When Valentines Collide (5 page)

S
omewhere around two a.m., Matthew began to worry. Would this be the night Chanté decided not to come home? He held his breath as his eyes scanned the dimly lit property. For the last five months he tried to prepare himself for such an occasion, but at this moment he realized he could never truly be prepared for that.

Day after day, he taught and counseled couples on how to rebuild a broken marriage, but he was absolutely clueless on how to fix his own. The sudden beam of a car's headlights piercing the night made Matthew's shoulders deflate with relief.

His marriage would see another day. Break out the champagne.

Matthew moved away from the window and returned to the sofa. He opened his laptop and spread out a folder of paperwork around him. When the door opened, his heartbeat sped up while he questioned if his wife would buy his “working late” act.

The door closed and he heard the locks engage. Soon their nightly script of light bantering would ensue.

Juvenile—yes. Necessary—absolutely.

However, at the sound of Chanté's heels clicking up the stairs, Matthew realized there was an unexpected change in the script. He removed the computer from his lap and rushed to the living room's archway.

“I'm glad to see that you remembered our address,” he quipped, crossing his arms. He mentally berated himself for saying the words with blatant concern. He was supposed to sound aloof and nonchalant.

Chanté stopped halfway up the stairs and turned to face him. “Can we not do this tonight? I'm really tired.”

Matthew moved from the archway, instantly concerned about the overwhelming sadness in her eyes and her slumped posture.

“Is there…?” He stopped himself at her sudden flash of anger.

“I think you've done enough, don't you?”

He had no response for the soft reprimand. All he could do was watch her turn and climb the rest of her stairs. Exactly one minute later, her high scream filled the entire house.

Matt's heart leaped into the center of his chest as he flew up the stairs. When he rounded the corner to Chanté's room, he quickly skidded to a stop while his eyes grew wide as silver dollars.

The entire room looked as if a tornado had hit. Curtains were pulled from their rods, paper, cotton and goose feathers were spawned across the floor—along with most of the bedding.

“What the hell happened in here?” Matthew asked, though the moment the question was out of his mouth, he suspected the answer.

Chanté rounded on him with fire in her eyes. “You know damn well what happened. You did this!” She stalked toward him.

Raising his hands in surrender, he took a retreating step. “Wait, it's not what you think.”

A low growl caught their attention and Chanté slowly turned toward her walk-in closet.

Buddy trotted out, growling and shaking his head with a leather pump clenched between his teeth.

“What in the hell?” Chanté screeched.

“Buddy, no.” Matthew raced into the room and knelt to rescue the prized possession. “Give me that. How did you get out of my room?”

“Buddy?” his wife snapped. “This mongrel belongs to you?”

Matthew pried the shoe out of the dog's mouth, but then groaned at the numerous teeth marks around the heel.

Chanté approached with her fist jabbed into her hips.

He glanced up. “Uh, looks like we were a little too late.”

“Uh, you think?” She snatched the shoe from his hand. “These are Weitzman pumps. Do you know what I had to do to track these down?”

He quickly scooped the dog into his arms before his wife did something rash. As a matter of fact, he realized that he better stand up if he wanted to keep his own teeth. “Chanté, calm down. This was an accident.”

“An accident? You expect me to believe that? What the hell is a dog doing in this house in the first place? You know I don't like dogs.”

“Well, I do. And I think it's high time I had one. I need something around here to be happy when I come home.”

She sucked in an indignant breath. “And who is going to take care of him?”

“I'll take care of him!”

Chanté swept out an arm to indicate her bedroom. “Does this look like you're taking care of him?”

“He must have gotten out of his crate.”

“Did you come to that conclusion all by yourself, Dr. Valentine?”

“It was an accident. It won't happen again.”

Rage trembled through Chanté's body like a bolt of lightning. “Get out!” she seethed through her clenched teeth.

“Chanté…”

Pivoting on her heel, she marched toward the door and held it open. “I said, get out.”

