Burning Down The Spouse (Ex-Trophy Wives Book 2)

by Dakota Cassidy

  “Who said I’m older?” Nikos pretended to be affronted.

  “I’m betting you’re at least forty.”

  “Was it my sagging ass or the crow’s-feet around my eyes?”

  “Hah!” Like this man had to worry about sagging anything. “No, silly. It was your mother. She spilled the beans when she was bemoaning her lack of grandchildren.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m working on it.”

  “With Chloe?”

  Dear Lord. Had that burning question just escaped from her thoughts and out through her lips? The one that had tortured her since Jasmine told her Chloe was supposed to marry Nikos?

  Nikos’s face took on a serious slant, the sun shining through the window lingering on his chiseled cheekbones. “No. Not with Chloe. That was never an option. No matter how Mama feels. And I’m forty-two, funny lady.”

  “So you are my older brother. You know, in the spirit of family.”

  His pause lingered between them, as though he was measuring what he’d say next. “Maybe we should just label me a kissing cousin,” he chuckled out.

  Well, sure, that’d work if he’d actually kissed her. The thought sobered her. “Maybe. Now go help your brother stop your father from rechopping everything I already chopped.”

  Nikos rose, taking the broken pieces of plate with him. “Chloe? Would you get the mop and grab this, please? I’ll catch you later, cuz,” he snickered.

  Frankie wiped down the stools’ legs before rising only to come face-to-face with Chloe and her mop. She leaned against the handle of it with narrowed eyes, her stance defensive.

  “How long do you suppose you can keep this up?” she asked.

  Frankie sighed. If she could contend with Mitch, Chloe was like a day at Six Flags. “Keep what up, Chloe?”

  “The damsel-in-distress gig? It’s pathetic to watch you fall all over Nikos.”

  Armed with Nikos’s admission and still fuming from Mitch’s intrusion on an otherwise perfectly good day, Frankie couldn’t hold her tongue.

  “You know, Chloe, maybe it’s time you gave it up.”

  “What’s that, Frankie?”

  “The idea that you and Nikos are ever going to be anything more than employer and waitress.” She crossed her arms over her chest with a return glare of defiance.

  Chloe’s face went glacial, her eyes like chips of ice. “Why don’t you go back to Mitch where you belong?”

  An ugly suspicion made Frankie ask, “Why would I do that, Chloe?”

  “Because you don’t belong in this diner, and you never will.”

  “How do you suppose Mitch found out where I worked, Chloe, or that I worked at all?”

  She had to give Chloe credit for never batting an eyelash. She shrugged her slim shoulders. “How should I know?”

  “It was you.” Frankie stated it plainly, no question in her voice.

  She knew Chloe had somehow gotten in touch with Mitch and brought him here to stir up trouble so Nikos would be angry with her. The urge to wrap her hands around Chloe’s neck made her fingers itch.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Frankie. The only thing I do know is this: Nikos may not want me, but he doesn’t want you either, or if he does, it won’t be for long. A woman like you could never hold a man like Nikos’s attention for long.”

  A woman like her. Skinny, painful to look at, jacked-up Frankie. “Ah, well. I guess it’s better than never having his attention at all, isn’t it, Chloe?”

  Chloe’s lips formed a sneer.

  Score one for the hot mess.

  “You watch yourself around me, Frankie. Just watch it,” she seethed, shoving the mop to stand upright against the countertop, then stomping off in the direction of the bathrooms.

  Frankie’s eyes narrowed in thought.

  Well, then.

  Anger, spiteful and rebellious, reared its ugly head.

  Chloe of the long dark tresses and the legs of a runway model was in for a little surprise tomorrow tonight.

  Frankie Bennett was out for a taste of some jugular.

  Chloe’s.

  The hell she was going to let that woman have the best of her. She’d had enough taking it up the ass to last her a lifetime. No more quiet, reserved, well-behaved Francis.

  She’d show her what jacked up was all about.

  There weren’t many people, at this stage of her life, who’d guess Frankie had once been considered pretty hot. She’d laughed with Mitch about it when her picture was labeled as such in a gossip rag. Sadly, he’d laughed, too. But Mitch had, at one time, paid a lot of money to have people actually show her how to achieve pretty hot.

