Chapter 1

Valentine's Day, Beckett thought glumly, was nothing more than an excuse for dumbass so-called boyfriends to think that half a dozen drooping red roses and a box of cheap chocolates would make up for any amount of being an arrogant, chauvinistic idiot. For – not a random – example: informing her that they'd be moving to Boston, getting married, and she'd be happy with two children and a suburban home.

Which was why Will sonofabitch Sorenson was currently exiting her building with his tail between his legs (he was damn lucky she hadn't shot it off, but she was pretty certain that he wouldn't learn how to use it any better in the future since he hadn't learned anything about using it properly for the last six months, so he could keep the useless appendage) and with her absolute refusal to go along with his pig-assed stupidity ringing in his ears, along with profanities of which a sailor would be proud.

Red fucking roses. If they symbolised true love, there would be about six sold every year, in total. Still, she'd kept them, rather than shoving half of them down his throat – thorny stems first – and the other half up his ass (also thorny stems first), put them in a vase with some plant food and watched them straighten up. And even if that bastard Sorenson wouldn't spring for Godiva or Marie-Belle, even cheap chocolate was chocolate. She ate it, and savoured every munch; drew the scent of the roses into her lungs, and felt herself well rid of him. Fed most-definitely Ex.

Several weeks later, the roses had long died, taking considerably longer than any love she might have had for Sorenson. However, she had another problem. Rick rich-spoilt-arrogant-asshole Castle. Sadly unlikely to die, unless she shot him right through the centre of his smug, smirking smile. (Which was not at all sexy. No sirree.) Men, she thought crossly, should depart from her life as swiftly as cut flowers died.

Even more regrettably, Castle appeared to have pulled some strings and become a fixture. Rooted, like invasive bamboo, or Japanese knotweed, and just as pervasively infuriating and difficult to remove. Beckett considered the many fine properties of belladonna, foxgloves and aconites, and decided that they were less obvious than bullets, and had the benefit of pretty flowers into the bargain. She'd go off to Rozina's Florals, and see what Roz could do for her.

Of course she didn't, though no-one would have detected the poison under the appalling taste of the precinct coffee. She'd have been caught, and life without parole wasn't in her game plan. Though at least Castle wouldn't be in her cell. She harrumphed, and buried her head in her paperwork. That way she needn't look at the smirk. And there definitely, absolutely definitely, was no memory whatsoever of the sexy smile between her and the forms. None. She harrumphed again, and wished for an instant-onset thorn hedge to spring up between her desk and Castle, the bullpen, and the rest of the world. The hundred years of sleep would be nice, too. She was tired, and it had nothing to do with her scorching dreams: of course it didn't.

Castle casually leaned back on his chair, concealed his wince as a spring prodded his buttock, and openly ogled Beckett. He'd been here for three weeks now, and the best he'd got from her was a glare that would only level Manhattan, rather than the entire continent. It was quite deeply unfair, and not a little irritating. Anyone who could say you have no idea in a tone that would arouse a tree should be receptive to his wit, charm, and talents in the bedroom. Especially when he was perfectly certain she was interested, and merely playing (very) hard to get.

Flirting hadn't worked. Heated glances and innuendo hadn't worked. Compliments hadn't worked (she really did have beautiful eyes: it was just a shame that their gaze was more akin to a female Scott Summers than to a lover). Asking her out to dinner had simply resulted in her sexy words, a perfect view of her swaying ass, and an extremely uncomfortable evening trying, totally hopelessly, to mitigate the arousal he felt every time he thought of her. And asking her out had also failed to bring her on a date.

Everything had failed.

Castle didn't like failing. He especially didn't like failing with sexy, beautiful women. Even more especially, he didn't like failing with intelligent, inspiring (and beautiful, sexy) women. He tapped his fingers restlessly. What to do, what to do…

A-ha! Beckett, it was true, was liberated, independent, strong-minded (far too much so), and absolutely dedicated to her job. No-one in their right senses would have described her as feminine (staunchly feminist, though), more (he searched his mental thesaurus for the right word)…um…Amazonian. But… he'd never yet met a woman who didn't like being given flowers.

Not just any flowers, however. Oh, no. Castle's devious brain began to flesh out a plot. Appropriate flowers. Flowers that would send some very specific messages. Oh, yes. A silent conversation, leading to the right result. His bed. Or hers: he wasn't particular, as long as the two of them were in it.

