InSight

wants after all.”
    “Maybe, but I’d rather err on the side of caution where you’re concerned.”
    “Then let me stay in my own house. If this Conti guy is going to be around, I have more room. He can stay in the spare bedroom.”
    “Deal,” Luke said.
    “What does Jeff do when he’s not instructing?”
    “Nothing any more. He has one of the most successful studios in the Southeast.”
    “What did he do before?”
    “Better you don’t know. He’s safe, dependable, and good at what he does. That’s all you need to know. Oh, and I mentioned my plans to Pete. He said he’d be available if you need him for any reason.”
    * * * * *
    A bby pictured Jeff Conti as over-muscled, dim-witted, and gruff, the typical movie karate-expert bodyguard. Of course, she had no idea if he was over-muscled, but he sounded neither dim-witted nor gruff. In fact, he had a soft, cultured voice and curious mind. She found him refreshing. He made friends with Daisy first thing, so she liked him immediately.
    Most people went out of their way to either ignore her blindness or solicitously trip over themselves because of it. But Jeff asked questions about her work and her handicap with no inhibitions or hesitations. In turn, she asked about his lifestyle and his work. What Luke had been reluctant to tell her didn’t give Jeff one moment’s pause.
    “I was Special Forces in the first Gulf War, then hired out to the highest bidder for a few years before realizing we were causing more problems than we were solving. I hated what I was doing, so I came home and came out.”
    Being a psychologist, the question of nature versus nurture had always fascinated her. “Did you always know you were gay?”
    “From the moment I got stirrings from looking at Johnnie Michniak in seventh grade. Of course, I didn’t know what that meant, so I did everything a man was supposed to do—dated, made out, even married—but something was missing. It took years to acknowledge that gay is who I am.”
    “What about your wife?”
    “She’s the one who made me come out.”
    “Wow, really?”
    “Great woman. She knew the difference. We’re still good friends. You can’t see me, Abby, but no one would look at me and say queer.”
    “Do you have a partner?”
    “Four years now. We have a great relationship. Eric’s a chef, so I eat well.”
    Abby smiled. She felt the same way about Luke. “Luke says you own a martial arts studio.”
    “Yes, that’s where we met.”
    “And you made a pass.” She said it as light-heartedly as tone allowed.
    “He told you? Ratfink.” Jeff laughed. “Yeah, first thing. Luke’s a damn good-looking guy. When he made clear that wasn’t his bag, we moved on. No hard feelings.” He paused. “Does that bother you?”
    “No, I commend you on your good taste.”
    Abby assumed Luke had filled Jeff in on Stewart and Graeme Collyer. Jeff’s instincts would determine whatever seemed out of the ordinary.
    “I want to go outside and get the lay of the property. Be right back.”
    Abby let her imagination run wild, conjuring visions of Rambo-type contraptions scattered around the house only soldiers of fortune would know how to implement. She hoped her neighbors didn’t call the police when they saw him surveying the grounds.
    Luke and Jeff were making too much of this. Stewart was the real target, and so far he had cleverly avoided being caught by the people who wanted to harm him. Abby was the bait.
    And Graeme Collyer was the shark.

Chapter Thirty
    The Ultimate Pissing Match

    L uke met Charleston Detective Norm Archer at a coffee shop around the corner from his precinct station. He reminded Archer to address him face to face. “No need to shout. And don’t get impatient if I ask you to repeat something.”
    “Damn, I thought you’d at least have hearing aids.” Norm munched on a potato chip. “You mean you can’t hear anything?”
    “Nothing that means anything.”
    “And you’re going after Graeme Collyer? Even if you could hear, you wouldn’t know he was coming up behind you. That’s how good he is.”
    “Then I’m not at a disadvantage, am I?” Luke wondered if his sarcasm came through.
    Archer shook his head. “It’s your ass.”
    Archer’s physical stature mirrored Luke’s ― six-one, one hundred-eighty pounds and in rock-solid shape, although he judged the cop to be a few years older than his own forty-two years. That’s where the resemblance ended. Remnants of teenage acne