Disclaimer: I don't own any part of this show or the USA Network. No disrespect is meant to the Network or to the writers or actors of White Collar.

This story is set right after "Flip of the Coin" and contains spoilers!

I'm a huge fan of Dean Martin--Rat Pack member, actor, and singer--and I'll bet Neal Caffrey knows Dino's stuff, too. One of Dino's most well-known songs is "That's Amoré" and another is the title of this story. Both can be found on Youtube.

I guess that makes this my first songfic, as well as my first White Collar story! Please let me know what you think!

***

The case was finally over and Neal needed a drink. And company, he decided, with a touch of surprise--he'd had a lot of both lately.

But Peter was busy reuniting a framed soldier with his tearful wife and reclaiming his house in the process--besides, he'd done enough drinking over the past few days. Moz was off enjoying the the limo for a few hours before Neal nagged him into returning it. Even Jones was escorting the concussed bad guy and his blonde accessory to jail.

That left Lauren, who promptly refused.

"C'mon," he said, trying his best smile. "You almost talked that guy into shooting me--the least you can do is buy me a drink."

She hesitated, then agreed. "All right." She straightened the jacket of her business suit. "Where?"

"Don't worry, you look great--like a sexy accountant." At her frown, he added, "I know the perfect place."

"I'll bet you do," she said, but a corner of her mouth was trying to smile and she let him put his hand at the small of her back to guide her away from the crime scene.

At his direction, she drove them to a piano bar Neal had found while exploring his new neighborhood. The lights were low, the music was soothing, and the drinks had no umbrellas or salt rims.

Neal watched Lauren relax into her comfortable leather armchair. "You know," he said over bourbon on the rocks, "I've never seen anyone pull a gun that fast. You're good."

She took a sip of her gimlet. "You weren't so bad yourself," she said. "It wasn't your fault the bad guy spooked."

"That sounded like a compliment." He grinned. "Did it hurt?"

She grinned back. "If your ego gets any bigger, your hat won't fit. And that," she said, "would be a tragedy."

His eyes widened. Miss No-Nonsense Agent Cruz was flirting with him. "You think so?" he said.

"Neal Caffrey without his fedora would be like . . . Dino without amoré," she said. She set her drink aside to unbutton her jacket, then picked it up again.

"Dean Martin, huh? Robin and the Seven Hoods or Rio Bravo?"

"Ocean's Eleven," she said. "You're both old school classics. Carefree façade with a solid core. A definite romantic streak. And too handsome for your own good." She drew out her swizzle stick and brought the olive to her lips. "Gentlemen delinquents," she said, and bit down.

"You think so?" His throat felt dry, and he swallowed some bourbon without taking his gaze from her mouth.

She shrugged, breaking the mood. "I convinced my thesis committee," she said.

"About that," he said. "I don't remember answering any interview questions."

"Your case file and rap sheet were extensive. And you were only in a chapter or two." She smiled. "Five at the most."

"And you still don't have any questions?" he asked, back on safe ground. "There must be something that isn't in my file."

"Okay." She leaned forward, her camisole dipping to show golden skin. "I'd kind of like to know how you managed to get past Herman Goldthwait's security systems and back out again--that Donatello marble must have weighed at least 300 pounds."

"That's an alleged crime," he said, holding up a finger. "I don't have anything to say about my alleged crimes. Ask me about something they proved I did."

She actually pouted. "That's no fun. Why not tell me how you allegedly did it?"

He reached over and took her empty glass. "Because you might go all FBI on me and ruin a perfectly nice evening. But I will say this: Timing," he held up the glass without looking and neatly intercepted a waitress passing behind him, "is everything. The lady will have another gimlet. Two olives. Thank you."

"The Caffrey magic," she said, shaking her head.

He smiled. "It's your turn," he said. "Tell me a story about your wacky Quantico days."

After a pause, and the arrival of her drink, she did. Then Neal related the time "a friend in the business" found himself the inadvertent owner of a genuine early Jackson Pollack that was so ugly he couldn't get anyone to buy it, even when he tried eBay.

"A friend, huh?" Lauren said, laughing.

"Yes, a friend," said Neal, smiling at the memory of the hideous, priceless artwork hanging in Moz's storage unit, right above the army cot. "Do I look like someone who would have trouble selling an authenticated painting?

