Their tongues danced, caressed, and sent small shock waves of pleasure clear down to her toes. She wanted him, and judging by the hard bulge in his pants, he wanted her, too.

She could give in just this once. After all, it had been five long months. What was the harm? God knew she still loved him—probably always will.

“Tell me you want me,” he commanded softly. “We don’t even have to go upstairs. We can do it right here. Right now, but I want to hear you say it.”

I want you. Chanté panted and tried to gain control of herself.

“Tell me.”

She met her husband’s fevered gaze while the war continued to rage inside of her. Bend—be flexible. But giving in to him wouldn’t magically erase their problems.

“Who knows, tonight might be the night...”

A baby. She closed her eyes. Always a baby. Forcing ice into her veins, Chanté lifted her chin, and with her next words extinguished the small fire crackling between them. “I want you to get the hell off of me.”

Chapter 3

Matthew didn’t sleep a wink.

How could he when all he could think about was marching down the hall to the master bedroom—his old bedroom—and demand his wife perform her wifely duties?

Fat chance.

He chuckled under his breath and watched as the sunlight beamed through the thin slits in the venetian blinds. The rays warmed his face but he wondered when it would touch his heart.

This was not supposed to be his life.

He was never the type of man who trembled at the idea of settling down, having the white picket fence or having the customary two point five children...

Children.

Coming from a large family of four brothers, four sisters and a host of cousins, nieces and nephews, Matthew had always assumed that one day he, too, would raise a small army of children. He’d originally delayed those plans to support his wife in her career. But when they actually started planning five years ago, there was a snag. Chanté could get pregnant, but ten weeks into the pregnancies, like clockwork, her body would reject the fetus.

Five years. Nine miscarriages. Nine heartbreaks.

Matthew swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Children were what was missing from their home—from their lives. He knew it, she knew it and all their friends knew it, too.

And yet, it wasn’t in the cards for them.

He sighed; mourned for the children he didn’t have, and then reached for his copy of Chanté’s latest book, I Do. “Following an argument, we need time to cool off. When one person hisses a sarcastic comment and the other, hurt and angry, feels justified in topping the insult. The volleys begin. By the time we realize the mistake we’re making, it’s too late to ‘take it back.’”

He slapped the book closed and hung his head in shame. Seth was right. “I should have apologized.”

A loud rip caught his attention and he jerked his head toward the door. When he heard it again, he frowned and went to investigate. Upon opening the bedroom door, he couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was seeing.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Dressed in sexy, silk pink boxers and a matching lace chemise, Chanté stood with a large roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’ve lost your mind.” He took another glance at the silver duct tape running down the center of the floor, the wall, and even the ceiling. “Do you know what’s going to happen when you peel that off?”

“I’m not going to peel it off.” She huffed. “Since a real divorce doesn’t suit either of our interests—at the moment—it doesn’t mean that we can’t go ahead and divvy things up.”

He heard her and his brain replayed what she’d said, but it still wasn’t making a lick of sense.

“Split everything in half,” she clarified at his look of confusion. “Fifty-fifty.”

Matthew crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against his bedroom’s doorframe. “You don’t think people might notice? I mean, the tape clashes with the furniture.”

“Then we won’t invite anyone over,” she settled, turning on her heels and marching away.

“You’re joking, right?” He started after her.

“No.”

He reached the top of the staircase just as she bolted from the bottom of it. “Can we please talk about this like two rational adults?” he shouted.

“I’m through with being rational.”

“Obviously.”

Chanté stopped and glared up at him. “I’m tired of this lie—this life. I’m tired of...”

He sucked in a deep breath as his eyes narrowed on her. “Go ahead. Say it.”

Chanté clamped her mouth shut and stormed away.

Matthew descended the stairs two at a time, ignoring the ugly silver tape down the center. “Say it, Chanté.”

She ignored him and continued toward the kitchen. It, too, had been duct taped in half. The sight of it ignited his anger.

“You have something to say, Chanté. I want to hear it.”