Realizing that she wasn't going to listen to reason, Matthew waltzed out. He'd barely crossed the threshold when the door slammed behind him.

Matthew stood still for a long moment, reviewing what had just happened.

Just apologize.
Seth's advice rang in Matt's ear and reverberated through every cell of his body.

But apologize for what? Okay, maybe he could start with the car and the damage the dog did to her room—or even his callous remarks on national television. But all of that transpired in the last week. It would hardly cover the past five months.

It's a start.

Matthew turned around and knocked on the door.

Chanté didn't answer.

He drew a deep breath and tried again—this time a little louder. When she didn't answer the second time, he knew he was officially being given the silent treatment.

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry,” he murmured to the door.

Buddy lifted his head and delivered a sloppy lick against Matthew's cheek.

“At least you still like me.” Turning, Matthew followed the gray duct tape back to his room.

 

Thinking she heard something, Chanté shut off the shower and waited to see if she'd hear it again. After a minute, she shivered from the cool chill of the bathroom and turned the hot water back on. The steady, warm pulse of the water did a considerable job of easing the tension from her body.

However, she fully intended to make herself a hard drink once she climbed out of the shower—maybe even two.

As she lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, she churned an inventory of Matthew's prized possessions over in her mind. Which item would pack the most wallop and which one would hit below the belt?

How long are you going to keep this up?

The question threw her, mainly because she didn't have an answer. This tit-for-tat game they played was taking on a life of its own, and in a weird way, it fed something in her—in Matthew, too, if she wasn't mistaken.

She shut off the water again and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping the towel around her body, she traipsed back into the adjoining bedroom. She stripped everything off the bed, and then put on fresh linens before she crawled on top.

Sighing, she stared up at the ceiling and laughed. She laughed so hard and so long, the voice inside her head questioned her sanity.

Sitting up, she took a long look around her gilded cage—albeit a trashed cage—and felt an incredible loneliness. It hadn't always felt this way—not when Matthew used to lie beside her. Chanté groaned. Why did her heart constantly flip-flop where Matthew was concerned?

She loved him. She hated him. She loved him. She loved him.

“Aw, hell. Maybe Edie was right. Maybe we do need help.” After all, it had been easy to fall in love with Matthew, though many of her friends thought they were oil and water from the start.

Growing up, she hadn't known any affluent black families—not in a small Texan town like Karankawa. She was charmed by everything from the way he talked to the way he walked. She was in awe of his intelligence, captivated by his sophistication and seduced by his good looks.

While wallowing in a moment of honesty, she realized he still had those qualities. Maybe she was the one who'd changed. Maybe if her body had given them a child, she wouldn't be so bitter.

She stretched out across the bed, hoping to fill the empty spaces—but it didn't work. Chanté closed her eyes and struggled to remember all of their firsts. The first time he took her into his arms. Their first kiss. The first time they made love. After a while, the memories flooded her senses.

The first time they were together they'd lain on a bed of rose petals. Roses were her favorite flowers. That night, she thought she'd die from the sheer joy of their consummation. The tenderness of his probing and inquisitive hands. He was masterful in figuring out all her hot spots.

She remembered his mouth tasting like a fusion of heaven and sin. One minute, she was his precious angel and in the next, his little devil. Back then, Matthew kept a beautifully groomed goatee and her sensitive skin always quivered beneath its light tickle.

Lost in the memories, Chanté unwrapped the towel from her baby-oiled body and fanned her fingers across her chest. Oh, what she wouldn't give to travel back in time and experience that night again. Love seemed so effortless and happiness was always just a kiss away.

Nothing is stopping you from going to him now.

Her eyes snapped open. For a second her eyes darted around to see if someone else had actually made the comment. When she realized she was still alone, she sighed in relief.

But the bud of her femininity began to ache for fulfillment.

“I could go,” she whispered, warming to the idea. Heck, who said that she had to apologize in order to get laid? Hell, she didn't even have to talk.

