she allowed her stocking-clad toes to brush beneath the cuff of his trousers. Her efforts were rewarded by the widening of his grin but he kept his gaze fixed on the painting as he spoke.
‘Is that one of Yale’s?’ he asked. ‘It seems to have the flair and the command of artistry I’d associate with Yale’s work – the depth and the bold, sensual strokes.’
‘Yale?’ Robyn frowned. The question made no sense and she wondered what had prompted it. ‘Yale, the American university?’
He shook his head. His patronising smile inched wider. The condescending glint in his eyes came close to quelling her need for him.
‘Yale Walters, the painter,’ he explained with infuriating patience. ‘I thought you would have heard of him, what with the column you write for Art.’
She shook her head.
‘No. Never heard of him.’
Not particularly caring about the conversation, she edged her foot higher, rubbing purposefully up his leg. The electric frisson of silk against his trousers sent a thrill shivering to the top of her thigh. With a salacious smile, she moved her toes closer to the growing bulge in his lap.
Dominic drew a startled breath.
As she watched, he glanced at the rest of the diners, confirming that what he was doing with Robyn remained unobserved. She liked that he was showing enough courtesy to value discretion. That would make things easier.
‘Who is this Yale?’ she asked.
Robyn still had no interest in the topic. The idea of discussing an unknown artist came close to spoiling her mood. But she carried on anyway.
If any of her guests had seen her smiling inanely at Dominic they might have suspected something. Past experience of publicly dallying with lovers had taught her to be circumspect. The pretence of a conversation made for the ideal cover while her foot rubbed at him. She knew that the only person who might be within earshot was her PA, Gayle, sitting in the chair to Robyn’s right. And, while she trusted the woman, and knew Gayle was beyond gossip and tittle-tattle, Robyn was still careful.
‘I went to university with Yale, a couple of years ago,’ Dominic explained. ‘But I saw him again just recently. He’s developing quite a reputation for his work. I’d hoped your husband could do a feature on Yale’s paintings in a forthcoming issue of Art. Yale’s an excellent artist in the tradition of Lichtenstein and Ramos but most of the critics are saying he conveys a more palpable air of realism. Part of the reason I wangled myself an invitation here tonight was so that I could make you aware of him. He’s too good not to get the exposure that your column could give him.’
He’s a bloody agent, Robyn thought scornfully. She tried not to let this revelation kill her mood. With a determined effort she concentrated on Dominic as a potential conquest rather than a prospective vulture.
‘Have you had a chance to talk to Harold yet?’ she asked, maintaining the charade of a conversation.
Dominic shook his head. ‘Perhaps you could arrange an introduction?’
‘Perhaps I could take you somewhere else instead?’ With forced meaning, she added, ‘Perhaps I could take you somewhere away from my husband? Personally, I think that would be more satisfying.’
Dominic looked momentarily torn. Robyn decided she liked seeing him wear that expression.
‘I’d like you to take me somewhere away from your husband,’ he admitted. ‘I’d like that very much. But I did promise Yale I’d mention his name.’
Robyn shrugged, growing impatient. The pulse between her thighs was beating with an insistent desire that was not being hastened by Dominic’s insistence on trying to promote an unknown artist.
‘You’ve mentioned his name,’ she said sharply. ‘I’ll keep an eye open in case I get the chance to see one of his exhibitions. If I do, I’ll review him.’
‘That’s very generous. I’m grateful.’
‘Perhaps we can find a way for you to show your gratitude.’
As she spoke, she pushed her foot firmly against him. Her toes had begun to touch the swell at the front of his pants and she traced the urgent thrust of his arousal. The discovery of his size and eagerness added to her growing excitement.
With the combined distractions, and the promise of further intimacy to come, she began to feel more kindly disposed towards holding a conversation about artists and their work. She was an art critic by profession and this was her forte. She felt more than able to carry her side of the conversation without having to think about it. She was able to speak whilst her body engaged with more physical pleasures.
‘What’s his medium?’ she asked, working her heel against the base of Dominic’s erection. As she delivered the question, Robyn reached for a breadstick from a glass in the centre of the table. Toying with it, the tip resting upon her lower lip, she grinned at him.
Struggling to maintain his composure, Dominic shook his head. His cheeks flushed. He swallowed thickly.
‘Acrylics. He does erotic studies in acrylics. I believe he occasionally uses watercolours, gouache and some oils …’
‘How versatile,’ Robyn broke in. She rolled the tip of the breadstick on her lip, her gaze fixed on him as she spoke. Her eyes, normally the colour of a warm summer sky, shone like sapphires.
Dominic swallowed again and cast a glance at the rest of the diners before continuing: ‘… but he prefers to keep his artwork to acrylics. He says there’s something sensuous about the use of such a viscous medium.’
Robyn continued to toy with the breadstick. Daringly, she teased the tip of her tongue against the rounded end. Then she studied Dominic with heavy-lidded eyes as she pushed it slowly into her mouth. She was rewarded by Dominic’s deepening blush.
‘I really do think I should have a look at some of this Yale’s work.’
He nodded, seeming pleased by her apparent interest. ‘He rates you very highly as a critic. He says that you appraise work, rather than trying to pad out your column with viperous criticism and astringent soundbites.’
Robyn frowned. Again she felt close to forgetting her need for Dominic. He was a pretty boy, but he had some irritating ways.
‘You’ve been discussing me?’
Dominic’s easy smile was an obvious attempt to placate her.
‘He’s an artist and he regularly reads your column. We’ve talked about most of the critics. But yours is the only name that doesn’t make him kick his easel or spatter paint on his studio wall.’
Robyn said nothing, silently encouraging Dominic to continue.
‘When he heard there was an invite for this party floating around, he insisted I come and mention his work.’ Dominic gave her a pleasant smile. ‘He was particularly insistent that I should try and seek you out so I could make you aware of his existence.’
With her suspicions mostly assuaged, Robyn nodded. She pressed her foot against his hard swell and treated him to a reassuring
