When Valentines Collide
Adrianne Byrd

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the new angel on my shoulder—

Alice Coleman Finnley. I can still hear your laughter.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Chapter 1

“He’s an egotistical, self-righteous son of a bitch,” Chanté Valentine spat, storming through her best friend and publishing editor, Edie Hathaway’s front door. “The man thinks he’s God’s gift to psychology.”

“Please, come in,” Edie mumbled in the wake of her trail, sighed, and then closed the door. Shaking her head and tightening her belt around her curvy, plus-size figure, she followed her friend back into the dining room.

“I can’t do this any longer,” Chanté announced as she marched straight toward the bar.

“It’s eight in the morning.”

“What can I say? I like vodka with my eggs.”

Edie patiently watched her bestselling author splash out a glass of her expensive liquor. “You could add a dash of orange juice so I’d feel better about you getting something nutritional out of that drink.”

Chanté smirked, but complied. “I want a divorce.”

“Absolutely not.” Edie crossed her arms. “It would ruin both of your careers.”

Chanté downed a deep gulp and then came up for air. “I don’t care.”

“Sure you do.” Edie shuffled over to the table where her breakfast grew cold. “Besides, you still love him…or you would’ve left him a long time ago.”

“Ha! I’ve been trying to leave Matthew for the last two years, but it’s always ‘wait until after contract negotiations, wait until after you write your book, wait until after the book is published.’ Now the blasted thing has been number one on the New York Times bestseller list for ten weeks running and you’re still telling me to wait.”

“You should wait.” Edie shook her head as she slathered butter onto a biscuit. “How would it look if America’s two top relationship gurus divorced each other? Don’t you think we would have a credibility issue here?”

“Oh, give me a break.” Chanté downed a second gulp. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you, Seth and Matthew have all teamed up to drive me nuts.”

“All right.” Edie lowered her biscuit without taking a bite. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but what did Matthew do this time?”

One of Chanté’s brows rose quizzically. “I take it you didn’t watch Letterman last night?”

“Tivo. I’d planned to watch it this morning,” Edie said, sounding concerned. “Why? What happened?”

Chanté’s eyes narrowed as she simmered. “Letterman snidely pointed out the differences in our approaches in relationship counseling and then asked how people should choose whose advice to follow.”

Edie leaned back in her chair and brushed back her thick straw curls from her face. “And…what did he say?”

“That people should follow the advice from the one who graduated from a real school.”

Edie’s mouth rounded silently.

“You should have seen him sitting there as proud as a peacock, cramming his overpriced education down everyone’s throat.” Chanté sloshed her drink down onto the breakfast bar and flailed her hands in the air. “Oh, look at me. I’m a Princeton graduate while my wife—”

“Graduated from Kissessme College in Karankawa, Texas,” Edie finished.

“Which is a damn good school,” Chanté snapped. “I busted my butt with two waitressing jobs to get my degree. I didn’t have a rich daddy to write me a blank check.”

Edie frowned. “I know you two are going through a rough patch—”

“This is more than a rough patch.”

“But sometimes I wonder how the hell you two got together in the first place.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Chanté strode to the table and pulled out a chair. “Ten years ago, Matthew Valentine was handsome—”

“He still is.”

“Charming—”

“Check.”

“Successful.”

“Double-check.”

Chanté’s lips curled wickedly. “And great in bed.”

Edie’s eyebrows rose with surprise and interest. “Oh?”

“Now he seems to think all he has to do is get his groove on and wait for a baby. A baby. That’s all he ever talks about. After nine miscarriages you’d think he would give it a rest.” Chanté drew a deep breath.

“So I take it you haven’t told him you’re—?”

“How can I?” She sloshed down another gulp, exhaled, and then finally slumped her shoulders in defeat. “Nine miscarriages. Five years. I should have started trying to have a family earlier.”

“Come on. You wanted a career first. That’s understandable.”

