Lying Eyes

by Robert Winter

  “They have set a price of three thousand, three hundred pounds.”

  Randy considered the canvas, the condition of the frame, and the shipping costs. He wanted to study the technique at leisure, so he decided to buy Sunrise, even though the framed canvas was large and shipping it back to the States would be expensive. On the other hand, Gates had let slip that the heirs were interested in a quick liquidation.

  “Twenty-eight hundred pounds,” he offered. That was about thirty-five hundred dollars; it was a little steep for a government worker, but he could afford it. The advantage of no social life, he supposed. Gates sputtered and hemmed a bit but then gave a quick nod of his head.

  “Including shipping,” Randy added. That brought on more sputtering, but Gates eventually took the deal.

  When the letter came from Gates offering to refund the amount paid, Randy ignored it. He had no intention of selling back Sunrise. Gates then called him and asked again. When Randy flippantly said he would sell it back for forty thousand dollars, Gates choked and protested but offered to pay six thousand. Randy turned him down and that was that.

  But with an additional inquiry from Mr. Fraser of the Kensington Museum, he found he was intrigued.

  Maybe not intrigued enough to set up the requested appointment, though. Something about the tone of Fraser’s letter got under his skin. The implication that Randy should work with Fraser’s assistant to schedule a visit. Yeah, no. He had better things to do than coordinate with some guy’s assistant. If Fraser cared that much, he could call Randy directly.

  He switched off the house lights, set the alarm, and locked the entrance behind himself as he left. The parking lot Mata Hari shared with a club called Pyramid was empty except for his pickup truck, its candy apple red finish gleaming under the harsh light of a streetlamp. Remembering his sense of something off, he scanned the darkness before heading to his truck, but found nothing.

  Has to be my imagination.

  Chapter Two

  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 purch
ased 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 so near, 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.”

  Fraser whirled to face Randy. He was breathing heavily, and his fists were squeezed tightly. The coals in his eyes were burning now, and the pseudo-aristocratic bearing slipped.

  Finally, an honest reaction. The glimpse of the man beneath the façade was intriguing and Randy briefly pondered how to peel back the layers to see more.

  “May I ask why you won’t let me see the painting?” Fraser choked out in a strained voice.

  “I don’t even know which one you want to see,” Randy lied. Fraser reached into the inner pocket of his slim-fitted suit jacket, revealing a glimpse of a linen shirt stretched taut over a leanly muscled chest. He pulled out a piece of paper, which he unfolded before offering it to Randy.

  It was a copy of one of the forms Randy usually had to complete with US customs to import a work of art; this one included a thumbnail image of the specific piece. As Randy’d expected, it was the unsigned oil from the Gates Gallery.

  He scowled at the paper. “How did you get that?”

  “With a Freedom of Information Act request to your American customs bureau. It took some time to get a response, but there you are.”

  Huh. Randy would have to think about that one.

  When he didn’t take the offered paper, Fraser said in an exasperated tone, “Do you at least still own the painting shown here?”

  Randy glanced at it and frowned. “I think I still have that one. Somewhere.”

  Fraser was turning red, but the eagerness and impatience in his eyes were at least more genuine than the stone-cold gaze he’d leveled on Randy before. “Please, Mr. Vaughan. This is highly important to me. I’d be very grateful if you would show me the painting. I can make myself available at your convenience.”

  Make yourself available. Randy squelched the flirtatious comment that came to mind. “Why do you want to see it?” he asked instead. He had no intention of pursuing anything with Fraser, he told himself. He just wanted to enjoy knocking the self-righteous dickweed off his game.

  Fraser’s expressive face closed up again, until Randy once more saw only something remote and still as a marble statue. “As I mentioned in my letter, it may be extremely valuable to some research I’ve undertaken.” Randy was about to ask more when Fraser added, “It’s nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure, but it could shed light on the development of Jean-Pierre Brousseau’s work. You may have heard of him.”

  And there it was again. The dismissal of Randy as anything but an acquirer of dreck, a muscle-bound clod who couldn’t possibly have real appreciation for art.