“Since when?” She rounded on him.

He stopped within inches of her. “I’m standing right here.”

Their glares fused as they stood in a stalemate.

“What else are you tired of, Chanté?” he asked.

“You.” She lifted her chin, now that she’d said the word. “I’m tired of having to deal with you. Satisfied?”

“Quite.” Matthew turned and stomped out of the kitchen.

Chanté watched him leave with a wave of regret and relief. She had no explanation as to why she baited him. She also didn’t understand why she was so angry all the time. She could psychoanalyze herself. After all, she was a professional; but the truth is: doctors made terrible patients.

Why couldn’t she just say what was really on her mind? Because it would destroy him. She shook her head and turned toward the sink and filled a glass with water, where she proceeded to take her morning vitamins and pills.

The phone rang and Chanté snatched the cordless from the kitchen’s wall unit. “Hello.”

“What on earth did you do?” Edie asked in a high, strained voice. “No, scratch that. I know what you did. I need to know why you did it.”

Chanté sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re talking about last night’s program?”

“Are you kidding?” Edie’s voice rose another octave. “That’s all everyone is talking about. My boss has left six messages on my voice mail. She’s worried how all this is going to affect your book sales.”

“Edie—”

“Not to mention, my assistant has fielded calls from the big three networks. Even The Enquirer called and stated they’re going to run a story about you two not sleeping in the same bedroom.”

“How did they—?”

Something loud roared from outside. Chanté lowered the phone. Was Matt doing something in the yard? She placed the phone back against her ear.

“—we’re going to have to do some damage control on this thing.”

“Edie, let me call you back.”

“No. We need to talk about this now.”

Chanté peeked out of the kitchen window and didn’t see her husband.

“Seth and I have a few ideas. What do you think about going on Larry King Live?”

“What? Are you sure all of this is necessary?” Chanté headed toward the front door.

“Vital. If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to sell our souls to get you on Oprah.”

Chanté opened the door, screamed and dropped the phone. “Stop! Stop!”

Now dressed in protective clothing, Matthew headed toward his wife’s brand-new Mercedes with a chainsaw.

“What are you doing?” she yelled.

“Divvying our assets, hon.” He smiled as he lowered his goggles and proceeded to cut the car in half.

“Stop, stop!” she screeched, but the loud buzz of the chainsaw drowned her out. Chanté raced toward the car, but jumped back before sparks showered onto her flammable outfit. “You’re crazy,” she shouted and stomped her fluffy pink house slippers.

Matthew didn’t spare a glance in her direction, but he smiled like a kid in a candy shop as the saw cut through the car like warm butter.

Chanté charged toward the garage, looking for something—anything. From the corner of her eye she spotted a pile of steel pipes on Matthew’s workbench and quickly grabbed one before returning to the yard.

The chainsaw jammed halfway through the Mercedes’ roof and Matthew climbed down, wondering if he had something stronger to finish the job when he saw an angry pink blur rushing toward him and he removed his goggles.

With a firm grip on the steel pipe, Chanté swung at her husband’s head like Barry Bonds going for another home run record.

Matthew ducked and felt the air swoosh past his head as he dropped the chainsaw.

The force of the swing twisted Chanté around in a complete circle and before she could adjust, her husband charged and tackled her to the ground.

This time the air was knocked out of Chanté’s lungs as the steel pipe bounced out of her hands.

“What the hell were you trying to do—kill me?” Matthew barked.

“Damn right,” she growled and tried to twist away and reclaim the pipe.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Matthew scrambled above her and pushed the pipe further out of reach. “You’re absolutely certifiable. You know that?”

“Me?” she shrieked. “Look what you did to my car!” Chanté squirmed and then started pelting him with her hands—a constant occurrence, especially in the last six months.

While the wrestling match grew fast and furious in the grass, the sprinklers came on and immediately drenched the couple from head to toe.

“My hair,” Chanté sputtered. “I just had it done. Let me up!”

Matthew tried, but the grass was slippery now and he had a hard time getting his footing.

