3. Geneva

3

GENEVA

"I should warn you," Archer says as he kicks off his boots. "I have a dog,"

A ball of white rushes in, and bounces at his feet. "Hey, boy. Did you miss me?" He bends down, scratching the little guy between the ears. "This is Gizmo."

"He's so cute." I kneel down. "Hey, buddy." I hold out my hand for him to smell. He does a little snort and then sniffs my palm. When he's satisfied I'm not the enemy, he lets me pet his silky coat. "What kind of dog is he?"

"He's a mix of Maltese and Yorkshire terrier."

Gizmo follows Archer into the living room, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing. He's so big, so manly, I can picture him with a Saint Bernard, a Doberman, or a German Shepherd. But a toy dog? It's too adorable for words.

I quickly remove my shoes and follow Archer. The living room is amazing. There are exposed beams, and a massive fieldstone fireplace sits in the back of the room, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Big, comfy-looking couches with matching chairs entice you to curl up with one of the thick throws folded neatly in a big wicker basket. Polished cedar walls are decorated with gorgeous rustic art pieces.

"This is beautiful. Did you honestly design it yourself?"

"Every square inch."

"I'm impressed."

Archer makes his way to the fireplace. "I'll start a fire. Would you mind putting the groceries on the counter in the kitchen?" He holds out a log, pointing me to the right.

"No problem. I'm happy to put them away if you don't mind."

"Knock yourself out, sweetheart."

I step into a modern kitchen with tan marble granite countertops, cedar cabinets, and a center island. When I spy the farmer's sink, I sigh with envy.

"This kitchen is amazing," I say as I open the side-by-side stainless steel refrigerator, shocked at how clean it is inside. "Do you have a maid?"

"What?"

I put the eggs, milk, and cold cuts away, then stick my head into the living room. "Do you have a maid that cleans your house?"

"No." He lights the fire.

My stomach sinks. Of course, he doesn't have a maid. He has a girlfriend… or worse… "Are you married?"

"No."

"So, who keeps this place so clean?"

"Are you insinuating that a man can't clean his own house?" He tsks. "Shame on you. Stereotypes went out at the turn of the century."

"I didn't say that," I huff.

"You implied it. Same thing." He grabs my suitcase. "I'm going to take a shower to see if I can wash off the Happy. The spare room is upstairs on the left. I'll put your things in there. And before you start getting yourself all worked up, don't. My room is down here. You'll have the whole upstairs to yourself. Well, unless Gizmo decides to visit."

He starts for the stairs. "Be a good girl and make me something good for dinner, sweetheart. Okay?"

"Good girl?" I drop a loaf of French bread on the counter. "Who's stereotyping now?"

"Good point," he laughs over his shoulder. "I might take a cat nap after my shower. See you in a bit, sweetheart."

"Chauvinist," I mutter.

"What?"

"Get some rest." I wave with a hint of a smile.

I take a deep breath, and wonder what on earth I've gotten myself into.

I sit across from Archer, and watch him inhale a bowl of macaroni and cheese. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Lunch," he mumbles around his fork.

"Wow. I thought maybe it'd been a couple of days. You must really like mac and cheese, then."

"Sweetheart, this is spectacular."

"It's just milk, flour, salt and pepper, pasta and cheese." I shrug. "Oh, and breadcrumbs for the topping."

"My kitchen is your kitchen while you're here. Feel free to cook any time you want." He scoops more into his bowl. "You should open your own restaurant. Wait, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a waitress," I say as I nibble on a roll.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think you've missed your calling." He points to the plate on the island. "What's that?"

"Peach cobbler."

"You made dessert, too?" His eyes light up.

"It's nothing fancy. I cut up some peaches, used flour, baking soda, salt, butter, eggs, vanilla, and some lemon juice. You must bake. I found the things I needed in your cabinets."

"When my mother visits, she likes to bake for me. I have a bit of a sweet tooth."

"Your face looks better."

"It feels better."

"How's your vision?" I hold up two fingers. "What do you see?"

"I see a bright-eyed, Happy-wielding would-be assassin who could beat Gordon Ramsay in a cook-off any day of the week."

I blush, and avoid eye contact. "A would-be assassin?"

"I never thought of perfume as lethal, sweetheart but I'll be damned if I wasn't on the brink of a respiratory shutdown."

"I really am sorry." I hang my head. "I didn't know who you were."

Archer picks up a napkin to wipe his mouth. "No more apologies. You did what you had to do to keep yourself safe. You should be impressed with your ingenuity. I sure as hell am," he says and winks.

His compliment has my stomach doing funny things. But if there's one thing I know for sure, I can't trust my gut feelings at all. It's the reason my life has been turned upside down and inside out. "Why are you so willing to help me?" I blurt. Gizmo prances in, and sits at my feet. I reach down to give him a pet.

Archer sits back and folds his big hands across his chest. "Gizmo likes you."

"You're not answering my question. Why are you so willing to help a total stranger?"

He rubs an index finger across his bottom lip. "I'm not a psychopath, sweetheart. So, clear that pretty little head of yours of all the Dexter reruns."

"You're evading answering the question." I take our plates to the sink. "Why?"

"Do you want the truth?" There's a catch in his voice that has my pulse galloping.

Do I? I swallow hard. "Yes."

"During my last tour of Iraq in 2003, our platoon was ambushed. There were twenty-four of us. Three of us were taken alive, the rest murdered. We were beaten unmercifully and then tortured. When we refused to talk, we were blindfolded, gagged, and hauled off to Baghdad. They stripped us naked, tossed us into prison cells, and we waited to be killed. We knew it was coming-- we just didn't know when. Days passed— horrible, long, torturous days. We were shackled and then dragged outside into a makeshift courtyard. Just as a firing squad marched in, Marines stormed the place, and we were rescued."

My heart races. "Oh, my God. How did they find you?"

"One of the Iraqi guards risked his own life to save ours. He knew there was a Marine unit close by, and he got word to them about the three American soldiers being held captive."

The image of a massive man in front of me bound and gagged…

"No tears, sweetheart. We made it out alive," Archer says. "And that happened because of a man who didn't know me at all… a total stranger. He helped me when he didn't have to."

"That's why you're helping me," I whisper.

"Every chance I get, sweetheart, I pay it forward."

"But you haven't asked me why I need help."

"When you're ready to talk, you'll talk." He picks up his fork and grins from ear to ear. "Now, how about some of that peach cobbler."

He's just told me a horrendous story of being a prisoner of war, tortured and nearly killed. Yet, he's smiling like it's his birthday.

Maybe for the first time in my life, my instincts aren't off.

Maybe Archer Bentley is genuinely a good man.

A man who I can trust.