“Yeah, but now I’m pushing forty and my body attacks every fertilized egg like I’ve caught a disease or something.” She shook her head. “I can’t help but wonder if I’d tried sooner I’d already have our baby as opposed to being on this wild race against my biological clock—a race Matthew is determined to win.” Chanté shook her head during another sigh. “I just need a break—physically and emotionally.”

“Is that why you kicked him out of your bedroom?”

“How did you—?”

“Seth.” Edie filled in the blanks. “He’ll never admit it, but those two gossip more than we do. If I remember correctly it’s been…what—five months?”

Chanté took another gulp. “Something like that.”

Her friend shook her head as she folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. “You know you’re playing with fire when you let too much testosterone pile up. Not to mention, you seem a little wound tight yourself.”

“If I’m wound too tight it’s because I’m frustrated that Matthew and I can fix everyone’s marriage problems but our own.”

“That’s because it always boils down to the battle of the wills with you guys.” Edie shrugged and then returned her attention to her breakfast. “Both of you always have to be right.”

Chanté grew indignant. “That’s not true…entirely.”

Edie continued eating.

“The problem is that two perfectionists should never marry each other.”

“Or two stubborn people.”

“Edie! You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on reality’s side.” Her friend finally cast her a long look. “It’s not going to kill you to bend a little.”

“If I bend any further you may as well remove my spine,” Chanté snipped.

“Better flexibility can only improve one’s sex life.” Edie winked. “I can testify to that.”

“I just bet you can.”

Once a month, Dr. Matthew Valentine and his agent, Seth Hathaway, met at the International House of Pancakes for their favorite selection of Rooty Tuitty Fresh and Fruity pancakes.

“It was a joke,” Matthew laughed, and then leaned toward Seth. “It was Letterman, for Pete’s sake.”

Seth leaned his six-foot-five frame over the table and settled his serene ocean-blue eyes on him. “Let me guess, Chanté didn’t think it was funny?”

“Blew a damn gasket is more like it,” Matthew rolled his eyes. “For punishment, I endured a four-hour rant about how I was undermining her authority and poking holes in her credibility—not the first time I heard that crap by the way.” He stabbed his pancakes and twirled it absently in its strawberry syrup. “There’s no pleasing her anymore.”

Seth kept his face blank as he bridged his hands above his plate. “Far be it for me to give America’s top relationship guru advice.”

Matthew glanced up wearily. “But something tells me I’m not going to be able to stop you.”

“Hey, I don’t have a fancy degree, but twenty-five years of marriage—an interracial marriage at that—says I’m qualified.”

Matthew flashed his million-dollar smile and forced a casual shrug. “All right. Shoot.”

Seth waited until he’d captured Matthew’s full attention. “Apologize.”

Matthew waited for more, but concluded none was forthcoming when his agent returned his attention to his breakfast.

“That’s it?”

“Yep.” Seth shoveled food into his mouth.

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Good thing I didn’t call you for help during the writing of my last book.”

Seth smiled and dabbed the corners of his mouth. “C’mon. It’s not rocket science. A man is just fooling himself if he thinks he could ever win an argument with a woman. Everything is always our fault. I don’t care what it is. So apologize and move on.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re joking, right?” Seth rocked back in his chair as his laughter rumbled. “Look, I don’t mean to offend you or anything. I mean, you’re my best client and all, but, when a woman gets mad it’s usually for three reasons: something we did, something we didn’t do or something we’re going to do.”

“Sounds scientific.”

“Thanks. It is.” He took another bite and quickly swallowed. “In this case, you went on a nationally televised show and made a lousy sucker punch to her reputation. Every man watching knew you’d get the couch last night.”

“You don’t understand.” Matthew slumped back in his chair and refused to give credence to Seth’s advice. “Once upon a time Chanté didn’t take everything so seriously. She knew how to laugh at herself. C’mon. She graduated from Kissessme College. That’s funny.”

“She also has a syndicated talk radio show and is a bestselling author.”

“I know about her accomplishments. I’m proud of what she’s done—”

“So it’s not so hard to understand she just wants to be taken seriously in her profession.”

