Priceless by Olivia Darling Page A

displayed the picture and let the end of her pencil rest on her bottom lip as she gazed at the painting as though trying to imagine it above the fireplace of her enormous apartment on Central Park West. Nat Wilde was by her side within a minute.
    “Beautiful portrait, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” said Carrie, turning to face him. “It is rather lovely.”
    As, she thought with a little thrill of surprise, was Nat Wilde. The elegance of her rival was only enhanced upon a closer view. His dark hair was shot through with silver, and his skin was lightly tanned, the perfect foil for mischievous bright blue eyes and the straight white teeth of a movie star. Very good teeth for an Englishman, notedCarrie. And they did seem to be all his own, even though he had to be nearer fifty than forty by now.
    “Nat Wilde.” He offered her his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “I’m just in from the States. I’m Carrie Barclay.”
    She used her mother’s maiden name—she’d practiced trotting it out for occasions just like this—and watched with amusement as Nat flicked through his mental Rolodex in an attempt to place her.
    “Ah yes,” he said. “That name is familiar. Didn’t we sell your husband a small painting by—”
    “No husband,” said Carrie, wiggling her empty left hand. “Divorced.”
    Nat’s eyes lit up. Carrie knew exactly what he was thinking. Freshly minted divorcées were often bigger spenders than wives incumbent, filling the new gap in their lives with pretty pictures.
    “Well, I’m sorry. He must be kicking himself,” Nat added.
    Carrie gave a mock frown. Nat Wilde had all the patter.
    “So,” he continued. “Now that you can decorate the house exactly as you want it, which I don’t doubt is with a great deal more taste than your ex-husband ever had, perhaps you’d like to tell me if anything has caught your eye.”
    “Well, this one, of course,” said Carrie, gesturing shyly toward the portrait. “The moment I saw her, I was drawn to her.”
    “I know exactly what you mean,” said Nat. “The first time I saw her was like falling in love. It’s something about her eyes. There’s a sadness there, but you can’t help but feel that if she smiled it would be the most beautiful smile in the world, and if she turned it on a guy like me, well, I would be jelly.”
    Nat put his hand on his breast pocket. Where his heart should have been.
    “You know,” he said, turning to face Carrie. “If I may be so bold, I’d have to say she looks a little like you. Now, if only I could persuade you to smile, I think I might just die and go to heaven.”
    “Oh, please.” Carrie flicked her catalog in Nat’s direction as though to swat him away. She hammed up her accent, making it pure South Carolina, and said, “I heard that English men were full of false flattery.”
    “You’ll never hear a lie pass these lips, Ms. Barclay.”
    Carrie was tempted to disagree, but she remembered just in time that she was supposed to be an ingénue in the world of art who knew nothing more of Nat Wilde than he chose to tell her.
    “Well,” she said instead, “in that case, I will allow myself to feel faintly flattered. Now, perhaps you could tell me a little more about the history of this painting. Who was the sitter? What was her relationship with the artist? It’s quite unusual for someone to allow themselves to be painted looking so sad.”
    “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