Blurb:
This
bartender’s art lies in more than mixing drinks …
Randy
Vaughan is a six-foot-three mass of mysteries to his customers and his friends.
Why does a former Secret Service agent now own Mata Hari, a successful piano
bar? Where did a muscle daddy get his passion for collecting fine art? If he’s
as much a loner as his friends believe, why does he crave weekly sessions at an
exclusive leather club?
Randy’s
carefully private life unravels when Jack Fraser, a handsome art historian from
England, walks into his bar, anxious to get his hands on a painting Randy owns.
The desperation Randy glimpses in whiskey-colored eyes draws him in, as does
the desire to submit that he senses beneath Jack’s elegant, driven exterior.
While
wrestling with his attraction to Jack, Randy has to deal with a homeless
teenager, a break-in at Mata Hari, and Jack’s relentless pursuit of the
painting called Sunrise. It becomes clear someone’s lying to Randy. Unless
he can figure out who and why, he may miss his chance at the love he’s dreamed
about in the hidden places of his heart.
Note:
Lying Eyes is a standalone gay romance novel with consensual bondage and a
strong happy ending. It contains potential spoilers for Robert Winter’s prior
novel, Every Breath You Take.
Excerpt:
Saturday
rolled around, and Randy headed to town early to make sure everything was ready
for Mata Hari’s busiest evening of the week. Although the bar officially opened
at five-thirty, it was rare for anyone to wander in much before seven o’clock.
Randy was surprised when the front door opened at six to admit a good-looking
man.
The
stranger was probably about five foot nine or ten, and wore a three-piece suit
that seemed tailored to accentuate a lean build. His dark hair was cut
stylishly short on the sides but thick and swept back on the top, and his
mustache and full beard were closely trimmed. A brightly colored necktie
contrasted with the somber gray of his suit. Randy had trouble assessing the
man’s age, but he would go with thirty. European, though—Randy would stake the
bar on that guess.
The
newcomer contemplated the walls of Mata Hari, passing almost dismissively over
the art on display. He studied each piece for no more than a second before
moving to the next, but Randy had a distinct impression the man sought
something in particular. As he completed his survey, he kept turning and
eventually met Randy’s eyes across the bar.
Immediately
desire flared in the man’s face as his hungry gaze drifted over Randy’s tight
white shirt and up to his face, lingering on his mouth. Shoulders tightened
almost imperceptibly as he drew himself to his full height, yet Randy
recognized a softening of hard edges. He lazily ran his own eyes to the
stranger’s luxurious beard, and he imagined stroking the softness there. He
sensed something accommodating. Something potentially submissive, yet more
subtle than the wanton displays of obedience and posing he was used to on
Mondays at his private club.
Something
he would enjoy channeling and rewarding, in the right circumstance.
The man
started toward the bar. As he moved, Randy had the odd sense that the suit he
wore was ill-fitting, even though it seemed perfectly tailored. A step away
from the bar, his face just—closed. That was the only word for it. One instant
he was cruising Randy; the next he was stone.
Randy
sighed to himself. The guy was probably a closet case on his first night at a
gay bar. That usually meant an unsatisfying encounter, even if the newbie didn’t
rabbit. In any case, it wasn’t Randy’s thing. He’d had plenty of virgin ass
over the years, and preferred his men experienced.
Fine.
Nothing for me here. He waited at the bar, vaguely disappointed.
“Sir,
good evening.” The man’s accent was English, his words precise and elegant like
his hair and his clothes and his beard. Probably from London. Up close, Randy
could see his eyes were a deep shade of brown graced with streaks of gold
around the pupils that caught the lights over the bar. “I’m looking for a Mr.
Randall Vaughan.”
Despite
forswearing his immediate attraction to the stranger, that honeyed voice caused
Randy to smile slowly and show his teeth. He registered the slight widening of
the eyes behind the stranger’s mask as he focused on Randy’s mouth.
“I’m
Randy Vaughan. And you are…?”
The man
blinked in surprise. “Oh. The Mr. Vaughan I was seeking is an art collector.”
Shit.