Now, where to begin? Ah yes. Holly. Carefully hidden by a whole bunch (he snickered, and received a fearsomely vicious glare – about 10 on the Beckett scale, which equated to the instant destruction of a small country, or possibly Connecticut) of other plants which had thorns or prickles: pyracantha, hawthorn blossom – but absolutely no roses – surrounding holly. If he paid his usual florist enough, she'd make anything into a flower arrangement, and bring blooms from anywhere. Holly. He grinned happily to himself. How appropriate.

Three days later, Castle had made all his arrangements, and turned up at the Twelfth with delighted anticipation, which he just about managed to conceal. Beckett shot him a number of suspicious stares, which he greeted with bland flirtation. Around lunchtime, she went out, blatantly blanking him – and he dashed out to meet the florist. He'd been quite certain Beckett would give him the lunchtime cold shoulder.

He returned, and happily awaited developments.

"What the hell is that?" Beckett emitted, in a muffled screech, directed very firmly at Castle. "What have you done?"

"What?" he said innocently.

"These!" Beckett gestured intemperately at the arrangement on her desk.

"It was a bit bare. Desks shouldn't be bare." He grinned wolfishly. "Other things, now…" His heated look made it perfectly clear what he meant.

"Shut up or I will shoot you."

Castle shut up, but smirked happily. He smirked even more when Beckett didn't ram the flowers into the trash can – or his mouth.

At the end of the day, the arrangement was still decorating Beckett's desk. Castle had bitten his tongue into shreds not drawing her attention to it, in case that changed. He wandered home, well content.

Beckett preserved a calm countenance – well, calm with her normal overlay of aggravated irritation – until the bullpen emptied. And then she picked up the flower arrangement and took it home with her. Of course, she wouldn't tell Castle that. He could think they'd gone in the trash. She absolutely would not let him know that she really, really loved flowers.

However. Even in their short acquaintance (which could usefully have been even shorter, not to say non-existent, she fibbed to herself), she'd learned that anything Castle did had an ulterior motive, hidden meaning, or both. Sure, flowers were a seduction technique, but she was dead certain sure and positive there was something else going on.

The inside of her stomach presently curled around an excellent take-out, and sipping at a glass of wine, Beckett considered the arrangement. Hmm. Hawthorn – mayflowers. Pyracantha. Holly. Hrrumph. Everything with thorns. Yes, she was spiky, edged, prickly, and painful to people who rubbed her up the wrong way or didn't treat her with considerable caution. But that seemed far too obvious for Castle's corkscrew-twisted, devious, sneaky mind; though she was also sure that it had been a serendipitous side-product.

She pondered for a while, savouring her wine. Suddenly it occurred to her that Castle was a wordsmith. A man who used language. (She very carefully didn't think that that made him a cunning linguist. She abominated bad puns. And Castle. Certain muscles clenched in disbelief.) And, therefore, she should be looking at the meaning of the plants he'd picked.

Hawthorn. Hm. Cleansing and chastity? Castle? The last thing he wanted her to be was chaste. In fact, he wanted her to be thoroughly dirty and unchaste – with him. Okay, whatever he was trying to tell her, it wasn't the hawthorn.

Pyracantha. Sharp thorns, and scarlet berries. It didn't seem to have a meaning beyond its name: firethorn. Well, she was fiery and if Castle tried to pluck her he'd find that she had thorns. Nine-millimetre, which would arrive with a bang. Possible, she supposed, but it didn't really feel right.

(She didn't wonder why, or how, she already knew that it didn't feel right for a Castle concoction. Because you're interested, said a little voice in her head. She ignored it.)

Holly. Ah. Oh. Oh! Protection. Defence. Vigilance.

Was that how he saw her? A small, warm bloom grew in her chest. Protective, vigilant – and defensive. It shrank again. Or a defender? It grew. Defensive or defending – or could it be both? The twin meanings chased each other around her head, assisted by the wine. Was he admiring her, or disparaging her? He hadn't exactly given the impression that he admired anything more than her looks.

But if he actually admired something more…then that might be very different. If the heat in his eyes wasn't only sexual…then she might allow her own responses to peep out.

