The Perfect Wife

His conscience, a small voice that had been banished to the far corners of his mind, begged him to stop. To remember who Carly was.

Yet he couldn’t seem to yield to common sense. Not yet. Not until he’d tasted her just this one time. But it had been Carly who came to her senses first, who’d placed her hands on his chest and pushed away slowly.

Her breath was ragged. “I wish we were anywhere but here.”

So did Bo. His bed at home would have been nice. But he couldn’t deal with the reality of what they’d done, the step they’d taken that would change their friendship forever.

Friends didn’t kiss each other like that….

Dear Reader,

When my editor asked me to write book two in Talk of the Neighborhood, I loved the idea of a series based upon the neighbors of Danbury Way. And I was especially pleased to create Carly’s story, since I’d gone through an unexpected divorce, too.

As someone who tried to make everyone happy—sometimes at my own expense—it was difficult to realize I couldn’t fix things, no matter how hard I tried. Yet the months passed, and the lessons I learned along the way made me a better, stronger person.

And you know what? It was all worth it in the long run, because I met my very own hero, a man who loved me enough to take on the responsibility of four children.

No, I’m not a perfect wife. And it’s been ages since I was a size three, but I’ve learned to be myself and not someone others expect me to be.

I hope you enjoy reading about Carly’s journey in The Perfect Wife. And I wish you all a happy-ever-after.

Love,

Judy

The Perfect Wife

Judy Duarte

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JUDY DUARTE

An avid reader who enjoys a happy ending, Judy Duarte loves to create stories of her own. When she’s not cooped up in her writing cave, she’s spending time with her somewhat enormous, but delightfully close family.

Judy makes her home in California with her personal hero, their youngest son and a cat named Mom. “Sharing a name with the family pet gets a bit confusing,” she admits. “Especially when the cat decides to curl up in a secluded cubbyhole and hide. I’m not sure what the neighbors think when my son walks up and down the street calling for Mom.”

You can write to Judy c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. Or you can contact her through her Web site at: www.judyduarte.com.

To my husband, Sal,

who encourages me to chase my dreams.

I love you, honey.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter One

When the doorbell rang, Carly Alderson was sitting cross-legged on the Italian leather recliner in the den, watching a made-for-TV movie about star-crossed lovers, sniffling back tears and popping the remains of a lemon-filled doughnut into her mouth.

As the elegant gong resonated through the custom-built, plantation-style home her neighbors referred to as the McMansion, she froze in midchew.

Oh, God. Make them go away.

She was so not up for visitors. Not today, and especially not now.

Half of her wanted to ignore the interruption, reach back into the Tasty Dream Donut sack for the last chocolate éclair, sink into the cushions and fall back into a fictional sorrow, rather than think about her own.

But the rest of her, which unfortunately included the eight-and-a-half pounds she’d put on since her divorce had been finalized, hoped it was Greg coming home to tell her he was having second thoughts. That he’d made a big mistake—a huge one—and that he couldn’t live without her.

News like that would be the first step in righting her world—the one Greg had sent spinning off its axis when he’d told her he didn’t love her anymore and that after seven years of marriage he wanted a divorce.

In a fit of bravado, Carly had thrown him out of the house, then had all the locks changed. That bold move, as well as taking back her maiden name, had been Carly’s way of letting Greg know what a divorce meant. That things were final. Kaput. Finished.

Of course, she’d only meant it as a bit of shock therapy, a way for him to see reason.

But so far, nothing had worked.

The gong sounded again, and nervous panic sent her heart rate thumping to beat the band.

What if it was Greg?

Needless to say, the desperate I-need-to-save-my-marriage part won out.

She stood, and when she glanced at the telltale bag in her hands, her breath caught.

Oh, God. She couldn’t let him find her pigging out. So she quickly shoved the incriminating sack, complete with the remaining chocolate éclair, under the chair cushion, a trick she hadn’t pulled in years.

