Burning Down the Spouse Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  Praise for

  My Way to Hell

  “This amusing urban fantasy romance brings together a lead pair that fans of the saga will appreciate . . . Fans will enjoy that Marcella is back burning tamales and peanut butter as only a retired sexagenarian former demon could when she becomes a not so average woman in love.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “A hysterically touching sequel . . . Marcella is the kind of protagonist who gets readers rooting and keeping their fingers crossed for the next book . . . A quick page-turner for even a novice to Cassidy’s fast-paced fiction.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Kiss & Hell

  “A fun, lighthearted paranormal romance that will keep readers entertained. Ms. Cassidy fills the pages of her book with nonstop banter, ghostly activity, and steamy romance.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “Delaney, with her amusing sarcastic asides, makes for an entertaining romantic fantasy with a wonderful mystery subplot . . . Readers will relish this lighthearted jocular frolic.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Cassidy has created a hilarious lead in Delaney Markham. Readers will run through all types of emotions while enjoying laugh-out-loud moments, desperate passion, wacky and fun characters, pop-culture references, and one intense mystery. The book’s charm is apparent from the first page, but the twisted mystery tangled throughout will keep the pages turning.”

  —Romantic Times

  The Accidental Human

  “I highly enjoyed every moment of Dakota Cassidy’s The Accidental Human . . . A paranormal romance with a strong dose of humor.”

  —Errant Dreams

  “A delightful, at times droll, contemporary tale starring a decidedly human heroine . . . Dakota Cassidy provides a fitting, twisted ending to this amusingly warm urban romantic fantasy.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “The final member of Cassidy’s trio of decidedly offbeat friends faces her toughest challenge, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t humor to spare! With emotion, laughter, and some pathos, Cassidy serves up another winner!”

  —Romantic Times

  Accidentally Dead

  “A laugh-out-loud follow-up to The Accidental Werewolf, and it’s a winner . . . Ms. Cassidy is an up-and-comer in the world of paranormal romance.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “An enjoyable, humorous satire that takes a bite out of the vampire romance subgenre . . . Fans will appreciate the nonstop hilarity.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  The Accidental Werewolf

  “Cassidy, a prolific author of erotica, has ventured into MaryJanice Davidson territory with a humorous, sexy tale.”

  —Booklist

  “If Bridget Jones became a lycanthrope, she might be Marty. Fun and flirty humor is cleverly interspersed with dramatic mystery and action. It’s hard to know which character to love best, though: Keegan or Muffin, the toy poodle that steals more than one scene.”

  —The Eternal Night

  “A riot! Marty’s internal dialogue will have you howling, and her antics will keep the laughs coming. If you love paranormal with a comedic twist, you’ll love this book.”—Romance Junkies

  “A lighthearted romp . . . [An] entertaining tale with an alpha twist.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  More praise for the novels of Dakota Cassidy

  “The fictional equivalent of the little black dress—every reader should have one!”

  —Michele Bardsley

  “Serious, laugh-out-loud humor with heart, the kind of love story that leaves you rooting for the heroine, sighing for the hero, and looking for your own significant other at the same time.”

  —Kate Douglas

  “Expect great things from Cassidy.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Very fun, sexy. Five stars!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Dakota Cassidy is going on my must-read list!”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  “If you’re looking for some steamy romance with something that will have you smiling, you have to read [Dakota Cassidy].”

  —The Best Reviews

  Berkley Sensation titles by Dakota Cassidy

  YOU DROPPED A BLONDE ON ME

  BURNING DOWN THE SPOUSE

  KISS & HELL

  MY WAY TO HELL

  THE ACCIDENTAL WEREWOLF

  ACCIDENTALLY DEAD

  THE ACCIDENTAL HUMAN

  ACCIDENTALLY DEMONIC

  ACCIDENTALLY CATTY

  Please visit http://www.Demonoid.me for more books from our generous members.

  Baileyd

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2011 by Dakota Cassidy.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / July 2011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cassidy, Dakota.

