Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
epilogue
Praise for 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
“Ditzy and daring . . . Pure escapist fun.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“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
KISS & HELL
THE ACCIDENTAL WEREWOLF
ACCIDENTALLY DEAD
THE ACCIDENTAL HUMAN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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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 © 2009 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/June 2009
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cassidy, Dakota.
Kiss & hell / Dakota Cassidy.—Berkley Sensation trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-12887-9
I. Title.
PS3603.A8685K57 2009
813’.6—dc22 2009004054
http://us.penguingroup.com
There are many four-legged pooches to thank for the making of this book. Did you think I was kidding in my bio when I said I had more pets than the local animal shelter?
Ahem . . . with love and eternal gratitude for each toe-licking tickle. All the early morning potty runs (really, thanks, dudes). The überstench-filled doggy breath wakeup calls. The pounces on my stomach to remind me I still have all my girlie innards. The stock I now own in a well-known paper towel brand. The baths I’ve been forced to take with you against my will. The wayward “chewies” I nearly lost a freakin’ eye looking for. The capture and release program invented just for your entertainment when it’s time to be brushed and declawed (insert evil laughter here), and the three vacuum cleaners I’ve clogged and beaten like dead horses.
But mostly for the unconditional love, endless giggles, smiles, cuddles, and utter joy you bring to my life—this is for: Mike, our bladder-impaired, diaper-wearing old man; Mindy, our anxiety-riddled, phobic angel; Milo, the one-eyed wonder; Wenzday, our blind diabetic with an enlarged heart; Gomez, or G-Money, as we fondly call him, our waaaaay overweight “love the one you’re with man-tramp,” er, precious; and finally, the only damned puppy we own that (so far, cross your fingers for us) we tentatively, and dare I say, hesitantly label “normal,” Pebbles.
And to the love of my life, Rob, who never bats an eye when I call him up and ask him how much he loves me—a code question for, “How do you feel about being a daddy to sextuplets?”
Also to Renee George, who helps me plot nearly everything I write, and Michele Bardsley, who was an enormous help with this, too. Thank you for the eight-hour marathon phone calls when I’m writing in circles and you’re following behind me with the shovel, digging me out as I head for China. I treasure your friendships even more than your plotting genius. Cindy Hwang and Leis Ped erson, who, as a team, rock. And to the constants in my life—Terri and Elaine Smythe, Jose Lugo, Jaynie Ritchie, Robin, Vicki Burk lund, Deidre Knight, Elaine Spencer, Sheri Fogarty, my mom, my “Accidental Fans,” the Babes, Michele Hoppe, my überfab test readers Erin and Kaz, the League, the DFW Tea ladies, about a million indy booksellers near and far, and most especially, the people who buy my books.
You guys are a whacked bunch, and that’s crazy cool. ☺
Dakota ☺
acknowledgments
To Wikipedia; http://dictionaries.trav
lang.com; Danny in Germany; Jen B., a real pal and a chemistry genius; Kaz, my Spanish rose; www.imdb.com (really, thank you); www.doggietshirts.com; and www.tshirthell.com. Finally, to my fantabulous readers—do note, any and all mistakes are totally and completely mine.
one
“Boo.”
You’re kidding, right?
“Uh, nope.”
Maybe you should try again—only this time, do it with more feeling.
“Okay. Here goes. Ahem . . . boooooooo.”
You’re not serious, are you? Like really?
“Completely.”
Wow, that’s too bad.
“What’s too bad?”
That you’re not kidding. If the plan was to scare me, here’s the thing—your scary skills suck.
“That was rude.”
Sometimes the truth is rude.
“Don’t you mean the truth hurts?”
That, too. And now it’s time for you to go.
Delaney Markham waved a dismissive hand behind her shoulder to shoo away the voice of the ghost she was chatting with in her head—the male ghost she was chatting with in her head. Occurrences like this happened more often than not. She was used to surprise visits from the other side—the constant interruptions—and sometimes even the errant, unwanted visitor when she was in the midst of trying to make a buck.
But tonight, she had other things to attend to so her supernatural buddy would just have to hang on to his drawers for a little longer.
Delaney resumed her séance position, latching back onto the hands of the family members who sat on either side of her—armed and ready to contact the dead. “Aunt Gwyneth? Are you here with us?” she asked nothing more than the thin air. The people gathered round her table shifted in their wooden chairs with expectation, the lone candle she’d lit highlighting their faces rife with the fear, expectation, and wonder of the unknown.
She could literally hear them not breathing. Aunt Gwyneth’s family was tense with a multitude of emotions—as most were during a séance.
Delaney’s wind chimes tinkled appropriately—much the way they always did when a spirit entered her herb store in the East Village of New York. For some reason, the spirits liked to play with the chimes to announce their arrival. The familiar shiver of reverence mingled with otherworldly anticipation raced along her nerve endings, settling deep in her belly. Eight hundred bucks was but a question or two away. The chimes fastened to her ceiling shivered once more.
Ding-dong, spirits calling.
She smiled to herself. Suh-weet. Aunt Gwyneth had arrived.
“Um, look, I said, boo as scary as I could. It’s all I got.”
And apparently, Aunt Gwyneth was keeping some pesky company.
Noted, and didn’t we just go over this? Delaney mentally whispered with building irritation to the voice that wouldn’t get out of her head. A voice now officially fucking with her much-needed paycheck.
“So why aren’t you scared?” the husky, not unpleasant voice queried. His words whistled in her head, swirling in a seductive, siren’s call kinda way.