  “Of course I could have no interest in that, Mr. Fraser. I’m just a, what do you call it in England? A publican. A saloon keeper. As enlightening as your critique of my collection has been, I have to get to work. I’m sure you recall where the door is located.”

  And Randy stalked away rather than acknowledge the frustration, shock, anger, and, strangely, fear that flooded Fraser’s handsome face.

  Chapter Three

  Randy was aware when Fraser left the bar later, but then Mata Hari was slammed, and he had no time to weigh his sense of relief, mixed maybe with some disappointment. Slim-cut suits and dark eyes that hinted at mysteries would have to wait for the rush to end.

  Before he knew it, nine-thirty came around and Thomas Scarborough, his best friend, was sliding onto his favorite bar stool. Well, best friend and Randy’s financial backer in Mata Hari. Once Randy took a shine to Thomas’s idea of opening a bar, he helped things move quickly with a business loan on generous terms plus a twenty-percent equity investment. Thomas had no particular desire to own part of a gay bar, but he was wealthy and had been happy to back the venture.

  “Hiya buddy,” Randy said as he mixed a drink for a customer. Thomas smirked a hello at him. It would have been irritating on someone else, someone English, but with Thomas’s model-quality looks, wavy dark hair, and bright blue eyes, he somehow could get away with that shit. “Where’s Zachary?”

  “Parking the car,” Thomas answered in his warm baritone. “The lot was full so he’s circling the block. We just saw a movie in Georgetown and thought we’d stop by for a drink before heading home.”

  “The great player Thomas Scarborough, reduced to domesticity.” Randy shook his head in mock despair. “Hearts weep across the land.”

  Thomas laughed. “It turns out I like being stretched on a couch reading a book on a Saturday night. Who knew?”

  Zachary Hall walked in the front door and made his way through the crowd. He was slender, a bit like a certain prick from London, though much taller than Fraser. Randy wondered what Zachary would look like in a fitted suit. Nice, probably, but Zachary was too earnest and open to pull off the European soignée sophistication that Fraser affected.

  Zachary tossed a key fob to Thomas as he reached the bar. “You’re insured, right?” he asked, and Thomas stiffened as alarm shot across his face—his blue Maserati was his baby. Zachary grinned at him. “Just kidding. Nothing happened to her.”

  Randy chuckled as he slid their usual drinks acr
oss the bar. “Hi, Zachary. Scotch on the rocks for you, Thomas, and a seven and seven for Mario Andretti here.”

  Thomas snaked his arm around Zachary’s waist as they took their glasses, and Zachary leaned in toward his side. Watching them, Randy felt a little jolt of envy. Other than the interlude with Trevor, it had been years since he’d had more than a hookup, and longer still since he’d spent a full night with someone. His house in Arlington felt empty when he finally got home at three or four each morning.

  He shoved away the unworthy emotions stirred by his buddy’s happiness. Zachary had only been in Thomas’s life for a few months, but his friend was settled in his skin in a way Randy had never before seen in the years they’d known each other. The sharp style Thomas had always cultivated when he was pulling man after man was still there, but he’d somehow softened too.

  It was in the eyes, Randy realized. Zachary brought out that warm expression, and gave Thomas a quiet place in his heart where love stilled the restless need and doubts left by some terrible experiences in Seattle years earlier and the abandonment by his parents, back when Thomas was called Jason. He left that name behind when he started over in DC, but it took Zachary to heal the damage. Zachary and Thomas fit well, Randy thought. He liked the angle of their heads as they sipped their drinks. They were together in a palpable way, without having to be demonstrative. He wished he had his sketch pad and the time to work out the image he was seeing. He considered getting out his phone but then Zachary shifted and the moment was gone.

  “Randy? I asked how you’ve been,” Zachary said.

  Randy shook his head clear. “Sorry. I was thinking about drawing the two of you.”

  Thomas was pleased. “Are you painting again? It’s been a while since you created anything new, I think.”

  “Well, I’ve been dabbling here and there. Mainly at night when I get home from the bar. Nothing I’m excited about really.” More customers had approached for drinks. “I’ll be back if I can,” he said, rapping his knuckles twice on the bar.