Chanté sucked in her bottom lip and nibbled for a little while.
There's the danger of Matthew thinking that sex would be some sort of peace offering.

The ache between her legs intensified.

Then again, I could correct him in the morning.
Chanté liked that idea and bounded off the bed, in search of the perfect negligee to seduce her husband.

A
fter a half bottle of Jack Daniels, Matthew dreamed of his wife's creamy thighs, firm breasts and perfect apple bottom. He tossed and turned and even smacked his lips while remembering her distinctive taste. The wanting, aching and longing had stripped him of his sanity.

No matter how many times he tried to think or concentrate on something else, Chanté's teasing body would crystallize in his mind. If he thought about work, Chanté would materialize as a naked cue-card girl. When writing material for his next book, Chanté would be the naked girl on his Internet pop-up, asking him if he wanted to see her in action.

It was maddening…and a complete turn-on.

In need of relief, Matthew grabbed hold of his erection and tried to assuage the ache. Even at this desperate hour, his hand was a lousy substitute.

You could always go back and knock on the door again.

Matthew's hand stilled. The thought had possibilities. But then he remembered how Chanté had turned him down the other night and how she closed the door in his face tonight. How many times could he face her rejection?

Knock. Knock.

Matthew remained frozen in the bed with his erection still throbbing in his hand.

Knock. Knock.

Buddy barked from his crate.

“Yes?” he asked sluggishly.

Instead of an answer, he listened as the doorknob turned and the heavy door creaked open. Pushing himself up, he wasn't quite sure what to expect—an intruder, his wife, or an intruder impersonating his wife.

He waited until the curvaceous figure illuminated under the silvery moonlight. Even then he wasn't sure he believed what he was seeing or if his old buddy Jack now had him hallucinating.

“Chanté?”

She glided toward the bed and pressed a slender finger against his lips. It didn't take a rocket scientist to catch her meaning—and he was only too willing to oblige.

Damn it, it's been five months.

Wait, his brain screamed. Something wasn't right. Matt eyed her suspiciously. “Is this a trick?”

Again, she didn't answer. Just gave him a slight shake of her head.

Matthew weighed whether to believe her. Then again, if this was a hallucination, what harm was there in having a little fun?

A bright smile bloomed across Matthew's face and glowed in the moonlight. “Hey, baby. You finally decided to come pay Big Daddy a visit?”

Chanté frowned. “Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. There's no law against a man drinking in the privacy of his own home, is there?”

“Never mind. This was a mistake.” She turned.

Matthew hopped out of bed and clutched her arm. “Don't go, baby. You know we've both been waiting for this for a long time,” he slurred.

She hesitated, giving Matthew all the confirmation he needed.

“Why don't you give me a big, fat juicy kiss to seal the deal?”

Eager, both Chanté and Matthew leaned forward, only to bang their foreheads together.

“Ouch.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.” Matt fluttered a nervous smile before trying again. This time, their lips connected and their bodies sagged with relief.

However, when Matt leaned her back onto the bed, he'd forgotten about his laptop and piles of paper occupying the other side.

“Ow, ouch.” Chanté shoved him off.

“Oh, just a minute.” Matt pitched everything, including the laptop, over the side of the bed. “See? All gone.” He flashed another toothy smile and clumsily reached for her again.

Buddy barked.

“Shh. Buddy, be quiet,” Matthew warned. “You'll scare my dream girl away.”

Chanté hesitated.

“Don't worry, no more surprises,” he assured, patting the empty bed for emphasis.

After another beat of hesitation, Chanté decided to give it another try. She glided effortlessly into his arms and imagined herself cast into her own romance novel. But everything didn't play out quite the way she'd hope.

Matthew grabbed for her like a starved man before an all-you-can-eat buffet. He fumbled and cursed while he tried to pry her out of her lingerie.

“Here, let me do it,” she offered before he had a chance to destroy one more thing of hers. Three snaps later, she chiseled on another smile and then lay back on the bed in all her naked glory.