“Get up!” she insisted, smacking him again.

After one too many pops against the head, Matthew waved a finger at her. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s never okay to hit?”

Her answer was to smack him again.

“Uh, excuse me.”

Chanté and Matthew froze, and then slowly turned their heads to see old man Roger, the lawn guy, peering curiously over at them.

“Uh, is everything all right, Mr. and Mrs. Valentine?”

Their smiles were instant and their expressions as innocent as they could manage.

“Everything is f-fine,” Matthew said, finally climbing off his wife and pulling her up with him. For a few strained and awkward seconds they stood before the elderly gentleman in the sodden grass while the sprinklers continued to drench and plaster their clothes against their bodies.

“Uh-huh.” Roger eyeballed them as if they were Martians.

Chanté snuggled against her husband and slid her arms lovingly around his neck. “We were just trying something new. You know...to keep things...fresh.” She planted a kiss on Matthew’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, hon?”

Matthew’s smile tightened. “Right...hon.”

Roger’s dusty brown face wrinkled as he scratched his short-cropped, cotton-white hair. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, hon,” Matt said. “I think we better move this lovefest back into the house.” Before Chanté had a chance to respond, Matthew swept up his wife, tossed her over his shoulder, and smacked her hard on the butt.

“Matthew!” Her fist pounded his back.

“Patience, baby.” Matthew winked at Roger. “She gets a little impatient from time to time.”

“Right.” Roger nodded as he watched Matthew march toward the house. From behind, Chanté lifted her head and waved.

At last, Roger turned toward the Mercedes. “Hey, what happened to the car?” He glanced back to his employers, but they were already entering the house.

Mrs. Valentine screeched. “Now put me down!”

The door slammed closed, leaving Roger to scratch his head and glance from the car to the front door. “I swear those two are as loony as they come.”

Chapter 4

Master interviewer, Larry King, dressed in a starched periwinkle shirt, black suspenders and matching striped tie performed his trademark haunch over the desk and welcomed the audience to the night’s show.

“It’s always a pleasure to welcome Dr. Matthew and Chanté Valentine to the show. Dr. Matt is the host of the highly-rated TV talk show, The Love Doctor. He is the author of four New York Times bestsellers...”

Matt smiled and scratched at his collar.

Chanté drew a deep breath and forced steel into her spine while keeping her smile on full wattage. This interview called for her finest performance.

Matt shifted in his chair, scratched his arm and then jerked the arm to scratch at his back.

Mr. King flashed Matt an inquisitive glance but kept on with his spiel.

“And this little lady, Dr. Chanté Valentine, has quite a résumé as well,” Mr. King praised. “She is the host of her own syndicated radio talk show The Open Heart Forum. Her first book, I Do—I have the book right here—has been on the bestseller list for ten weeks running. Welcome to the show.”

“Thank you.” She smiled and leaned closer toward her husband.

Matt jerked his head back and tried to scratch at his neck, his chest, his back and his crotch.

“Is everything all right, Dr. Valentine?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah, just fine,” he panted, jerking this way and that. “I just seem to have a little itch.”

Chanté smiled serenely, thinking about the itching powder she’d sprinkled in his clothes. That’ll teach him to destroy my car.

Off set, Edie and Seth Hathaway took turns experiencing chest pains as they watched the Valentines attempt to charm their host, but watching them was like watching and expecting a train wreck.

“This was a mistake,” Edie whispered and glanced nervously around.

“This is damage control. We needed to do something other than let them continue taking public potshots.”

“Look at her. She looks like a plastic Stepford wife and he...what the hell is he doing?”

“Calm down.” Seth looped an arm around her shoulder. “They’re doing fine. Look, Larry is eating it up.”

“Larry is the least of our worries. It’s the court of public opinion that matters here.” She hid her face in the palms of her hands. “Why did she have to call his TV guests Jerry Springer rejects?”

Seth chuckled. “Because some of them are.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know?” He shook his head. “You’re probably the only one who didn’t.”

“Well, we wouldn’t have to do any damage control if your client reined in his jealousy on Letterman.”