Just another jerkwad, making assumptions right away. Randy was a big man so he
couldn’t possibly be knowledgeable about art, could he? Well, fuck that noise.
One more chance.
“I
wouldn’t use the term collector, but…” Randy gestured at the walls.
“Quite
so,” the man said distantly, and turned to sweep his gaze over the works on the
nearest wall. “Neither would I.”
Randy’s
back stiffened immediately. The stranger—no, the asshole—turned his attention
back to Randy and held out a hand. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he’d
just royally pissed Randy off. “My name is Jack Fraser. I’m from the Kensington
Museum in London.” Fraser paused as if waiting for Randy to be impressed. “I
sent you a letter recently.”
Randy
willed himself not to think further about Fraser’s whiskey-colored eyes or the
luxuriousness of his beard, and he didn’t take the offered hand. Instead, he
wiped a small spill on the counter before him. “You did,” he agreed in a bored
tone.
Fraser
dropped his hand. “Ah, yes.” A pause. “My secretary didn’t hear from you to set
up an appointment.”
“Which
was my answer to your request,” Randy said, letting some snarl appear as he met
Fraser’s eyes. They were still guarded and closed off, but Randy could see
embers burning deep inside. In the right setting, and with proper motivation,
he could imagine making those embers flare and ignite in the slender man before
him. For the moment, though, the eyes just narrowed in calculation.
Before
Fraser could say anything, Randy turned away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work
to do.”
“May I
buy a pint?” Fraser asked, desperation shading his smooth accent.
Randy
considered calling Malcolm over to deal with it, but stopped in front of the
beer taps. He was annoyed at his lingering attraction, and he decided to push
back on this prick a bit. “Fine. What’s your pleasure?”
“Guinness.
If you have it.”
“Of
course you’d drink Guinness.” A little scorn curled Randy’s lip. “Well, the
closest beer I have is a stout from Flying Dog.” He let his sneer turn feral.
“It’s called Pearl Necklace.” He dropped his eyes to Fraser’s necktie, as if he
could picture that very thing replacing the colorful silk.
Fraser
blinked nervously. Probably he could picture it too. Maybe he even imagined
Randy’s hot jizz splattering his chest and neck as his reward. Well, he
shouldn’t have been a condescending shit out of the gate then. Randy waited,
one hand on the tap, the other idly scratching his ear to make his bicep flex
under his white shirt. Fraser focused on his arm and swallowed audibly.
“That’ll
be fine,” he said. “A, uh, Flying Dog then.” Randy drew the pint to set before
Fraser on a coaster. He didn’t wait for the man to take a sip or comment, but
headed to the other end of the bar to check inventory.
He stayed
busy but somehow noticed that Fraser lingered at the bar for several minutes,
apparently hoping Randy would come back and let him ask again about the piece
Randy had purchased from the Gates Gallery. When Randy deliberately kept his
distance, Fraser took his beer (which, Randy was pleased to note, was more than
half gone) and wandered around the room to examine more carefully each painting
displayed. Sometimes he moved on quickly to the next piece of art. Other times,
he gave a slight shake of his head.
Randy’s
ears burned, and he considered throwing the guy out. Since he’d opened Mata
Hari no one had given him grief about his collection. To be honest, no one had
studied it the way Fraser did, but still. Each piece had been acquired because
Randy connected to something in it. To have this handsome English stuffed shirt
look down his nose offended Randy in a way he couldn’t even articulate. He
seethed inside the longer Fraser spent on his dismissive tour of the room.
When
Fraser reached a landscape that was hung over a small settee, he gave a
distinct snort. He set his empty beer glass on a nearby table and Randy swooped
over to pick it up, ostentatiously swiping the wood as if it had left a ring.
“Another Pearl Necklace?” he snarled.
“Ah, no.
Thank you.” Fraser seemed surprised to find Randy standing so close, though his
eyes remained closed off and stony. “But it was a quite nice stout after all.
Thank you for the recommendation.”
Randy
gestured at the landscape with his chin. “Is that painting offensive to you for
some reason? You’re practically laughing at it.”