Matthew shook his head. “I’m telling you, I know my wife. She’s not mad about something I said on Letterman. There’s something else that’s bothering her and she just won’t spit it out.”

“She keeps asking for a divorce,” Seth reminded him.

Matthew shook his head again. “She doesn’t want a divorce or she would have been gone by now. It’s something else—I’m sure of it. She just won’t talk to me.”

“Two psychologists who can’t talk. I think that falls under irony.”

“Very funny.”

Seth chuckled. “How long now since the Love Doctor has been locked out of his own bedroom?”

Matt grunted and lowered his gaze.

“Five months, right?” the agent continued, during Matt’s silence. “Look, you’re a big shot in your field—four number one New York Times bestsellers and a syndicated television talk show, but maybe it’s time you listen to advice other than your own. Apologize and move back into your old bedroom. If you don’t, things between you and Chanté are only going to get worse.”

Chapter 2

Chanté breezed into WLUV’s studio with her head held high but with her lips showcasing a nervous smile. The station’s small crew greeted her with wide toothy grins, however, no one’s eyes managed to meet hers. To top it off, on more than one occasion, she heard snickering whenever she turned her back.

“Oh, don’t pay it any mind,” Thad Brown, Chanté’s extremely young, talented and laid-back producer advised as he settled behind the glass partition separating them and reversed his New York Yankees baseball cap.

“Easy for you to say,” Chanté mumbled, and then placed on her headset.

“To be honest, I thought it was pretty funny,” Thad said into his microphone. “Of course, I’m a little hurt I didn’t know this embarrassing tidbit about you. I thought we were best friends.”

“Thad—”

“Yeah, yeah. I forgot. You have a new best friend—a hotshot publishing editor.”

“Thad,” she warned.

“Okay. Okay.” He shrugged with a lopsided smile. “But when you start hobnobbing with Oprah…call me.”

“First, I’ll have to call my mother.”

“You’re on a hot streak. Hell, I bought your book yesterday and I’m halfway through it. Real good stuff. A lot better than—well, it could have been professional jealousy that sparked Dr. Matt’s comment on Letterman the other night. Did you ever think of that?”

The On Air sign lit up.

“A little competition will do Matthew Valentine a world of good. Maybe his loyal readers will actually demand he write new material instead of rehashing the same trivial tripe of his last three books.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “And don’t get me started on those Jerry Springer rejects he says he counsels on his show.”

Still laughing, Chanté lifted her eyes to Thad and was stunned to see him frantically pointing upward. When her gaze landed on the sign, her voice failed her.

Static filled the airwaves.

Thad cringed and rolled his hands, urging her to speak.

“Good evening…and welcome to The Open Heart Forum. I’m thrilled you could join us. I am your host and friend, Dr. Chanté Valentine. If you’re trying to salvage a relationship or if you’re experiencing trouble moving on, I urge you to pick up the phone and talk to a friend.”

Thad slumped back into his chair and sighed in relief.

With her nerves still tied in knots, Chanté settled into a groove.

From the computer screen on her desk, she read Thad’s notes regarding her first caller and launched into her introduction. “Hello, Maria. Welcome to The Open Heart Forum.”

“Hello, Dr. Valentine.” A young, giddy voice filtered on to the line. “I can’t believe I actually got through. I have to tell you, I read your book, I Do, and I’m a big fan.”

“Why, thank you.” Chanté smiled. “What’s on your heart tonight?”

“Uhm…actually, I was wondering if everything was all right with you and your husband—The Love Doctor?”

Chanté blinked and glanced up.

Thad grimaced, shrugged, and then mouthed an apology.

Chanté forced a chuckle. “Yes. Yes. Everything is wonderful between Matthew and I.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t think much about it when I saw Dr. Matthew on Letterman, but then I heard you a few minutes ago…?”

“No. No. I was just joking with Thad, my producer. Everything is fine,” Chanté lied.