  Burning down the spouse / Dakota Cassidy.—Berkley Sensation trade pbk. ed. p. cm.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-51638-6

  1. Separated women—Fiction. 2. Women cooks—Fiction. 3. Greet Americans—Fiction. I. T
itle.

  PS3603.A8685B87 2011

  813’.6—dc22

  2011007735

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For the Rainbow Diner back in Pleasantville, New Jersey. You have no idea what a haven your diner became for me when nothing else was open and I needed to escape the fears of my pending single parenthood. I couldn’t afford more than one cup of coffee, but no one ever balked because I didn’t order food, and you kept my cup filled. Thank you for allowing me to keep my dignity when I was nose to nose with the bottom of the barrel.

  And to Guy Fieri of Diners, Drive-ins and Dives fame. Dude, your show was invaluable in my research. With diners pretty few and far between in Texas, and never having been in the kitchen of one back at my old stomping grounds in New Jersey, I needed some insider info, and your show was a ginormous help to me. Plus, you’re kinda funny, but seriously, walk away from the spice jokes. The Ginger/Mary Ann reference is pushing some comedic boundaries. No. I kid. Because I love. Really. Also, Tyler Florence, who tweets the most amazing cooking information almost like he knows, by some weird osmosis, just when I need it. You’re the “ultimate” personable, fan-friendly celebrity chef.

  And to Barry Manilow for the song “I Made It Through the Rain.” Those who know the song will understand what it means.

  Most of all, to my father, Robert Cartwright, who watched every single Food Network show known to man with me and adored, among many, Rachael Ray. Each time I cook a meal these days, I remember Rachael Ray’s infamous word—one Dad repeated to me daily at dinner—“yummo.” So yummo, Daddy. A big yummo from down here. I miss you.

  Dakota Cassidy ☺

  CHAPTER ONE

  See, the problem is that God gives men a brain and a penis, and

  only enough blood to run one at a time.

  —ROBIN WILLIAMS

  So maybe things had gotten a little out of hand, Frankie Bennett reflected. Through the lingering clouds of black smoke, she perused the carnage now littering her husband Mitch’s made-for-TV kitchen with a rather detached view.

  But really, live tapings were all about the unexpected, right?

  No doubt, the ratings for Mitch in the Kitchen’s first-ever live show on the Bon Appetit Channel would be ginormous.

  And all because of her.

  God, she really was a giver.

  “Jesus Christ, Frankie! What the hell are you doing?” a male voice whisper-yelled from the floor below, drawing her attention to the assorted utensils scattered at her sneakered feet.

  Jesus Christ, indeed.

  Frankie looked down where one of the stage crew was slinking across the tile on his belly, his hands over his head like they were in a war zone.

  Her eyes shifted, catching the debris littering her brand-new Nikes.

  Hoo shit. She’d totally mangled Mitch’s favorite wire whisk, the one he demanded always be to his left when the recipe he was cooking called for one.

  The stank would surely fly for that offense.

  It was part of his new collection of kitchen gadgets and overpriced casserole dishes no one but a Hilton could afford to buy.

  It was also shiny, she noted. Very shiny.

  Frankie waved her hand in the air and wrinkled her nose. Wow. Who knew one little flick of a Bic could create so much kitchen towel wreckage? Oh, and look. Mitch’s stupid thousand-dollar-a-pound black French truffles lie smashed to smithereens against the wood flooring, so flattened by Frankie’s foot they looked like those Parisian pancakes Mitch loved to brag he’d created the recipe for. Well, with one little exception. The truffles were black, and Mitch’s pancakes weren’t.

  But there was always the five-second rule, right? Maybe he could have his assistant-slash-ass-kisser Juliana scoop them up off the floor and salvage what she hadn’t done the watusi on. No doubt, she could definitely use some help scraping them off the bottom of her shoe.

  That insight made her giggle, a little high-pitched, and if she was honest, it did sound a little crazy-assed, which drew more slack-jawed astonishment from everyone around her.

  Mitch would dock her pay for those thousand-dollar truffles.

  Black French truffles do not either cost a thousand dollars a pound, Frankie.

  That was true, but you’d think they did the way Mitch had reacted when she’d taken them down with one fell swoop of her arm. There’d been a lot of yelling, hands flying, and red-faced, vein-popping fury on his behalf.