Then she rushed into the guest bathroom that was right off the den to make sure she didn’t have any glaze or lemony goo smeared across her face. But as she looked into the mirror, she nearly collapsed in a frumpy heap on the hardwood floor.

Tear tracks had done a real number on her mascara, making her look like a raccoon with red-rimmed eyes, a pitiful little creature who was a far cry from the I’ve-got-it-all-together woman she really was.

Greg would probably think she was still pining over him, which had been true earlier this week. And yesterday afternoon. But the culprit this time had been a sad chick flick, a real tearjerker and…

The doorbell rang again, this time sounding as though an impatient Girl Scout with an armload of cookies was repeatedly jabbing an index finger at the button. Not that Carly had ever had a run-in with a Girl Scout who wasn’t sweet and adorable.

Oh, for crying out loud. All right already.

“I’m coming,” she hollered, as she turned on the water in the bathroom sink.

She half hoped whoever it was would get tired of waiting and just go away. But she’d neglected to pull her car into the garage after a grocery run this morning, so most people would suspect she was at home and in a back part of the house.

If she found a salesman—the pesky adult variety—at the door, she’d probably practice some of those fancy kickboxing moves and see if they really worked.

Of course, if it was Greg, she’d die of embarrassment. He’d never seen her looking so wretched and pitiful.

There’d been a time in her life when she’d always looked that way, felt that way. But a lot had changed since she’d grown up, left home and gone to college. She’d gotten her act together and gained some self-control.

Yet if truth be told, she’d allowed herself to fall back into a few old habits lately, something she’d have to put a stop to before the extra weight made her feel as ugly and as worthless as she’d felt as a child.

In spite of her ability to shove the ego-shattering memories to the back of her mind, where they belonged, the words of her father crept back to haunt her. To whittle away at the perfect life she’d created for herself.

Damn it, Carly. Are you eating again? You’re going to be as fat as your mother if you’re not careful.

For cripes sake, girl. Can’t you get a rearview mirror? If you ever need to haul ass, you’ll have to make two trips.

“Stop it,” she snapped to the chubby child within who refused to grow up and move on.

She reached for an embroidered linen hand towel, then rubbed at the smeared mascara.

A fist bam-bam-bammed on the door, something she might not have heard in any other part of the house, and a muffled voice yelled, “Open up, Carly. We know you’re in there.”

Okay. It wasn’t Greg.

She nearly slunk back to the den, ready to ignore her guests. But she’d recognized the voice of Molly Jackson, who had a key to the house.

It wasn’t as though the two of them were best friends. After all, Carly didn’t let people get that close. But when she’d been handed two sets of keys, it had seemed like a good idea to give a spare to a neighbor in case of emergency.

And Molly, who lived right next door, seemed like a logical choice.

“I can let myself in,” Molly reminded her. “Come on, Carly. Open up. We’ve been worried about you.”

The fact that someone in the neighborhood cared was a bit uplifting.

Carly took a deep breath, then strode to the entry and opened the door, finding Molly and another neighbor, Rebecca Peters, on the porch. Stepping aside and allowing the women into the marble-tiled foyer, she caught the whiff of tropical-scented sunblock as they entered.

Rebecca, an attractive woman in her late twenties with brown hair and blue eyes, was, as usual, fashionably dressed—even wearing a swimsuit cover-up. “We came to take you to the community pool.”

“Are you kidding?” Carly, who normally didn’t even head downstairs for breakfast unless she was impeccably groomed, glanced at the front of the man’s blue T-shirt she wore, one of Greg’s that had been in the dryer when she’d demanded he pack his things and get out. “I can’t go anywhere like this.”

“You look fine for what we’ve got in mind,” Rebecca said.

“That’s right,” Molly, who sported a white sundress, added. “You’ve been licking your wounds long enough, and we’re taking you with us.”

Oh, no. Carly wasn’t going out in public. Besides, why should she join them at the community pool? She had a lovely pool of her own, complete with a stone waterfall, an outdoor fireplace, a hot tub, lush green plants and a colorful garden. “If you want to lie in the sun or swim, come on inside. We can spend the afternoon in my backyard.”