“Well, it just sounded like—”

“Maria, I’m reading here you called in about a friend of yours?” She kept her voice sugary sweet.

“Well, yes. You.”

Chanté frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Maria laughed. “Don’t you always encourage your listeners to view you as our friend?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” Chanté covered quickly. “And thank you, Maria, for your concern. But I assure you, Matthew and I are fine. Thank you for your call.” She disconnected the line and then returned her attention to the computer screen.

“Okay. Our next caller is Sienna. She’s calling in from Decatur, Georgia. Hello, Sienna, what’s on your heart tonight?”

“Hello, Dr. Valentine. I’m a first-time caller and longtime fan.”

“Welcome to the show.”

“Thank you. I just have one question.”

Chanté relaxed. “Sure. What can I help you with?”

“I was looking on the Internet and I couldn’t find anything about Kissessme College. Is that a real school?”

Chanté glared at her producer and slid her finger across her neck to let him know exactly what she was going to do when she got her hands on him.

“I’m going to kill her!” Matthew swore as he toted his autographed Reggie Jackson baseball bat and paced the spacious foyer of their multimillion-dollar home.

Their dream home. Ha! It was more like a palatial prison—one of their making.

“Maybe I imagined it,” he reasoned, but then shook his head. His wife had turned on him on national airwaves. He couldn’t believe it. “I should just give her that damn divorce.”

Anything would be better than a public castration.

“Jerry Springer rejects,” he mumbled under his breath. “I ought to—”

The front door rattled. Matthew stopped in front of the foyer’s threshold leading toward the living room and turned to watch the door. As it crept open, he adjusted and readjusted his grip on the bat.

“Matthew?” Chanté’s voice floated through the cracked door.

Waves of anger rushed up the column of his neck.

“Matthew?” she tried again, but didn’t dare step into the house. “I know you’re in the foyer. I can see you through the side paneling.”

His shoulders deflated now, the element of surprise had been taken from him.

“What are you going to do with that bat?”

He’d almost asked “what bat?” when he became cognizant of what he must look like. “I think better with it.” He placed the bat next to a crystal vase on the foyer table. “As much as I want to kill you, I’m not interested in doing the time.”

As soon as he spoke those magic words, Chanté pushed the door open farther and entered the house.

Despite his anger, Matthew’s gaze traveled up his wife’s long, toned legs and black, mid-thigh skirt. Boy, she always did know how to wear the hell out of a skirt—or anything else for that matter. Just months away from the big 4-0, Chanté labored to maintain her Tyra Banks-like figure and there wasn’t a man who’d crossed her path that didn’t take a moment to appreciate all her hard work—including him.

His eyes continued their journey over her every luscious curve until they reached her thin, delicate neck. He sighed as he envisioned wrapping his hands around it.

“You’re still up,” she stated the obvious as she closed the door.

“Was there any doubt?” He drew another deep breath in hopes to cool his temper. “How was work tonight?”

Chanté set her briefcase down next to his baseball bat. “It was all right.” She shrugged as she pulled the pins from her hair.

Matthew’s heart squeezed at the sight of her long, thick, currently dyed auburn hair spilling down her back. Sidetracked, he struggled to remember the last time he ran his fingers through the soft strands—or tugged it during the throes of passion.

Five months.

She headed toward him and had almost passed by when Matthew broke through his reverie and jutted his arm across the threshold to block her escape.

“Surely it was more than just ‘all right’?”

Chanté swept her dark, angry glare over him.

Heat flared anew within Matthew, but it had nothing to do with anger. Standing this close, staring into her fiery eyes, and smelling the soft fragrance in her hair, he was delirious with lust.

This made no sense. He couldn’t stand her.

Five months.

“Move out of my way,” she hissed.

“I want to talk more about your evening,” he hissed back, and then added a smile. “Isn’t that what all loving couples do—communicate?”

“We’re not a loving couple so let’s just skip the bull.” She ducked under his arm and stormed to the bar. “And if you want to talk about that little comment I made about you on the air tonight…” She stopped and flashed him a smile. “It was a joke.”