“C’mon. If you graduated from a place called Kissessme, you should grow a thick skin.”

Edie stepped away from her husband. “Are you saying all of this is Chanté’s fault?”

Stagehands, cameramen and the director glanced toward them and Edie realized she’d forgotten to use her “inside” voice. “Sorry,” she whispered to the set.

On camera, the Valentines smiled lovingly at each other and their host. But then Matt started raking at his skin like a madman again.

“I’m not saying that it’s anyone’s fault,” Seth resumed the conversation. “But I do think we’re sitting on top of a time bomb. We may be able to fool the public right now, but how long do you think they’ll be able to keep it up?”

Edie thought of Chanté’s constant demand for a divorce. “Not much longer.”

“Right.” Seth’s voice lowered. “Which is why I think it’s up to us to do something about it.”

“Us?” She laughed. “How are we going to help professional psychologists—the top in their field, by the way—mend their own relationship?”

Seth’s lips slid into a wide grin. “An intervention.”

“An intervention?” Edie repeated and turned her gaze back to Chanté and Matt, just as Matt twisted one too many times and fell out his chair, then proceeded to writhe on the floor. “Forget the intervention, I think we need an exorcist.”

* * *

“Oh, hell no,” Chanté snapped at Edie above the den of diners at the prestigious Gramercy Tavern. When all eyes shot to their table, Chanté quickly covered with a bland smile, and then added under her breath, “I’m not going to marriage counseling.”

Unfazed by her friend’s outburst, Edie calmly peered over the rim of her glasses. “If you look me in the eye and tell me that you honestly want a divorce, I’ll back off.”

Chanté opened her mouth to make her daily proclamation, but when the words failed her, she closed it and shifted in her chair.

A triumphant smile bloomed across Edie’s lips. “I didn’t think so.”

“Explain to me how it would look for two relationship experts to seek relationship counseling. Wouldn’t that also put a dent in our precious credibility?”

“The public will never know,” she assured.

“Come on. We live in the information age.” Chanté stabbed at her spinach salad. “Secrets always come out—usually on the Internet.”

Edie slumped back in her chair, thoughtful. “Then we could release the information ourselves.” She bobbed her head, warming to the idea. “Hear me out on this.” She sat up again. “You and Matthew promote counseling. What better way to show that all relationships hit rough patches? Right now, you guys appear to have the perfect marriage. There are a good percentage of people who think you guys can never understand their problems because you have it so good. But if they see perfect marriages being not-so-perfect then we can tap into a few more readers.”

“What are you talking about? People see those marriages all the time. They’re called celebrity marriages.”

“Be serious. No one takes celebrity marriages seriously. We’re talking about two famous love doctors, and when you fix their marriage, it will renew hope.”

“If we can fix our marriage.” Chanté bit into her salad and rolled her eyes. “And that’s a very big if.”

“Okay. We’ll keep it out of the papers for now, but if a leak happens we’ll be prepared.”

Chanté lowered her gaze and stared at her half-eaten salad, remembering the first time she’d laid eyes on Matthew. He’d blown a tire out on the main highway and walked ten miles to Sam’s Café on the edge of Karankawa, Texas, where she waitressed. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out with his perfect speech, soft manicured hands and expensive shoes that he wasn’t from around those parts.

Chanté chuckled aloud from the memory, but snapped to attention when Edie’s sharp gaze zeroed in on her.

The last thing she expected today was to be ambushed with an intervention for her own marriage. However, her own solution to surviving the rest of her life with her self-absorbed, self-righteous and pretentious husband had already cost her a new Mercedes.

However, the question was whether she wanted to fix her marriage. As she struggled for an answer, her vision blurred, but she blinked away the tears and forced down another bite of food.

Edie watched Chanté from over the rim of her glasses for a long time before she prompted, “Well? You have to do something before you kill each other or kill yourselves. You know psychologists have the highest suicide rate.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I read it somewhere.”

“Huh. I always thought it was dentists who had the highest rate.”