“Not today. You’ve been holed up inside the McMansion for too long, and it’s time to get out into the world again.” Molly, whose long brown, curly hair was swept up in a stylish clip, pointed to the circular stairway. “Go get a towel and a swimsuit and come with us.”

“I’m not holed up in here,” Carly lied.

Rebecca, her blue eyes sparkling with determination, crossed her arms. “There’s life after divorce, Carly. And the sooner you accept that the better.”

“I accept it.” But what she really had trouble accepting was the fact that a month ago, Greg had started dating. And to make matters worse, he was seeing Megan Schumacher, a woman from the neighborhood Carly had once considered a friend.

It still stung, still hurt.

And it was so very hard to understand.

Carly had worked her butt off, trying to make Greg proud of her, trying to be the perfect wife in every way.

And Megan, a full-figured woman who could stand to lose twenty pounds, wasn’t all that pretty.

So what did Greg see in her?

The small voice asked, Better yet, what does Megan have that you don’t?

For a moment, Carly faltered, her pride taking a direct hit. But she refused to believe there was something in her that might be lacking. Not when she’d tried so hard to be everything a wife should be.

Maybe her handsome, hardworking, successful ex-husband was going through a midlife crisis, assuming men did that when they turned thirty. Of course, she’d always thought something like that happened a decade or two later in a man’s life, but nothing else explained what had made Greg decide he wanted out of the marriage. Not when Carly had worked so hard to stay in shape, to make him proud of her. To be the perfect wife, the kind of woman he deserved.

Why, even Greg’s snobby mother, Vanessa, who’d been impossible to please, had begun to accept Carly—sort of. She’d come to Carly’s defense after they’d separated, and tried to convince Greg to go home, to make things work.

But he hadn’t wanted to.

“We’re not leaving without you,” Rebecca said as she placed her hands on Carly’s shoulders, then turned her around, pushing her gently but firmly toward the stairs. “Go get your suit and a towel. We’ll wait.”

Carly would rather finish off that chocolate éclair, even if it was now smooshed by the cushion of the recliner, but she reluctantly did as her neighbors suggested. She wasn’t entirely sure why, though. Maybe because they were right. She had been hiding, licking her wounds. And it was time she got back on track.

She had a lot going for her. A nice house, a generous divorce settlement. A body that, after she starved herself for a couple of weeks and worked out like a fiend, would soon be back in shape.

God forbid she keep oinking out on Tasty Dream Donuts. She’d be as big as her mother in no time at all.

A twinge of guilt reared its head.

Carly hadn’t meant that in a bad way. She loved her mom and missed her, but the weight the middle-aged woman had been carrying for the past twenty-five years wasn’t healthy and could lead to heart disease or a stroke. It had also kept her housebound.

Years ago, Carly, her sister and their mom had been close, clinging to each other through difficult times. But they’d all developed eating disorders, although Carly had overcome hers.

Oh yeah? that pesky, small voice asked. What about that smooshed éclair resting in the paper bag under the cushion of the recliner?

Okay. So maybe she might not have kicked hers completely. But with Greg gone, she’d rebelled from her rigid daily workouts and those brutal carb and fat restrictions. And to be honest, she was enjoying the temporary break. Maybe a bit too much.

But she’d get back on track.

As Carly climbed the circular stairway to her bedroom, she made a mental note to call her mother again this evening. It had been a week, and Carly wanted to check on her, maybe find out if the new diet program, a special study her doctor had encouraged her to take part in, was still working.

Her mother’s obesity was slowly killing her, the doctor had told her during her last visit. Her knees were giving out on her, her cholesterol and triglycerides were dangerously high.

But that was something only her mom could do something about.

Carly had, of course, gone to great lengths not to let history repeat itself. And she wasn’t about to let her eating habits get out of control.