His anger returned. “A joke my ass. You did that to get back at me. Admit it.”

Chanté folded her arms across her chest. “And what if I did? What are you going to do about it—divorce me?”

“Don’t tempt me!”

Frustrated, Chanté stomped her foot and glanced around the room to throw something—anything. She grabbed a nearby statue, but was stunned when the damn thing wouldn’t move.

“What the—?”

“Superglue,” Matthew replied with a smug smile. “Your screaming tirades have gotten a little on the expensive side.”

Big, bright patches of red flashed before her eyes and she reached for something else, only to discover it, too, had been glued down.

Her husband laughed, plunging deeper under her skin. In a last desperate act, she pulled off a shoe and hurled it at him.

Matthew ducked. “Hey!”

She launched the second shoe and it nailed the side of his head.

“Ouch!” He rubbed his bruise and then took off running toward her. “You’ve lost your mind.”

Chanté squealed as she lunged from him. “Get away. Leave me alone.” She bounded up on the sofa and rushed across its cushions.

“I’m going to make you pay for that.”

“Don’t you dare touch me!” She jumped down, slid on her stocking feet, then raced in the opposite direction.

Matthew crashed into a bookcase and yelped in pain when a few hardcovers landed on his head. “Damn it!”

Chanté glanced over her shoulder as she exited the living room. To her surprise, her husband was right on her tail. She’d crossed the foyer and was just inches away from the staircase, when his strong fingers bit into her shoulders.

“Gotcha!”

Chanté swung as she pivoted.

Matthew ducked, lost his balance, and fell backward—taking her down with him. He landed with a hard thump and had no time to register the pain before his wife knocked what little air he had left out of his lungs.

In no time, her hands and legs flailed out in attack.

“Will you stop it?” He wrestled with her, trying to catch hold of her.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

He latched on to one arm, but failed to catch the other one before it landed a hard blow against the same spot her flying shoe had hit. “Ouch!”

Matthew captured the other hand. He rolled on top and pinned her beneath him.

Even then Chanté kicked and squirmed.

“Be still,” Matthew demanded.

“Go to hell,” she spat.

“What? This isn’t 666 Hell’s Drive?”

“Very funny.” She gave a last futile tug, and then went limp beneath him.

“Give up?”

“Never.”

Her chest heaved while she dragged in deep breaths. It, consequently, drew her husband’s lustful gaze. It was crazy, but she felt good lying beneath him—her curvy body soft but pulsing with raw energy. He was turned on—and she knew it.

Five months.

“What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

He leaned down close until their faces were just inches apart. He filled his senses with her floral-scented hair and the faint hint of Chanel No. 5.

“What will you do if I kiss you right now?”

“What?”

“I want to kiss you.”

Chanté renewed her escape efforts, but the wild bucking and squirming only succeeded in turning them both on more.

When his lips landed on hers with surprising gentleness, Chanté’s mutinous body melted as though cold water had been splashed onto a fire.

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, IDo—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.”

A wide smile monopolized Matt’s face. “That was pretty good.” He jutted a finger. “Extreme—but pretty good.”

“Come on. What’s the big deal?” Seth shrugged. “You encourage and educate people everyday about the importance of counseling. What’s the big deal in practicing what you preach?”

Matthew unzipped his pants and jerked them down his legs. “The big deal is there isn’t a damn thing that a psychologist can tell us that we don’t already know. We’re both controlling perfectionists with hot tempers. Theories and overblown rhetoric are not what we need. Especially when you’re dealing with someone who is stubborn as an ox.”

Seth frowned. “Help me out. Who’s the ox in this scenario?”

“Not funny.” Matthew tried to pull his left leg out from the bunched pants leg, but instead lost his footing and fell face forward. “Goddamn it.”

Seth covered his mouth in time to cork his laughter.