Please. As if. It would take a shitload more than some disembodied voice whispering something as lame as “boo” to scare her. She knew scared—scratch that—she knew shit-in-your-pants, full-on terrified and she wasn’t going back. Because this happens all the time to me. It’s what some might say is my calling in life, and after the shit I’ve seen go down, not much scares me—especially a word as weak as boo. And one more time—for the record—I’m busy. Go away. Find another medium to stalk, she relayed mentally as sternly as she could.
Delaney cleared her throat and turned her attention back to the Dabrowski family and their desperate need to have questions answered by their beloved aunt Gwyneth. She asked once more, “Aunt Gwyneth? Your family is here and they have some questions for you. Come, talk to me.” She used her soft, “cajoling the dearly departed” tone to woo Gwyneth into communicating with her.
“Damn right I have some questions,” Gwyneth Dabrowski’s nephew Irv said, interrupting Delaney’s mojo with his gruff impatience. “I wanna know why the hell she left the vacation house at the lake to that fruit Leopold. What kind of a frickin’ name is that, anyway? A pansy name, that’s what. All playing with roses like they were his friends and doing weird girlie crap all the time. He was the gardener, for Chrissake! The lake house shoulda been mine, the piece of shit!”
Another rustle of chairs and the crinkle of an expensive leather coat greeted Delaney’s ears. “Irv! Shut up already, would ya? Didn’t Ms. Markham say we had to be quiet while she called on Aunt Gwyneth so as not to provoke or frighten the dead? Do you really want to piss Gwyneth off in death the way you did when she was alive?” Irv’s wife, Edna, chided him with her nasally thick New York accent. “Oy, Irv! You never listen. Now be quiet, and let the lady do what we came here for.”
“I hate to interrupt again,” the man in her head apologized, “but I just have to know. What’s a medium, and why would I want to stalk it?”
Delaney scrunched her eyes shut. This was so not the time to come across a wayward spirit, looking for guidance. Especially when today, of all days, she really needed some moolah. I’m a medium, and you’re interrupting my very carefully planned séance. Now go away. I have rent to pay.
“That still doesn’t explain what a medium is. Do you mean that’s your size? Because you don’t look like a medium to me. I’d have gone with small.”
Delaney suppressed a giggle. At least he was a complimentary spirit. And far too put together for her liking. He didn’t seem disoriented on this plane at all . . . Look, didn’t I just say I was busy? You ain’t the only freakin’ spirit out there, and right now, I’m being paid by a very nice family to contact their dead aunt. You, on the other hand, are what I’d call a freeloader—one of those spirits who think the whole spirit world revolves around just them and they can infiltrate a séance whenever they feel like it. I have some pretty strict rules about that—especially when cash is involved. And seeing as you’re one of the rare ghosts who has his wits about him, you get it when I say knock it the fuck off. Go back to wherever you came from and visit me during my normal business hours. Capisce?
“But you still haven’t explained the medium thing to me,” whoever pushy was reiterated in a soft but steadily increasing, insistent tone.
Again, you’re not listening, and to top things off, you’re being exceptionally rude. Now shut up and go away before I, like, send out the spirit world’s version of a SWAT team and have your ass dragged off to some alternate dimension.
“You can do that?”
Okay, so no, she couldn’t do that. Color her caught. That would be way overstating her importance in the spirit world. Delaney sighed. Look, do me a solid, okay?
“A solid . . .”
Yeah, you know, like, a favor?
“Oh. Sure. Whaddya need?”
Wow, again, she couldn’t help thinking, he wasn’t at all like the typical spirits who darkened her doorstep. He didn’t seem even a little confused about where he was, nor did he seem terribly agitated. In fact, his tone was almost too friendly. Which, again, made her suspicious. You. To. Shut. Up. Now, for the love of all that’s holy. Please, before the dogs start to bark and I lose my shot at making some cash.
“You have dogs?”
Six—all as supernaturally sensitive as I am. If they sense an uninvited presence, one that’s hacking me off much like you are, not only am I doomed, but so are your eardrums. Now please, let me finish this up, and then we can connect.
“You have six dogs? Six? Doesn’t that break some kind of law or at least an ordinance?”
I’m sure it does, but it probably won’t be the first law I’ve broken, or the last. And tell me something?
“What’s that?” he rumbled, sort of husky and almost too easygoing for her well-honed, ghostie antenna.
Maybe he was a plant. A shiver raced up her spine. She didn’t need this—not when the rent was due. Or mayb
e he was a dead actor. Dead celebrities loved a captive audience; they had one in her and contacted her often because of it. But he didn’t sound at all familiar. Stirring from around the table refocused her on getting rid of this new entity. Is there a little old lady with you? Dripping diamonds and sapphires and wearing a red sweatsuit with white racing stripes down the arms?
“Yeah, yeah, there is.”
Then tell her front and center. Her family has some questions for her, and I need—
“The money. You said that. Um, she says, and I’m only repeating her words, ‘No fucking way.’ ” He cleared his throat, the sound reverberating in her head. “Sorry, but that’s what she said. Word for word. Honest.”
His words made Delaney pause because they sounded so sincere. Maybe he’d been a Boy Scout in life. Or a priest. Shit. Priests were always a messy, messy affair when it came to crossing them over to the great beyond. If their deaths involved any kind of religious overtones, or a stall in their faith, they were the hardest to convince they should go into what the living called the light. The light was sort of a sham as far as she was concerned. It wasn’t always a light, if what some of the comments she’d heard just before the crossing were accurate.
She well remembered the college football player who’d blown his knee out just before draft picks and had lost his chance to play pro ball. His version of what some would call Heaven was Soldier Field and an endless stretch of green. Then there’d been the rich socialite—her idea of utopia was an upscale mall with row after row of stores like Cartier, Cole Haan, and Tiffany. Apparently, sometimes the light was what you made of it—your love for shopping or your dream of playing football in the NFL come true.
Kiss & Hell Page 1
