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
Nat 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 o
ut 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.
“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
What’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 o
ffice.
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.
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