By the time Matthew recovered and climbed back to his feet there was no trace of amusement on Seth’s face—despite Matt’s sock suspenders and Daffy Duck boxer shorts.

Matthew cleared his throat and then launched into an explanation for the boxers. “Chanté burned just about everything in my underwear drawer after the car incident.”

“I think you got off lucky.”

At last, Matthew smiled as he reached for his pristine-white tennis shorts. “I do, too.”

A knock rapped on the door.

“Come in,” Matt shouted.

Cookie peeked inside with a sheepish grin. “Your package arrived, Dr. Valentine.”

Matthew’s eyes lit up as he clapped his hands together. “Oh. Bring him in.”

Seth’s brows furrowed in curiosity but the feeling was quickly sated when Cookie entered the dressing room with the most adorable brown-and-white puppy.

“There’s my little man,” Matt exclaimed, finally stepping free from his trousers to reach for the dog. “Thank you, Cookie.”

“My pleasure. Do you know what you’re going to name him?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Matt scratched behind the puppy’s ear. “I have to spend some time with him and get a sense of his personality.”

Cookie leaned over and kissed the dog on top of the head. “Well, keep me posted. I love dogs!”

“Will do.”

The intern gave either Matt or the dog a wink, Seth couldn’t tell which.

“Call if you need anything,” she reminded him again and then disappeared with another wink.

“Excuse me, uhm,” Seth said once the door closed. “But isn’t Chanté allergic to dogs?”

“She’s not allergic,” Matt said unconcerned. “She just hates them.”

“I stand corrected.”

Matt sat in his makeup chair and began to coo and imitate baby talk to the bundle of fur.

“What kind of dog is he?”

“Bulldog. Isn’t he handsome? Maybe I should name him Buddy? As in my Buddy.”

“You know your wife is going to hit the roof when she sees him.”

“Probably.” Matt smiled. “But I’ll just keep him on my side of the house. Besides, everyone needs companionship. A fact my wife seems to have forgotten.”

Seth stared at his friend. Finally, he decided to stop pussyfooting around. “Let me ask you something. And be honest if you can. If you and Chanté continue on the way you have been, how long do you think it will be before you finally accept Cookie’s invitation?”

A flash of anger returned to Matthew’s eyes. “You’re out of line.”

“And you’re in denial.”

That loud silence returned to the room, but this time it was layered with a tension usually reserved for heavyweight boxers on fight night.

“Look, I’m your friend.”

“You’re my agent.”

Seth thrust up his chin at the verbal blow. “All right. I’m your agent. As your agent I think I should warn you that a marriage counselor is better for your reputation than getting caught with your hands in the Cookie jar.”

Matthew’s heated black gaze snapped up to Seth as he opened the door.

“Think about it, Matt.” His gaze shifted to the puppy. “Good luck, Buddy. Something tells me that you’re going to need it.”

Chapter 5

“Hello, Shawanda. Welcome to The Open Heart Forum.”

“Dr. Valentine? Oh, Lawd, girl. I didn’t think I would ever get through.”

Chanté chuckled as she glanced up at Thad through the glass partition. “Well, I’m glad you did, Shawanda. What’s on your heart tonight?”

“Yeah, well, I need to get some advice on what I should do about this (beep!) that’s been creeping around with my man.”

“Whoa, whoa, Shawanda.” Chanté laughed. “I got to tell you this isn’t one of those trashy talk shows, so I’m going have to ask you to watch the language. You think that you can do that?”

“Yeah, girl. Just tell me what I should do about this…heifa stalking my man ’cause I’m seriously about to catch a case if she calls my house one more damn time.”

“Well,” Chanté shook her head and braided her fingers. “Have you confronted your husband about this woman?”

“Oh, we ain’t married or nothing. We’ve just been living together the last fifteen years.”

Thad slapped a hand around his mouth while Chanté remained composed.

“I see. Before I address your question, Shawanda—do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Uh, well, I guess not.”

“Why have you wasted fifteen years of your life on a man who clearly doesn’t respect you enough to marry you?”

