be shagging his hard-faced new love, Serena decided to walk rather than take the car. Katie would groan, as she always did when she had to walk back, but it would be good for her, too. It was one of those unusually beautiful early spring days. The sky was clear. Those birds that hadn’t flown south for the winter were stretching their wings and their lungs. Serena relished the sound of the skylark.
You wouldn’t hear that in London
, she reminded herself.

The quickest way to the school took Serena straight across Trebarwen land. Louisa had insisted that Serena should consider the path behind the house as her personal right-of-way. And Serena was half over the gate before she remembered that Louisa wasn’t around anymore and Trebarwen’s new owners might feel differently.