Chapter 4
"Would you like a glass of wine?" he holds up the bottle that's just been opened. "It's a very nice Californian Pinot noir."
Alexis is in bed and it's just the two adults left around the dining table. Beckett had considered calling it a night as well but it's only eight pm; that's far too early to use tiredness as an excuse.
"No, technically I'm still working," she demurs.
"I'm sure that the boss won't mind. We're spending the night in, so unless some stalker breaks into the loft then Alexis will be perfectly safe in her bedroom. Besides, I'm going to have a glass and you wouldn't leave me to drink by myself would you?" Rick holds out the other glass to her.
"Thank you," she accepts it, careful not to let their fingers brush. She swirls it in the glass and pauses to savor the aroma; a combination of black cherries and raspberries with a hint of wood-smoke. The first sip is refreshingly fruity and well balanced by a zing of spice and herbs. Beckett's unaware of the sound she makes as she savours the taste; it's a cross between a hum and a moan. "It's very good."
Castle is glad that the dining table is a barrier between them because his pants are suddenly feeling a bit tight. The way she closed her eyes and that sound that she made brings images to mind of dark cotton sheets and filtered moonlight shimmering over creamy flesh.
"I came across it when I visited the vineyard in Sonoma County. I was dating a British supermodel at the time and she was doing a photo-shoot there. Unfortunately the relationship didn't outlast the trip but at least I found a decent drop to help console me for the loss."
Beckett mentally rolls her eyes at the story. Of course he'd date a supermodel; rich, famous men would always have their pick of beautiful women. He's shallow enough that a woman's appearance would be the only criteria that would influence his dating habits.
"I'm sorry for your loss Mr. Castle."
She says it in such a dead-pan tone that he can't tell if she's being sarcastic or serious. As a writer he's usually very good at reading people but Kate Beckett is an enigma; maybe that's why he's so intrigued by her.
"Please, no more Mr. Castle. If you don't want to use Rick then could you at least drop the mister? Just Castle would be fine."
"Ok … Castle."
He smiles at the concession that he's managed to wring from her. It's not much as far as victories go but every dent that he makes in the Beckett armor feels like a major blow.
"So tell me Beckett, if you weren't here then what would you be doing on a Tuesday night?"
"I'd be practicing at the shooting range or else sparring at the dojo," she says with a shrug. "The instructor is an ex-Ranger. There's not really a name for the style of mixed martial arts that he teaches but the focus is predominantly on unarmed combat, using leverage and speed and not strength. Training is very important in this job."
"As your employer, I appreciate your commitment to work, but I've got to say that sounds very booooring. Surely you must have some hobbies? What does Kate Beckett like to do when she lets her hair down? Let me guess. A night on the town with the girls? A bit of cosplay as your favorite anime character? Modifying your Corvette for street racing? Or recreational pole dancing?" he suggests with a fake leer and an exaggerated widening of the eyes.
"Actually you're pretty close with your guess there," her smile is enigmatic as she leans back and takes another sip of the wine. He might think that he has her all figured out but there are so many layers to the Beckett onion.
His jaw almost drops at her reply. "If you tell me that it's pole dancing then I'll give you a case of this wine."
"Men! You are all so predictable," Beckett laughs and this time she does roll her eyes. "Do you really think that I do pole dancing in my spare time?"
"Well, no. But it's a nice fantasy and you can't blame a man for hoping," he adds with a grin. "So which guess was the close one?"
"I do a bit of racing in my spare time. It's on a race track, not on the street and I own a Harley Davidson softail."
"For real? You're not yanking my chain here, are you Beckett?"
"A V2, four-stroke engine with five-speed belt transmission, 63 break horsepower and a top speed of 118 mph. Is that serious enough for you Castle?"
"I didn't understand half of what you said but there is something very sexy about a woman who can talk like a petrol-head."
He's not the first man to tell her that she's sexy but it is the first time she's been complimented for being a biker chick. She shouldn't feel pleased by the unique flattery, especially not from a man who charms women all the time, but she is.
"I've had the bike since college so the jargon comes pretty easily," she says to deflect the compliment.
"Maybe you could give me a ride on it sometime?"
"Maybe," she says but she's thinking definitely not. Having Castle's tall frame pressing into her back with his hands around her waist would be a bad idea. She'd never get involved with a client; Beckett is certain of that. But there's no point in putting temptation in her way either.
"Beckett, you've surprised me and it's not often that I say that. A bodyguard and a biker chick, it makes me wonder what other things you might be hiding."
"I'm not really all that interesting," Beckett shakes her head. "Other than the bike, my only hobby is reading."
"Don't tell me, you only read security magazines and the latest publication from the National Rifle Association," the writer teases her.
"Actually I mainly read mystery novels."
"Have you read any of mine?" Castle leans forward with interest to hear her answer. "I bet that you're secretly a huge fan."
"I've read all the big names in the genre," she pauses, letting the silence pull him in. "You know the greats like Patterson, Deaver, Connelly, and Child."
"Touché." He has to smile at Beckett's well-aimed sting. The deliberate omission of his name is her way of getting back at him for his teasing and it's a worthy retort. "If you ever want to read my books then please feel free to grab one from my study. I may not be in the same league as those luminaries but you never know, you might actually enjoy them," he adds with self-deprecating humor.