“Hey, that’s my baby’s daddy. The ring will come. I mean, you know, he first has to get his wife to sign the divorce papers.”

“His wife?”

“Yeah, she’s been trippin’ ever since he chose me over her trifling behind.”

“So let me get this straight—” Chanté straightened in her chair. “You’re calling because your man is exhibiting the same behavior you benefited from fifteen years ago when he left his wife for you. Do I understand that right?”

“Look, Rufus left my sister because she didn’t know how to treat him right. She never could keep a man, if you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I think I do.” Chanté sighed. “All right, Shawanda and the rest of you ladies out there who think that hanging on to a man, any man, by any means necessary is the road to eternal bliss. Snap out of it!”

Chanté drew a deep breath and shook her finger at her desk microphone like it was an errant child. “This sort of behavior is unacceptable, despicable and downright counterproductive. It’s bad enough that you destroyed one family, but you’re calling me to help you stop someone from paying you back for what you put out in the universe. The way I see it, Shawanda, you have two choices, get out or suck it up.

“If you have any sense left you’ll do the right thing and crawl to your sister on your hands and knees and beg for forgiveness. Got it?”

A loud click followed by a dial tone filled the airwaves.

“Humph. Another woman who can’t take the truth.” She shook her head. “Look, ladies. One of the hardest things you’ll ever have to learn is to know when to let go. It’s not always healthy to only listen to your heart. Your heart can convince you to give up things you have no business giving up. Trust me, I know.”

Chanté stayed her tongue, realizing that she’d nearly said too much. To her surprise, Thad had already removed his headphones and was stretched out in his chair, shaking his head.

“We cut to Dr. Laura Schlessinger’s repeat show about a minute ago.”

“Oh, thank God.” Chanté sighed and dropped her head on her desk. “I was about to experience a serious case of verbal diarrhea.”

Thad stood from his chair and strode out of the control room and into the studio booth. “Hey, what do you say we grab some coffee at our favorite diner? We could talk and…talk.”

Chanté rolled her head to the side and peeked up at him. “Talk?”

Somehow, she managed to lift her head and smile. “Thanks, Thad…but I think I’m going to have to take a rain check.” She removed her headset.

He nodded with obvious disappointment. “All right. But I got to tell you—the rain checks are stacking pretty high. I’m going to start cashing them in soon—real soon.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night it is.” Thad slid the bill of his Yankees cap to the front and winked. “Get some rest. You look like you need it.”

Chanté watched the young producer as he shuffled out of the studio and then felt herself tumble back into a void so complete, she barely had any energy to pack up her belongings. “Sleep,” she mumbled under her breath. “What a novel idea.”

Like a zombie, she headed out to the employee parking lot. Despite exhaustion, Chanté knew when she climbed into bed, sleep would be rationed out in fitful doses. Such had been the case for the past five months. Ever since she’d kicked Matthew out of their bedroom.

She was angry. He was angry. She threw things. He shouted hurtful things at the top of his lungs. Neither apologized. To do so would mean that one of them was wrong. After eleven years of marriage, Chanté was tired of always being wrong.

Chanté’s heels clicked louder against the asphalt, renewed anger brewed in her blood. Over the past five months, she’d lamented over every argument they had ever had and not once had Matthew apologized.

Not once.

As she approached her parking space, the sight of the rented Mercedes only fed her anger. Matthew deserved more than just some itching powder sprinkled in his clothes—maybe being thrown into a cage with a wild animal would elicit some sense of satisfaction.

“Okay, maybe that’s a little too harsh,” she admitted, but a smile curved her lips all the same.

As Chanté merged into traffic, she wished that she’d taken Thad up on his offer for coffee and a talk. She wanted to talk to someone, but hated feeling pressured to do so. The irony of that didn’t escape her.

She drove for hours, most of the time going back and forth over the same stretch of highway—never really ready to make the right exit for her house. No matter the hour, she knew Matt would be waiting up for her in the living room, although he would never admit it. He’d always claimed to be working whether his laptop was on or not. That still meant something, didn’t it? What about the other night when he’d nearly made love to her on the floor of the foyer?

