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