  It was to be expected. They were, after all, million-dollar-a-pound black French truffles.

  “Cuuuuuttttttttt!” a male voice yelled.

  Well, screamed—on a hacking cough, no less.

  Pretty loud, too, considering the amount of smoke inhalation he’d probably incurred.

  Probably Epson. He was a control freak of a director. If they were thirty seconds to live and everyone wasn’t in their exact spot marked with the masking tape he’d so lovingly placed on the floor himself, he was dramatically putting his hand over his chest as though he could will himself to leave this plane just by thinking the words “heart attack.” “Damn it! I mean—go—to—commercial!” he corrected, his anxious screech but a vague penetration through Frankie’s eerie wall of calm.

  Yep. That was her. Always rockin’ the unruffled. Always keeping things on track. Always asking how high when someone said jump.

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped when the red light on camera three blinked off. She jammed one hand into the pocket of her tailored jeans, stepping over the glass remains of the mixing bowls Mitch preferred. He liked the visual effect mixing ingredients in them created for his television audience.

  Her other hand clutched a wooden spoon. She made her way past the row of copper pots and pans hanging over Mitch’s six-burner cooktop with the boil-in-eight-seconds feature. How peculiar, Frankie thought, pausing to see that the crew had all begun ducking and diving for cover with mouths open wide in horror.

  Like they were all waiting for something bad to happen.

  The crash of the spoon she wielded against the bottom and sides of all that copper did sort of sound like a xylophone, Frankie decided. Huh. She’d always wondered if it would . . . But it would probably sound much more pleasant to the ear if she had a stainless steel spoon. That’d make some righteous noise.

  That decided, Frankie made her way to exit stage left and go home. Today had been brutal, her arm was strangely sore, her throat was scratchy and a little raw, and she had a killa headache.

  However, by the look on hubby Mitch’s face, one Frankie knew well, it didn’t appear he agreed she was due some “me” time. She sighed with a forlorn whistle to it. There went the bubble bath and glass of Chardonnay.

  Fucker.

  Frankie’s eyes searched for Kiki, her longhaired Chihuahua mix. Kiki was Mitch’s on-air mascot. She’d attended every taping since Mitch’s viewers had seen Frankie in the audience with her. After an abundance of emails from fans of the show who wanted to see more of Kiki, Mitch had dubbed her an asset—a mangy, smelly one who might get hair in his precious food, but an asset that couldn’t be denied. Kiki turned into an overnight sensation when Mitch’s fans found out she was a stray he’d rescued after finding her foraging outside the Bon Appetit studios.

  What he forgot to mention was he didn’t rescue anything. Mitch couldn’t rescue something or someone if he had the paramedics with him. He didn’t even like Kiki. Frankie had found Kiki at the Dumpster outside the studios, scrounging through a garbage bag carelessly thrown to the ground. To her husband’s utter mortification, she’d fallen in love and promptly brought her home.

  Scooping her up on her way out, Frankie chucked Kiki under the chin and whispered, “Tonight when you curl up in that crazy three-thousand-dollar bed of yours, thank the doggie gods you’re deaf, Kik. I think we’re in for a shit storm of verbal assault.”

  Mitch’s hand wrapped around her arm, yanking at the sleeve of her carefully-picked-by-her-personal-shopper cashmere sweater. �
��What the fuck is the matter with you, Frankie? Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” he roared so loud, her hair lifted off her shoulders.

  Done? She’d done what she’d always done. Prepped Mitch’s food to within an inch of perfection for the live show and put it in sequential order in the set’s refrigerator. Checked not twice but thrice to be certain his spice bowls were filled with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, arranged each mixing bowl and utensil in the correct order of usage. Then she’d gone off to his dressing room to make absolutely certain he had ice-cold bottled Perrier for commercial break. That was her job at the Bon Appetit Channel—Mitch’s whipping, er, food prep girl.

  Once she’d completed those menial tasks, she’d smelled the lovely flowers someone had sent to Mitch while reading the attached card.

  Dear Mitch,

  Let’s celebrate your stratospheric rise in the cooking world at my place after the show. I’ll have your favorite massage oil and chai tea waiting.