  So pretty hot it would be.

  Well, it would have to be only pretty hot because she really didn’t have the money to be ultra hot.

  Or the boobs.

  So affordable hot would have to do.

  But she’d work every last hot nerve she had until they were raw and bleeding.

  Nikos Antonakas’d better hope his eyeballs were securely in their sockets. Because she planned to wobble them with her fabulousness until they fell out of his head.

  And with that went the very last shred of her efforts to just say no to the gregariously charming Nikos.

  Chapter Ten

  From the journal of a “very sick with nerves, and more reluctant by the second” Frankie Bennett: Note to self: Maybe in the future, you idiot, when you decide to spin a fantasy about rutting with the man who’s essentially your boss and the only source of income you may potentially ever have, you might want to have those ugly misgivings whilst you’re in the safe zone otherwise known as “fantasy.” That word implies it hasn’t happened yet, you twit. Once you slap on those false eyelashes—you’re committed. So says Jasmine.

  “Jesus, Jasmine. How much glue did you use? I won’t be able to see my target if my eyes are glued together. Not to mention the fact that these things are like bat wings. I could annihilate an entire small village with the virtual windstorm I make when I blink,” Frankie said, trying to pry her eyes apart after Jasmine applied the ridiculously long false eyelashes they’d giggled over at Walgreens. “It’s like the eyelash apacolypse.”

  “Oh, shush, and stop complaining. You said you wanted a dramatic effect. Drama and all its effects have their sacrifices. Wait until you’ve worn that cheap push-up bra we bought for longer than an hour. You don’t know sacrifice until you’ve been strapped into that torture device.” Jasmine gave a fond glance to Kiki, sitting at Frankie’s feet. “Tell Mommy, Kiki. Beautiful takes work, right, gorgeous?”

  “I said I wanted effect. I definitely didn’t mean the kind that inspires the throwing of small change.”

  Jasmine giggle-snorted. “Stop. I can’t line your eyes if you’re making me laugh. Would you just be quiet and trust me? I know what I’m doing. You’re going to be drop-dead, stone-cold gorgeous, and you’ll be so classy Webster’s will be beating your door down to put your picture next to the word. Now shut it, and let me finish your lipstick. Do not speak.”

  Frankie kept silent, yet she couldn’t help but wonder, now that her anger had cooled, if this was a stupid thing to do. Whatever issue had held Nikos back the night he’d almost kissed her, it was probably a good enough reason to dissuade her from trying to pull this off.

  Seriously, who did she think she was?

  Jasmine tugged at her elbow, pulling her to stand in front of the mirror, then scooping up Kiki from the floor. She chucked the dog under her chin. “Doesn’t Mommy look hot, Kik?”

  Frankie’s first glimpse of herself in full makeup since her divorce almost knocked her backward on her three-inch heels.

  Jasmine nudged her from behind with a conspiratorial smile. “Would Jasmine steer you wrong?”

  Wow, Frankie mouthed, but couldn’t quite express in full syllables.

  “Uh-huh,” Jasmine crowed. “I told you I knew what I was doing. You’ve got some serious gorgeous going on, lady.”

  “I’d forgotten . . .”

 
Jasmine threw up a dismissive hand. “I know. After all the weeping and wailing is over and you get an eyeball full of the woman you used to be, it’s jaw-dropping to see the old you again. But look at yourself, Frankie. Really look. You’re a beautiful woman.”

  Her reflection shimmered back at her, forcing her to scrutinize the Frankie Jasmine had created. The eyeshadow they’d chosen, a smoky green with charcoal and dark brown accents, gave her eyes a smoldering, seductive glow.

  As it turned out, the eyelashes weren’t ridiculously long at all, but framed her eyes, making them mysterious, as though she hid a secret only she knew the answer to. Adding the swipe of eyeliner beneath them gave her eyes an almond shape. Jasmine had managed to create cheekbones for her, too, taking away the gaunt, undernourished look everyone accused her of and replacing it with a high slant she’d only seen on runway models.

  Jasmine squeezed her shoulders with affection, grinning from behind her. “I think the lipstick works, huh?”

  Oh, indeed. It worked. It wasn’t the red Frankie had originally chosen. Instead, it was a matted taupe, glossed over with a touch of peach, making her lips look full and shiny-lush.