But she wouldn’t put on a swimsuit without a cover-up, either. Not with the tummy pooch she’d developed over the past month. It had been a long time since she’d been anything but toned and lean. And the thought of having anyone see her imperfections was enough to make her sick.

Not in a binge and purge sort of way. That had been her sister’s routine.

But Carly’s divorce had blindsided her, hitting her hard, pulling the proverbial rug out from under her. Greg and their marriage had been her whole life, but it was time to right her world and restore her battered self-esteem.

Besides, who would see her at the community pool?

Bo Conway glanced up from his work on the bathhouse at the pool as three women strolled through the wrought-iron gate and chose a couple of lounge chairs just a few feet away from where he’d set up his tools. He nearly shrugged them off, along with the other sunbathers and swimmers, until he recognized a sweet, sexy Texas drawl and recognized the stunning blonde with blue eyes and a dynamite smile.

Carly Banning—or rather, Alderson now—was a beautiful woman who worked hard at her appearance.

Too hard, if you asked him.

She even had a state-of-the-art gym built in the basement of the McMansion, which had cost her ex-husband, Greg Banning, a pretty penny. But unlike a lot of wealthy housewives with too much time and money on her hands, she actually used her gym.

Bo had done a lot of work at the Bannings’ place, a major renovation that had been the talk of the town, so he had some insight regarding the recently divorced couple that their neighbors didn’t have.

In fact, Bo was one of the few people who hadn’t been surprised to hear of the breakup. Not that he’d heard them fight. But he’d felt the tension between them and sensed the loneliness that permeated the walls of the McMansion, even when Greg and Carly had been in the same room.

Still, that didn’t mean he didn’t like them both. Or that he wasn’t sorry to hear of the divorce. Marital commitments were meant to last. And that was something Bo had strong feelings about—enough that he often observed couples, watched the way they treated each other, the way they showed affection. It had been something his uncle Roy had told him during one of their many discussions about life, love and the pursuit of happiness.

“A guy can learn a lot by just opening up his eyes and ears,” Roy had said.

So Bo made a habit of people watching, couple watching. And he’d decided Roy had been right.

A few months ago, while working at the McMansion, a house that was entirely too big and gaudy as far as Bo was concerned, he’d come upon a teary-eyed Carly—or Mrs. B., as he’d called her then—sitting in an easy chair with a glass of milk and a bag of Oreo cookies.

“My drug of choice,” she’d said.

For a woman who was damn near perfect and who worked out like crazy, it seemed counterproductive to be wolfing down a jillion calories.

He’d also been taken aback by the vulnerability in her gaze, by the waif who seemed to peer out at him from eyes glistening with raw emotion.

Originally, Bo had pegged Carly as being self-centered. But she’d always treated him kindly and never patronized him as some of his clients did. And soon his heart had gone out to her—as it was doing again today.

A couple of times, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her glancing his way, yet not in the form of a come-on. They’d kind of…well, he didn’t know exactly. Connected, he supposed.

Her husband had a business to run, so she’d spent a lot of time overseeing both the construction and the remodel of the McMansion. But not in a bothersome way. She’d been truly interested, involved. And she’d also listened to reason when he had to tell her one or another of her ideas wouldn’t work.

There was something else that had tugged at his heart, played on his sympathy.

When she was deep in thought or stressed, she had a habit of gnawing on her bottom lip in a way that made her porcelain outside peel away, revealing a flesh-and-blood woman inside.

Still, he’d minded his own business, knowing better than to stick his nose where it didn’t belong.

Besides, he had a dream to chase, a future to secure.

Yet at this particular moment he couldn’t help eavesdropping on the women’s conversation, words not meant for his ears.

“I think it’s time we go out to dinner and open a bottle of champagne,” the attractive brunette told Carly. “We need to celebrate your freedom and christen your new life.”

His former client didn’t look too happy with that suggestion.

“All you need to do is find another man,” the other woman added. “You’ll be back on track before you know it.”