“What? Oh
no, it’s…fine. Competent. It’s the presentation, the arrangement of the art,
that I find amusing.”
Randy ran
his gaze over the pieces arranged on that wall of the bar. He’d decided where
to hang each and every work over a long stretch of time as he’d readied Mata
Hari for opening. He revisited the collection frequently and rotated different
pieces in and out of prominent positions. Most of his customers were oblivious
but Randy took great satisfaction in presenting something unique in the
atmosphere of his bar.
“What’s
amusing about it?”
“Well,
there’s no story, is there?” Fraser answered him.
“What do
you mean?”
“Individually
each piece is presentable. A few are even intriguing. But see here,” he
gestured at the landscape, “this is a nicely executed pastoral, yet it’s
positioned between a Japanese scroll and a watercolor of a monarch butterfly.
The pieces say nothing about each other, and have no intrinsic relationship.
“But over
there,” he indicated the wall opposite, “is a modern landscape. Change the
frames to something complementary, place them side by side, and the two
landscapes together suggest a conversation in, oh, quite a lot actually.
Painting techniques, the subject and tonal changes in works separated by two
artistic traditions. You see?”
Randy did
see, but he’d be damned if he’d admit it. “Two landscapes here wouldn’t fit,”
he said stubbornly.
“Ah. Art
as furniture. Of course,” Fraser said with a smirk, and that did it.
“No
charge for the Pearl Necklace,” Randy barked. “Since you made the trip for
nothing.”
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Author Bio:
Robert
Winter lives and writes in Provincetown. He is a recovering lawyer who prefers
writing about hot men in love much more than drafting a legal brief. He left
behind the (allegedly) glamorous world of an international law firm to sit in
his home office and dream up ways to torment his characters until they realize
they are perfect for each other.
When he
isn’t writing, Robert likes to cook Indian food and explore new restaurants. He
splits his attention between Andy, his partner of sixteen years, and Ling the
Adventure Cat, who likes to fly in airplanes and explore the backyard jungle as
long as the temperature and humidity are just right.
Email: robertwinterauthor@comcast.net
FREE: 
Their friendship has grown into an unbreakable bond… Gianna Moretti, Alexis Cole, and Shelby Lansing have been helping one another navigate the rough waters known as life, hoping to survive and grow with each experience. As the girls finish up their freshman year at Boston College, they begin planning summers that will be spent apart, and obstacles of all shapes and sizes will hit them along the way. With a change of scenery, blossoming relationships, and the unearthing of deep family issues, the sassy trio tries to find a way to balance it all. A new journey is beginning for these Boston Belles; a season of inevitable change is in their future. Life-altering events are happening every step of the way, but will they be able to stand strong together, or will their friendship ultimately be torn apart?
I am a girl who plays it safe.
Kelly hopped into the front seat
of the car, leaving Sophie no choice but to sit in the back. 
Darkness hung over the ground
like a pall as Melissa stumbled blindly through the forest, lurching between
shadowy trunks and swerving around bushes that seemed to materialize out of
nowhere. Barbed branches clawed her face and arms, leaving angry welts in their
wake. Protruding roots, intent on hindering her escape, sent her to her knees,
leaving them scratched and bleeding. She gasped for breath as the blood pounded
furiously in her ears while her chest burned with each breath. Sweat dripped
down her forehead, covering her brow. Fear had slickened her palms, and her
legs trembled as she careened between the trees. Behind her, her pursuer flew
with seeming effortlessness over the ground, its enormous paws making no sound
as it closed the gap between them. From the corner of her eye she saw the huge
cat drawing alongside her, its bright green eyes shining eerily in the dark.
Her foot caught the rough end of a stump, and she flung out her hands as she
tumbled to the ground. The panther leaped toward her as her screams tore
through the air.
Saturday
rolled around, and Randy headed to town early to make sure everything was ready
for Mata Hari’s busiest evening of the week. Although the bar officially opened
at five-thirty, it was rare for anyone to wander in much before seven o’clock.
Randy was surprised when the front door opened at six to admit a good-looking
man.