What? Respond? Was she crazy? He was a playboy who wanted another notch on his bedpost, and nothing more. She wouldn't be a notch. Or anywhere near his bedpost. She harrumphed her way through the evening, a shower and to bed, and woke feeling as prickly as the bouquet in its vase, largely because her dreams had been totally inappropriate.

A week passed with nothing more untoward occurring. Castle's smirk was as infuriating (and sexy) as ever, and Beckett's glare achieved world-burning intensity. (So did her dreams, in a very different style.) The bouquet drooped, died, and went into the trash.

Precisely five days after the first bouquet had been delivered, Castle visited his florist again, with another set of very specific instructions. A similarly precise one week after her desk had first been defiled, Beckett arrived back from her solitary lunch to find a bouquet of ferns, surrounding a centre of blue blooms.

"What are those?"

"Ferns," Castle smirked. "Surely you know that?"

"The blue stuff."

"Oh. Blue angel." Beckett growled. "Don't you like Dietrich? Would you have preferred Blue Velvet?" Her hand dropped to her hip. Castle shut up, but his wide grin and wicked eyes spoke volumes. Beckett shifted the bouquet so that he was invisible behind it, and ignored him all afternoon. She also ignored, which was considerably more difficult, the urge to look up the meanings of the plants.

Castle bounced cheerfully home, wondering if Beckett had worked out what was going on yet. She hadn't dumped his flowers in the trash, and she'd had that adorable little crease between her brows which couldn't have been the (infinitely tedious pop-and-drop) case, which meant she was thinking… and she'd ignored him even harder than usual, which always meant he'd gotten to her. Well, with a little bit of luck he'd find out – though there was only a million-to-one chance that she'd accept the invitation. He could always repeat it next week, though, if so, he was planning a different commentary.

Beckett strode home, one cadence short of a stomp, bearing her flowers and desperate to find out what Castle had "said" this time. She didn't even pause to make herself coffee before she was tapping out a search, safely out of view of nosy co-workers, Castle, and the boys, who were likely to start down a path leading to their destruction at Beckett's irritated hands (and Glock) if Castle produced any more flowers.

She clicked, and stared, mouth opening and closing fruitlessly. Somehow none of her extensive collection of profanity (mainly learned from Esposito) seemed to cover her feelings.

Fern. That better not be Maidenhair fern, or Castle would never be able to please a maiden, woman, mother, crone or anything in between ever again. That – "Aaarrrarrrrgghhhhhhhhhh!" she screeched, unable to describe him adequately. She read the screen again. Fern: magic, fascination, confidence and shelter. She screeched wordlessly again, and then poured herself a very large vodka, added at least four drops of tonic and downed it. The refill went the same way.

She forced herself to stop, and searched for Blue Angel flowers. Several results came up. She peered at the flowers and the images, wished futilely that she'd waited before downing the second vodka, and eventually decided that they were probably something called viscaria. She looked it up. Then she swore violently at the innocent computer, which cringed in every silicon circuit.

Will you dance with me?

No, she wouldn't. Abso-fricking-lutely not. No way.

Castle didn't say a word about the flowers. About eleven, Beckett couldn't repel the idiocy twitching at her tongue any longer.

"No, I won't go dancing with you," she growled.

"I knew you wouldn't," Castle grinned.

He what? He should be disconcerted, or even a little upset at being turned down. Instead he was grinning? He knew she wouldn't? Why even ask, then?

"I'm an extremely good dancer," he continued, with breathtaking arrogance. "I only dance with people who meet my standards. But I knew you'd refuse so it really didn't matter. I just liked the colour."

What? She wasn't up to his standards? That arrogant sonofabitch. She could too dance. Better than he could, she reckoned. He didn't know anything at all about her past, but as part of her season's modelling there had been dance instruction. She'd been top of the class. She'd show that –

Hang on a minute. Oh, come on, Kate. She could see the shape of that game, and she wasn't going to play. Try to annoy her into changing her mind, would he? Oh, no. She wasn't going to fall into that trap.

"As it happens," she purred, a feline smile on her lips, "I can dance extremely well myself. You're unlikely to meet my standards." She slowly surveyed him. "You're a little too…" her pause made it clear the next word would be insulting, and her gaze rested at his belt… "wide."

Castle scowled. "I am a perfect weight," he snapped.