"You look like someone who wouldn't have trouble selling a crayon scrawl on a paper towel as a genuine Picasso. Allegedly," she added, as he held up a finger.

They exchanged more stories, each more outrageous than the last until Lauren finally looked at her watch. "It's getting late," she said. "We should probably call it a night."

Neal tossed a few bills on the table, and helped Lauren on with her abandoned jacket.

"Thank you," she said, turning to smile at him. One of her combs slid out of her hair, and Neal plucked it from behind her ear and handed it to her. "Oh, I knew they wouldn't stay," she said.

Neal reached around and pulled out the other one, letting the rest of her thick hair fall around her shoulders. "Why, Agent Cruz," he said in a shocked voice. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Escort a tipsy lady home?"

"I'd be delighted." He offered an arm and they laughed their way to the car. She tripped once, and he caught her close for a breathless moment before she found her feet.

She looked up at him, face flushed, lips parted, and he couldn't help dipping his head . . . but she looked away to fish in her coat pocket and held up a key ring. "You'd better drive."

It occurred to him as he maneuvered the car through the streets that it would be awkward if she lived outside his two-mile limit, but it would be even more awkward to mention it. Luckily, it wasn't long before he glided into an free space in front of her building.

"The Caffrey magic," she said, as he held the car door open for her.

"Just good, old fashioned luck," he said, breathing in her scent as she passed him.

They rode the elevator in companionable silence up to her floor and down the hall, glancing at each other and smiling.

She stopped in front of a door. "Home sweet home." He unlocked it for her and handed her the keys. "Thank you," she said. "I had a good time."

"That was the general idea," he said, leaning against the wall.

"Where's your hat?" she said, frowning. "You didn't leave it at the--"

"I didn't wear it tonight," he said. "It didn't fit the persona."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Neal Caffrey without his amoré."

"I wouldn't say that," he said, wondering when the distance between them had narrowed, when his hands had moved to her waist.

"There was one thing your file didn't mention," she said, her hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders.

He bent his head closer. "What's that?"

"You have the most beautiful eyes," she said, and put her lips to his.

Her mouth was soft and warm, and so was her body. His hands found the edge of her camisole, touched smooth skin.

He shouldn't be doing this. His conscious, rusty from underuse, told him that that this wasn't right, that he was cheating several people at once. The irony wasn't lost on him . . .

She made a sound in her throat, caressed the back of his neck, deepened the kiss.

. . . but it had been a long time since he'd been close to a woman--being groped by a murderess didn't count. Almost four years since he'd held someone and been held. Three years, ten months, and eight days, to be exact, though he hadn't known that he'd kept close track until now.

After so long, there were no wrong willing women . . . right? And this woman, this gorgeous, brilliant, tough woman . . .

He closed his eyes and gave in, held on tight, lost himself in mutual want, mutual need. . .

Oh, Kate . . .

. . . but Kate didn't feel like this, or smell like this, or taste like--

He pulled his mouth away, his hands reaching up to unwind her arms from his neck, feeling her pulse race under his shaking fingers. "No," he said. "I can't."

She went still for a moment, staring up at him, then took a deep breath. "Kate," she said, as if she understood.

"You know about Kate?"

Lauren gave him a small smile. "She had a couple of paragraphs all her own."

Neal ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he said, finding no glib words, no patter . Just the truth. "I'm sorrier than I can say, but--"

She put a finger to his lips. "But you're classic old school," she said. "Loyal to a fault." She went on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then slipped away. "Goodnight, Neal."

"Good night, Lauren," he said to her closed door.

He walked home, welcoming the night air. When he went inside, he heard music from the living room, something from Byron's vast collection of records. June was singing along in her marvelous voice.

"How lucky can one guy be? I kissed her and she kissed me . . . "

Neal went upstairs without stopping, the music following him. His hat was where he'd left it and he turned it around in his hands as if it might hold some answers. He put it on and moved to the bookshelves, to the empty bottle with the map written in lemon juice on the label. Kate loves the classics . . .

"Like the fella once said," Neal sang softly, running his thumb against the faint lines. "Ain't love a kick in the head?"

***

So . . . what do you think? Any and all comments are appreciated!