  “I bow to your expertise. You know your stuff,” Frankie agreed, giving her hair a fluff, hair that Jasmine had insisted needed the dye job of a lifetime.

  In still more of Jasmine’s wisdom, she’d picked a red that left Frankie’s long, thick strands a muted gold and auburn. The color shone in all the loose curls flowing over her shoulders and three inches past her breasts to cascade over a bronze, sleeveless shirt littered with rows of circular, shimmering dots, hanging by invisible threads.

  The neckline was prim, stopping at her collarbone. Yet, once Jasmine had worked her seamstress magic, it hugged her body, emphasizing her pushed-up breasts and tapering at her waist to flare over her slender hips covered in an ivory skirt that fell to just above her knees.

  Jasmine waved tape at her. “Okay, kiddo, let me run some of this over that skirt one more time. Gary decided it was his latest conquest in the game of luuuurve.” She chuckled, slapping the tape against the black patches of stray cat hair until she was satisfied. “Okay—you’re good to go.”

  Hearing Jasmine’s final approval made Frankie’s stomach heave so hard, she had to catch the edge of her aunt’s vanity to hold herself up.

  “Hey, princess,” Jasmine taunted. “Stop. Stop now. I will not have you flipping out. After all the work I’ve done on your overhaul, I deserve a public showing.”

  “I can’t do this, Jasmine. Who am I kidding? I’m no man-eater.”

  Oh God. What had she been thinking when she’d decided to take Chloe out with her va-va-voom? It was all fun and games till people laughed and pointed.

  “Nope. You’re definitely not a vixen, and if you change your mind once we get to the party, fine. Cold feet happen, but let me remind you of one little thing.”

  Her freshly waxed eyebrow rose. “That is?”

  “You’ll probably still want Nikos tomorrow in the cold light of day just like you did yesterday and the day before, and then you and regret can become strange bedfellows. If you’re too chicken to go get your man, okay. I’d never want you to do something that makes you uncomfortable. But, remember, it was you who called me from your car, desperation in your voice, begging me to teach you how to nab a hot Greek. Wasn’t it?”

  Yes. That had been her. There’d been ranting, some whining, and then, after much egging on from Jasmine, a war cry. But earlier she’d been fueled by her anger and an irrational wish to see Chloe squirm in her tight miniskirt until she imploded, scattering little pieces of her lithe body all over the diner.

  Now? Not so much. Not after a good night’s sleep and some much needed perspective. Yet, there remained that tiny niggle that all her Nikos dreams could possibly come true if someone just made a move. The niggle Jasmine had planted when she’d said Nikos was attracted to her. The niggle Chloe found such a threat. That was the one that still sparked her engine.

  “Yes. That was me, but then the adrenaline rush of all those stark images you put in my head of Chloe turning on a spit like a leg of lamb...uh, passed.”

  Jasmine’s blonde head shook back and forth. “Right. Because of all that time and perspective bullshit. And that’s fine. If you don’t ever want to explore what could happen between you and Nikos because neither of you will get off your ass, more’s the pity. But listen, if you do nothing else tonight, you’re going to that Christmas party as the beautiful, confident woman I know festers inside of you. And you can bet your ass, I’m not letting six-dollar false eyelashes go to waste.”

  Frankie threw her head back and laughed. “It would be like breaking a commandment or something.”

  “Or my heart. Whatever,” Jasmine said with playful sarcasm. “Now”—she held her hand out, palm up—“we out?”

  A shaky breath later, hoping to absorb some of her friend’s confidence, Frankie slapped her hand in Jasmine’s. “We’re out.”

  Gail’s whistle of approval from the kitchen made Frankie chuckle. She spun around on her heels. “You like?”

  Gail matted her lipstick with a tissue. “You look pretty fancy there, sassafras. So, you ready to get your man?”

  Frankie bristled, pulling on the long, light beige trench coat Jasmine had loaned her, and putting Kiki in her crate. “Who said anything about getting a man?”

  Both Jasmine and Gail rolled their eyes. “You have a push-up bra on, honey. It’s a dead giveaway when a girl puts her wares on a push-up platter. Now you go have a yummy Greek for Christmas, and I’ll see you in the morning for hot chocolate and blueberry scones, okay?”