Wasn’t that a sign that he still wanted her?

At least her body…or what her body should be capable of giving him.

A child.

The white lines of the road blurred at the sudden sting of tears. Why couldn’t Matt just let it go? Not every couple had children. Not everyone was meant to be parents.

But in the last six years her husband had grown obsessed. From endless tests to new and innovative positions, Matthew was determined to have a child. Making love had become sex and sex had become a dull, emotionless act that had left her feeling more empty and dissatisfied than when they started.

Matt never noticed. After all, to a man, an orgasm was an orgasm.

Chanté reached the point that she didn’t even bother faking it anymore. And if she wasn’t enjoying it, then why do it?

Still, the other night, an old familiar spark had flared between them. Or had she imagined it? She mulled the question over a moment, but in the end was no closer to an answer than she was that night.

But I wanted to make love to him.

That was an inescapable fact.

After a marathon of hot and sweaty sex, Edie and Seth curled into a nice spoon while they waited to catch their next wind.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Seth panted, peppering his wife’s back with butterfly kisses.

“You just make sure you don’t forget it,” Edie purred and wiggled her rump against his growing erection.

Seth laughed but reached over and snatched a white Kleenex, a surrender flag, from the nightstand and waved it in front of his wife. “I give up. I can’t go on without the aid of a medic.”

Edie groaned and then inched out of their beloved spoon to roll over and face him. “You know if you keep conking out on me, I just might have to get myself a younger man.”

“Then I’ll just have to get myself an older woman. Someone who knows how to roll over and go to sleep after four rounds.”

“Better not.” Edie giggled before she laid another long, hot kiss on him. When she pulled away, she gazed deep into his eyes. “Promise me that we’ll always be like this.”

“I promise that we’ll always be like this.”

“Even when I grow old and my skin gets all wrinkly?”

“Even then.”

“Even when my hair turns all gray and I’ll have to put my teeth in a glass next to the bed?”

“Ooh, no teeth, huh? That could come in handy.”

Edie popped him on the arm. “Promise.”

Seth chuckled and drew her soft body close. “I promise to love you until my dying breath.” He kissed her upturned nose.

Edie released a long sigh and tried to relax against him.

“Something else is on your mind. Out with it.”

“Oh,” she said disconsolately. “It’s nothing.”

“It sure doesn’t sound like nothing.”

She hesitated a moment, kissed his firm chest, and then tilted her head back so that she met his gaze in the dimly lit room. “Did you talk to Matthew today?”

It was Seth’s turn to sigh wearily. “Yeah, I guess you can say that.”

“I take it you ran into the same brick wall I did with Chanté?”

“Unfortunately.” He rolled onto his back, but kept Edie locked in his arm. “I think they’re worse off than I originally thought.”

“What do you mean?”

Seth relayed his suspicions about Matt’s potentially straying eye and waited for the eruptions he knew that would follow. Edie and Chanté were best friends, after all. Jumping to her girl’s defense was only natural.

But she said nothing.

In a way, the quiet was more unsettling than any explosion.

“Baby?”

“Do you think he’ll have an affair?”

Seth drew in a deep breath while he replayed what he’d seen in Matt’s dressing room and what he knew of his friend’s character. He wanted to say “no, absolutely not,” but something kept the words from falling from his lips.

Edie sat up. When their eyes met again, Seth read the sadness she felt for her friend. It had nothing to do with book sales or public image.

“We have to try harder,” she whispered. “Everyone knows they’re soul mates.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, if they don’t know they’re soul mates,” he reasoned, caressing her arm. “We can lead deer to water, but we can’t make them drink.”

With a slow nod, she turned toward the window. As she gazed out at the full moon, Seth watched as a smile crept across her face.

“We’re going to have to do more than just lead them to the water,” she said.

Seth frowned, lost on her meaning.

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