"Of course you are," Beckett said insincerely. Of course, he was, but she certainly wasn't going to let his pathetically transparent attempts to manipulate her pass unanswered. She returned to her work.

Castle sat. He wasn't sulking. He never sulked, so he couldn't possibly be sulking now. He was, however, a touch disappointed that his tactic hadn't worked. Well. Had totally failed. Beckett, he thought crossly, was far too good an investigator for his comfort. He'd been so sure that she'd get angry and defensive and challenge him to take her dancing so she could prove that she could dance. (He'd want to dance with her even if she trod on his toes until they broke, if it meant he could hold her close for an evening.) It wasn't fair that she was so smart.

He'd simply need to ramp it up. At least now he knew that she'd worked out what he was doing, so… he'd keep on doing it until she caved – or shot him, which was just as likely.

Beckett floated home on a cloud of smugly triumphant self-satisfaction and approval of her own self-control, punctuated by the happy memory of being able to look Castle up and down, slowly, without it appearing that she was eyeing him up. Perfect. And she still had the pretty flowers to brighten her apartment.

In celebration, she bought herself some excellent chocolate on the way home, and enjoyed every deliciously sweet bite, luxuriously slowly. She adored chocolate, especially as the culmination of a pleasant meal with which she'd enjoyed an equally pleasant glass of wine. It had been an excellent day.

A little thought squiggled around the fractals of her frontal lobes. It said, cheerfully mischievous, that she could retaliate in kind. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed good to her. She spent the remainder of the evening in a happy cloud of evilly mischievous planning.

Of course, she didn't have Castle's infinite budget, but her messages were a great deal simpler, and much cheaper. She waited for two days – this would be on her timetable, not Castle's.

"Roz," she said to the florist on Monday morning, "I need your help."

"Sure, Kate. What do you want? Roses? Tulips?"

"Nope. I want a bouquet that says that I'm happily single and not looking for anyone."

Roz raised her eyebrows. "You've had some thoughts about how, haven't you? What's the story? Who is he?"

"There's this guy…"

"Yeah. I'd guessed that."

"Well, he's giving me flowers with messages. I mean, the flowers are the message. So I wanna retaliate."

Roz's brows rose higher. "And you definitely don't like this guy."

"Nope." Beckett popped the 'p' definitively. "He's an arrogant ass."

"Okay, so what were you thinking about?"

"Well, I don't wanna spend too much, so I was thinking maybe bachelor's button, candytuft, and some monkshood."

"Wow. You really don't like this guy, do you?"

"Nope."

"Just don't feed him the monkshood, okay? I don't want to be charged as an accessory."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Roz quirked her eyebrows.

"I wouldn't. The ME would spot it."

"That's more like it. I'll have it ready by tomorrow. You can pick it up any time after seven a.m."

"How much would delivery be?"

Roz grinned. "How many of these are you planning on doing?"

Beckett shrugged at her. "Don't know, but likely more than two."

"First delivery free, then, if you're gonna do three. If you don't, it'll be $10 on top of the second bouquet cost."

"Okay. I'll decide about delivery later."

Beckett swung into the precinct with a seraphic smile which instantly told the whole bullpen that something dreadful was imminent. When Castle arrived, the humming sense of anticipation was almost palpable, and the disappointment when nothing immediate occurred, (such as his public dismemberment, which Beckett had threatened on several occasions) could be heard. Beckett carefully didn't hear it. The bullpen had no business gossiping about her, and she was already so totally over their indiscreet speculations. If it continued, she was considering lacing the ground coffee with ipecac, which would have the handy result of getting Castle out of the way for a day or three too.

She was so pleased with her own idea that she forgot to glare at Castle until after lunchtime, and even then she only managed a half-strength effort. At least half of her neurons were speculating on whether she wanted to see his face as he worked out the message, or whether she wanted to ensure he never entered the precinct again. On balance, she wanted to see his face, after which she would wish him a civil farewell and never be annoyed by him ever again.

She firmly ignored the irritating little squiggle in her brain which was trying (and failing) to tell her that playing the game wasn't going to get rid of Castle: it was simply going to encourage him.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Four chapters of M-fluff, with flowers. Usual schedule, Sun/Tue/Thu.

I have a long story in the works, too.

For those of you who don't know, my original novel, Death in Focus (SR Garrae) is available on Amazon. A sequel is in production.