  Tradition. It had been her mother’s and Gail’s Christmas morning tradition to make blueberry scones and have hot chocolate while they unwrapped presents. The twinkling of the lights on the small Christmas tree they’d bought together made Frankie’s heart clench with yearning for her mother.

  Frankie gave her aunt a hug, squeezing her hard while inhaling the scent of everything she considered warm and welcoming. “Definitely. Have fun with Garner and say hello for me.”

  Gail snickered, throwing her Christmas silk scarf around her freshly washed and roller-dried hair. “Don’t you worry about me and Garner. We wrote the book on fun.”

  Frankie gave her aunt a gentle shove toward the door before she revealed any more intimate senior deets on fun. “Bye, Aunt Gail.”

  “So, let’s get going. Simon and Win are meeting us there. I’ll drive,” Jasmine offered.

  A long, cleansing breath later and she was following Jasmine out to what she’d fondly called her C-Rex. A rusty red bucket from 1984 on four wheels, it was her pride and joy because the purchase had been a step toward the freedom she seemed so hell-bent on making sure everyone knew was hers.

  The passenger door opened with a rusty creak, catching the wind and almost dragging Frankie with it. As she climbed in, her palms grew sweaty. To take her mind off what she was planning to do, Frankie asked, “Speaking of Simon, how’s that working out?”

  Jasmine turned the key in the ignition, her hand shaking from the frigid air that had moved in the night before and headed out of the village.

  She was silent for a few minutes before replying, “It’s working—for now.”

  Frankie burrowed deeper into her loaner jacket, hoping the heat worked in Jasmine’s clunker. “Wow, Jasmine. You think you could be any less enthusiastic about a guy like Simon wanting to date you? I know pretty girls like you are used to rich, fabulous men chasing after them all the time, but Simon’s different. I have a gut feeling.”

  “I don’t want to judge, Francis, but your gut is what led you to threaten to kill your ex-husband on national television.”

  “Hater. It wasn’t my gut. It was my crazy,” Frankie said with a laugh. What she adored most about Jasmine was her balls-to-the-wall ability to call it as she saw it.

  “Which makes you and your gut unreliable sources. Simon isn’t any different than any other
man.”

  “Is what you keep telling yourself,” Frankie finished for her.

  Jasmine sighed, gnawing at her lower lip with a distressed frown. “Sort of.”

  “So why won’t you just let it happen?”

  “Because after it happens is usually when the magic mysteriously wears off and they’re off to the next younger, bigger-breasted babe.”

  Frankie clucked her tongue, chiding Jasmine. “You can’t hide the look in your eyes when Simon walks into a room.”

  “Sure I can,” she said, turning into the diner’s parking lot. “He’s blind.”

  Frankie covered her mouth to keep from snickering. “I meant from everyone else, you insensitive meanie-butt. And you know, I’ve been too caught up in my own crap to do any research, but if you don’t mind me asking, how did Simon lose his sight?”

  Jasmine ran her tongue over her lips and grimaced. “A car accident. The windshield smashed and he got glass in his eyes.”

  “I don’t know, but the way he handles it, joking about it all the time and without the kind of bitter sarcasm behind his words you’d expect, makes him that much cuter to me, don’t you think?” Frankie prodded.

  Jasmine pulled her car into the first available space, stopping it with a groan of her tired brakes. “I think we should focus on our mission, Wonder Girl, and forget about Simon and me. So far, he’s been a good boy about keeping this thing we have going, on my terms. We do a little dance, make a little love, and then he goes home. It’s all I can handle right now.”

  Frankie shook her head, the long curls of her hair sticking to her lip gloss. “No. It’s all you’ll allow. Big difference.”

  “Listen, Maxine junior, back off with the advice, and let’s go get your man. Now hand me my purse, hot stuff. We have a man to snare.”

  Frankie reached down to grab Jasmine’s purse while her stomach swelled with fear. Jasmine took it with a raised eyebrow. “Get out, Frankie.”

  “You know, I really don’t feel up to snaring a man tonight. I mean, it’s so much work. All the small talk, the ego stroking, the ridiculous twirling of your hair and wetting your lips—and for what? Some sex?” Ohhhhhh. Some sex. Sex, sex, sex.