"Thank you Castle. Maybe I will," she answers with a smile of her own. Beckett doesn't tell him that she's already read every book that he's written. Her mom was the one who introduced her to Castle's first novel 'In a Hail of Bullets.' Beckett has loved his writing ever since that first book. She's such a fan-girl that she's even lined up for an hour at one of his book signings. But that kind of information is something that her employer doesn't need to know.
"What about you? What would you normally be doing on a Tuesday night?" she turns the focus away from herself.
"Tonight would have been my poker evening. It's just a small group of writers who get together once a month or so. Patterson is hosting it but I had to send my apologies. It didn't seem right to run off and leave you alone here on your first night."
"It's still early yet, barely eight o'clock. I don't mind if you wanted to go now," she assures him.
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asks with false indignation. "No, I'm quite happy here. Enjoying a glass of wine and learning more about you is much more fun than drinking Patterson's whisky and taking money off a bunch of fellow writers. The view is better here as well."
The way that he's staring at her is unsettling and she shifts her gaze from those penetrating blue eyes. She latches onto the first innocuous topic that she can think of.
"So you play cards with a group of people whose job is to come up with ways to commit murder; it must make for some very interesting conversation around the poker table. Is that how you come up with plots for your books?"
"We sometimes discuss how a particular plot point might be handled if someone is stuck but that's not often. The problem is that if you come up with a good idea then you don't really want to share it, otherwise you might end up reading about it in someone else's book. No, I get a lot of my ideas from observing people. I find my inspiration from real life."
Beckett had read the speculation on the fan sites that Clara Strike from the Derrick Storm series was based on a real person. Castle had never publicly confirmed it but the way the character was portrayed suggested that the author was more than a little infatuated with his muse.
"It's still a long stretch from observing people to coming up with an idea for a mystery novel. I watch people as part of my job; I'm always observing people's mannerisms so that I can assess the risk profile. I don't think I could come up with a best-selling murder novel despite all my observing."
"I guess that what I do is a little more than just people watching," he tilts his head as he tries to explain the whole writing process. "When I'm watching someone I'm really interested in finding out what the story is with them. What's the chain of events that lead them to where they are now? Take you for example. I would never have expected you to be a bodyguard so there must have been a series of events that caused you to go down this pathway. Most people who go into security come from either a police or military background," Castle looks at her expectantly.
"I was a cop," she confirms his suspicion but doesn't offer anything more.
"A cop," he nods as he processes that information. "You can't have been a cop for very long though. You're only early to mid-twenties. An intelligent woman like you would have gone to college as well before the police academy so that would only leave two or three years at most. You were probably still a uniform when you quit. With a Type A personality like yours it's interesting that you changed careers after such a short time."
"Maybe I just didn't enjoy it."
"No it wasn't that. You had a reason why you became a cop and it's unlikely that you achieved your goal as a lowly officer. Something thwarted your mission."
Her face freezes as Beckett hides her growing anxiety, his deductions are hitting very close to home. The bodyguard can still remember her police captain catching her in the archives going through the cold case of her mother's murder. She wasn't meant to be there and it was against procedure for her to be digging into that case. Montgomery had given her the choice of either resigning or getting an official reprimand on her record. It was at that point that she'd realized that she'd never get the chance to investigate the murder that had changed her life. She'd resigned and started up Safe Hands in partnership with her old training officer.
"The fact that you were cop also doesn't make sense. Under normal circumstances that wouldn't have been a career that you would have considered. Most smart, attractive women become lawyers, not cops. And yet that's what you chose. Why? Your voice is pure Manhattan; there's no trace of the bridge or boroughs in it so that means money. You went to college, probably a good one. You had options. Yeah, you had a lot of options ... better options ... more socially acceptable options. But you still chose to become a cop." He pauses again as he tries to read her face for clues.
"That tells me something happened; not to you though. You're wounded but not that wounded. No, it was somebody that you cared about, somebody that you loved. You couldn't live with that because the person responsible was never caught. You became a cop to get justice but you realized that you were never going to achieve it so you quit. And that's how you ended up being a bodyguard." His words trickle off as he realizes that he's hit a nerve. For a second he saw of flash of anger mixed in with vulnerability in her eyes but it's gone as quickly as it appeared.
"That's a cute trick Castle. But don't think that you know me; you don't," Beckett cautions him, the steely tone tells him that he's definitely overstepped the mark.
Whatever slight thawing she might have felt towards him has definitely taken several large steps back.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes and he truly is sorry. Like a nine year old, sometimes his mouth says things before his brain can stop it. Whilst he is interested in her story, he would never be malicious about it. Causing her pain was never his goal.
"I'm tired so goodnight," Beckett gets up and uses the obvious lie to excuse herself. She doesn't even acknowledge his apology.
"Goodnight Beckett." He's left alone with his wine and a new curiosity about the mystery that is Kate Beckett.
A/N – thanks to Tripp3235 for the suggestion of how to get Beckett to call him Castle. For those who were wondering how Beckett ended up as a bodyguard, I hope that this explains it. As for Castle and Beckett, it's one step forward and two steps back.
