The Perfect Wife

Fortunately, Greg and Megan had made their way through the gate and found a place to sit near the shallow end of the pool. So Carly quickly climbed from her seat at the edge of the hot tub, strode toward the lounge chair, slipped on her sandals, grabbed her things and shoved them into the canvas tote bag she’d brought. Then she marched out the wrought-iron gate and headed for the parking lot.

It was going to be a long and miserable walk home, but she didn’t care. There was no way she’d stick around here a moment longer.

Heck, she could call a cab along the way.

But as she strode through the parking lot, just past a white Chevrolet sedan, she ran head-on into a wall of hunky flesh.

Oomph.

She gasped for air, only to catch a musky whiff of an earthy cologne.

Her eyes opened, and her gaze locked on Bo’s.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Her lips parted, but words deserted her, and she bit down on her bottom lip. As a single tear slipped down her cheek, Bo brushed it away with a work-roughened knuckle.

Then he slipped an arm around her and guided her toward his truck. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Carly wasn’t able to find the words to object—even if she’d wanted to. And as he led her to his truck, she felt a tad more bold and a bit less married.

Chapter Two

Bo opened the passenger seat of his dual-wheeled Chevy pickup and watched the blonde of goddess proportions place her canvas bag on the seat, then scoot inside the cab.

An oversize, blue T-shirt, the comfortable, broken-in type most guys liked for puttering around the house or garage, covered her swimsuit, yet couldn’t hide a pair of long, shapely legs.

But her flip-flops…?

Nothing comfy or laid-back about them.

The white sandals added about two inches to her five-and-half-foot height. And the faux diamonds on the V-shaped strap drew his attention to pretty feet, with toenails painted cherry-red.

All in all, Carly Alderson was one head-turning package. But Bo knew better than to gawk and stare. She might think he had ulterior motives about driving her home. And that couldn’t be further from the truth. No matter how empathetic he felt, he didn’t get involved with classy, high-maintenance women like her.

“A wise man can’t afford to,” Uncle Roy had always said, before adding, “and I ain’t just talkin’ about money, son.”

Bo climbed into the driver’s seat, then started up the engine.

Under normal circumstances, he would have avoided getting even remotely involved with Carly, but in spite of his reluctance, he was a sucker when it came to tears—sincere ones, anyway.

That divorce had taken a toll on her, and seeing her ex with another woman must have been tough.

Of course, Greg Banning hadn’t looked too happy about seeing Carly at the pool, either. The smile he’d worn in the parking lot had sure disappeared the moment he’d laid eyes on his ex-wife.

No telling what was going on in his mind. Embarrassment, Bo suspected. Or guilt, maybe.

Whatever it was, he’d appeared to be just as uneasy and uncomfortable as Carly had been.

Maybe Greg was regretting the divorce. After all, he’d been more than generous with the settlement and had signed the house over to her. At least, that’s what Carly had told Bo the day he’d found her with red, puffy eyes and eating a bag of Oreos.

Divorces could get nasty. Bo had seen cases where once happy couples morphed into vicious, self-centered fiends when splitting up—even when there were kids involved, sad little victims looking for love and stability.

But Bo didn’t think a man would be as generous as Greg had been with Carly if he didn’t still have feelings for her.

In spite of his determination to keep his mind on driving, Bo glanced her way and caught her looking at him.

She offered him a smile. “I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. I’m glad I was able to give you a quick escape when you needed one.”

As he backed out of the parking space and pulled onto the street, he kept his focus fixed ahead rather than on his pretty passenger.

Or her bare legs.

“I can’t believe Greg showed up at the pool,” she said. “And in the middle of the day. He never used to take time off from work.”

Bo didn’t know what to say. “He probably didn’t expect to see you there, either, Carly.”

“Yeah, well, my neighbors thought it would do me good to get out.” She blew out a battered sigh. “And I can’t believe I let them convince me to do something so stupid. Boy, there’ll be a raging blizzard in August before I trek down to the public pool again—especially looking like this.”

“Like what?”

She glanced at the faded blue shirt she wore, then clicked her tongue. “Like something the cat dragged in.”

“Nah. You don’t look that bad. My mom has a couple of cats. And you’re a heck of a lot better to look at than the mangled remains they dump on her front porch.”

“Thanks.” A wry smile tugged at Carly’s lips as she crossed her arms, arched a brow and slid him an exasperated glance. “What a charming thing to say. You certainly know how to make a woman feel good.”

She was talking tongue in cheek, but his thoughts took an unexpected and unplanned sexual detour.

Bo did know how to make a woman feel good, but he wasn’t about to go that route with Carly. She was too vulnerable. And she was also the kind of woman a simple, middle-class guy ought to avoid.

But if, even for a few moments, he could help take her mind off her troubles this afternoon, he’d consider it his good deed for the day.

So he said, “I’m not sure why you’re feeling so self-conscious.”

She again tugged at the top she wore, a T-shirt like several he had in his chest of drawers and refused to get rid of. “Just look at me.”

He had been looking at her—more than was prudent for a guy who was adamant about not getting involved with a high-maintenance beauty into designer clothes, custom-made jewelry and luxury cars.

“I should have thrown this out years ago,” she added.

“Clothes don’t make the man or the woman, Carly. It’s what’s under them that counts.” Again, his thoughts drifted to the body that shirt covered up, those legs that could wrap around a man.

Damn. That wasn’t the direction he wanted his mind to go. So as a means of getting things back on track, he added, “You look real, as well as pretty. So what’s the problem?”

“Nothing. It’s just that…well, thanks for trying to make me feel better, but I’m not wearing any makeup, I haven’t spent any time on my hair and I should have found something different to wear over my suit.”