That was when the real pawing began.

Matt's once tender and caressing hands were now rough and forceful. Lips that once gave loving worship to her sensitive nipples now seemed determined to chew the damn things off.

“Easy. Easy,” she coached, wanting him to slow down and enjoy the ride. Instead, her husband skipped foreplay and went straight for the main attraction.

He entered with one mighty thrust and nearly split her in two.

What the hell?

Chanté gripped his bulging biceps and tried to hold on during the ride. However, she was nearly rendered senseless several times as her head was rammed into the headboard. Meanwhile, Buddy continued to bark his head off. This was like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

“Shh, Buddy. Shh, Buddy,” Matthew hissed in between his “Oh, Gods.” His hips hammered away while his eyes damn near rolled to the back of his head.

Chanté watched in resolute boredom until Matthew stiffened with one last thrust, and then collapsed in a sweaty heap.

Is that it?

“Oh, baby. I missed you so much.” Matthew panted and peppered sloppy kisses across her face and eyes.

“Uhm.” She searched for the right words. “Matt?”

“Hmm?”

“I, uh, didn't…well, you know.”

Matt lifted his head and stared down at her. “You didn't?”

Chanté shook her head.
Not even close.

“I, uh, I'm so—well, I guess, I did get a little carried away. It being a while and all.” He absently wiped the sweat from his brow.

She nodded in feigned understanding. “That's all right. You can try again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled and wiggled his hips.

To Chanté's dismay, she noted Matt Jr. wasn't exactly standing at full salute.

“Just give me a minute to…catch my breath,” Matthew panted.

Chanté's brows furrowed, but she had no choice but to bob her head in agreement and wait for her husband to catch his second wind.

Two minutes later, Matthew was fast asleep.

 

At breakfast the next morning, Seth decided it was time he dusted off his culinary skills to make his wife breakfast in bed. Unfortunately, his specialty was cold cereal.

“Oh, honey.” Edie smiled brightly when he appeared at their bedroom doorway with her breakfast tray in hand. “You shouldn't have.”

Seth beamed proudly as if he'd prepared a five-course meal. “My baby deserves the best.”

“Special K, huh?”

“Special K with strawberries.”

“Then bring it on!” Edie set aside the pamphlets in her lap and punched up her pillows before her husband delivered her meal.

“What are these?” he asked, picking up one of the pamphlets.

“Some brochures I picked up yesterday before my talk with Chanté.”

Seth frowned as he opened one and then another. “Sex therapy? I thought the idea was to get them to see a real counselor?”

“They're real.” Edie snatched one of the brochures back. “I've heard some great things about these places.”

“Where? On one of those women's talk shows?”

Edie poked out her bottom lip as she shrugged her shoulders. “What if I did? A reference is a reference.”

“Okay, this job just went from difficult to impossible.” Seth laughed. “Sex isn't the problem. Their ability to stay away from sharp objects is.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked, scooping out her first spoonful of cereal.

“No,” he acquiesced. “It's not the sort of thing we talk about.”

“Well, what do you talk about?”

“His lack of sex. Five months and counting.” Seth shook his head with great sympathy. “I don't care what anyone says, that's cruel and unusual punishment. No wonder he's demolishing cars.”

“I hear you.” She chomped away for a moment while her gaze returned to the pamphlets.

“Actually, I really think I'm on to something here. Last week when Chanté stormed over here about the Letterman incident, she said that Matthew
used
to be great in bed.”

“What the hell? Do you two give each other blow-by-blow recaps?”

“Don't worry, sweetie. You're still a ten in my book.”

Seth straightened his shoulders as his chest swelled from the compliment. “Ten is easy when I have an eleven in my arms.”

For that, he was rewarded with a kiss.

“So you think this sex therapy will work?”

“It certainly can't hurt.”

“Not unless there's a chainsaw on the premises.”

Edie chuckled.

“Any idea how we're going to get them to one of these places?” Seth asked.

“Yes. We lie.”