“C’mon. What do you say? Will you go to marriage counseling?”

* * *

Matthew Valentine, handsome in a royal-blue suit, stared over the heads of his studio audience and into the camera. “Today we will be talking about how to take the bitterness out of your marriage.” He smiled, but remained serious. “Oftentimes, it’s not the big things that break a marriage. It’s the small things.” His voice quivered and for a brief moment, Matt appeared to have lost his concentration.

Seth shifted his gaze from one of the monitors to glance at his client on the stage.

The ultimate professional, Matthew recovered and continued with his spiel. The irony of today’s subject matter didn’t escape Seth so he found himself paying close attention to how Matthew interacted with his guests and the advice Matthew gave them.

“Couples tend to argue over something safe or superficial during battle, but they avoid talking about the serious problems.”

Seth nodded as he listened. Everything Matthew said was sound advice. Everything made sense to him—so what were the serious problems between Matthew and Chanté? Where had they gone wrong?

While Matthew continued to mingle with his audience and offer handkerchiefs to sobbing guests, Seth thought back to when he first sensed trouble between Matthew and Chanté. Actually, he didn’t sense, more like he dodged a glass vase when he’d entered the Valentines’ home during a heated argument. Chanté was a small woman but she had one hell of an arm.

Two hours later, with the day’s show finally completed taping and the last of the audience filtered out of the studio, Seth made it to Matt’s dressing room and lingered just outside the door while a young, petite, yet curvaceous intern fawned over her employer.

“Great show today, Dr. Valentine,” she said breathily. “I swear it’s like you really know how a woman thinks and feels.”

Seth lifted an inquisitive brow.

“Thank you, Cookie.” Matt didn’t spare the young girl a glance as he stripped the light coat of makeup from his face.

However, Cookie ignored his indifference and stepped forward until her perky bosom brushed against Matt’s arm. “I know I’ve only been here six weeks, but I have to tell you—working with you has been like a dream come true.” She reached out a hand and gently stroked the side of his face.

Belatedly, Matt flinched from her touch.

“You’re using the cologne I bought you for your birthday.”

“Yeah, I decided what the hell. I’ve been using the same cologne for ten years.”

Smiling like a seasoned temptress, she winked. “If there’s ever anything you need—I’ll be more than happy to help.”

Matt finally met her gaze, but didn’t respond.

Enough was enough. Seth cleared his throat.

Matt jumped again and then his face flushed a deep burgundy. “Seth,” he boomed too loudly. “C’mon in. Cookie, that will be all for today.”

The vixen’s lips managed to spread wider as she demurely cast her gaze down. “If you say so, Dr. Valentine.” She turned and walked saucily toward the door.

“Remember, if you need anything—anything at all—call me.” Cookie winked and disappeared from the door.

“Can you spell trouble?” Seth asked, blinking from the trance her swaying hips induced.

“Who—Cookie?” Matt asked. “She’s harmless.”

“So is a starved lion—as long as you’re not locked inside its cage.” Seth folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Look, Matt. I don’t know how to say this other than to just come out and say it.”

Matt cast a curious glance at the mirror and met Seth’s reflected stare. “All right. Let me have it.”

“I think you and Chanté should see a marriage counselor.”

A silence roared on the heels of his words and judging by the intense glare from Matthew, he expected the vanity mirror to crack at any second.

“Have you lost your mind?” Matthew asked, standing from his chair and storming toward the door.

Seth managed to jump out of the way before Matt slammed it on his arm.

“Chanté and I are fine. The last thing we need is a marriage counselor,” he said and barked a humorless laugh.

Seth glanced around the room and feigned surprise to find there were no other parties surrounding him. “I’m sorry. Are you talking to me—or someone else who hasn’t refereed a few screaming matches at your home?”

“All couples have disagreements,” Matt answered flatly and then exchanged his starched white shirt for something more appropriate for the tennis court. “Of course, they usually refrain from putting itching powder in each other’s clothes.”

“Or cutting each other’s cars in half.”

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