“That’s a lot easier said than done.” Carly, who wore a large blue T-shirt that masked a shapely body, covered a lounge chair with a bright yellow-and-red-striped beach towel. “I’ve been married so long that I wouldn’t even know what to do on a date.”

“It’s like riding a bike,” the brunette said, taking a sip of her bottled water. “It’ll all come back to you. And you’ll realize there’s a lot to be said about being single.”

“I still feel married,” Carly said. “And I poured so much of myself into my marriage that I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”

Too bad, Bo thought, as he continued to work out of sight, but within hearing range. It was important for a person to know who she or he was, what they wanted out of life. In fact, he’d figured that out a long time ago.

He’d just purchased a piece of property where he would build a custom home for himself and the big family he hoped to someday have—all boys, if he had anything to say about it.

Of course, he’d need to find a wife first. But not just any wife.

Bo wanted a woman who would be not only his lover, but his best friend and a committed partner in life. Someone like him who would be willing to work hard and make a marriage work. A team player who would go the extra distance and wouldn’t see divorce as an option.

Over the years, Bo had met plenty of women who seemed to be ready to settle down. But they usually lost interest when they found out he wasn’t a suit-and-tie kind of guy, a man they could mold into someone else.

But he wasn’t in any hurry. He’d find the right woman someday.

Still, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for Carly. Or feeling as though he ought to reach out to her, offer a few suggestions. Give her some insight into what might have gone wrong in her marriage.

She’d have to ask, though.

And that wasn’t likely. She was a beautiful woman who wouldn’t be single for long.

Besides, Bo was practically a stranger and didn’t hobnob with her circle.

He studied his handiwork on the extension to the bathhouse. Not bad. His work here was done for the day.

As he packed up his tools, he heard a vehicle drive up, and glanced out into the parking lot. He didn’t give much thought about the car that pulled in beside his pickup. Not until Greg Banning got out with an attractive blonde, a couple of kids and another woman.

Damn. He hoped things didn’t blow sky-high, because it was pretty obvious neither Carly nor Greg expected to see the other at the community pool.

A part of him wanted to give Carly a heads-up, a friendly warning. To rescue the lovely damsel in distress.

But who was he to interfere?

It was best if he got his crap together and headed out to the parking lot before things got…ugly.

“Hey,” Rebecca said as she prepared to climb into the hot tub, removing her cover-up and revealing a new black swimsuit and the body to properly show it off. “Did you see that cute guy working on the bathhouse? I wonder who he is.”

Carly looked toward the brick building and spotted Bo Conway, one of the carpenters who’d done the renovations on her house a couple of months ago, folding up a ladder.

“Actually, I know him. His name is Bo,” she told them. “He’s a carpenter. And a very good one.”

He was also an attractive man, with a glimmer in his eyes and a single dimple that formed on one cheek when he smiled. He was rugged in an artsy sort of way. Solid, dependable, down-to-earth.

When he’d worked at the McMansion, Carly had often studied him from a distance, although she didn’t think he knew she found him…interesting. Appealing.

More than once she’d wondered if he was seeing anyone or if he’d like to meet a nice, single woman. If so, she would have been happy to set something up. Yet whenever she tried to think of someone suitable, the woman fell short.

Molly, who had yet to take off the sundress that hid her bathing suit, reached into what looked like a briefcase and carried a couple of files and her reading glasses to the hot tub.

“You brought work with you to the pool?” Carly asked.

“Just some material I need to look over.” Molly took a seat beside Carly on the edge of the tub and dangled her feet into the hot, bubbly water. “Your friend the carpenter is good-looking. Is he single?”

“I assume so. He doesn’t wear a ring.”

“A lot of construction workers don’t for safety reasons.” Rebecca lowered herself into the tub, grimacing slightly at the temperature. “Either way, he’s sure been watching you, Carly.”

“Me? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bo had always treated her with the utmost respect and been very professional. There’d never been anything even the slightest bit flirty going on between them. Not even after Greg moved out and it was apparent Carly was single. And vulnerable.