A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews/favorites/alerts! They are such an encouragement!

As usual, a lot of research went into this chapter, though most of it never appeared on the page. The Algonquin Hotel really exists, in Times Square, and really did play a large role in the post-World War I literary movement. Also, the people mentioned in connection with the Round Table are authentic. As a point of interest, there is actually a five-star hotel in the same area called The Muse . . . Isn't that just ripe for the picking?

Night at the Round Table

"You can't stay here, Kate." Richard Castle's words, spoken in a calm, clear tone, left no room for doubt.

"He came into my apartment, Castle," she said slowly, the fire still blazing in her beautiful hazel eyes, "Into my home."

"I know," he said evenly, holding her by the indomitable purpose in his eyes, "Which is why you can't stay here. We need to call this in. Gates needs to—"

She shook her head adamantly. "Absolutely not, Castle! Forget it. We can't prove Maddox was here. Hell, two minutes ago you thought I was simply on edge, that I was imagining things! If I call in a B&E, I'll have regular unis in here asking me questions I can't in good conscience answer. What am I supposed to tell them?" She paused for breath then plowed on, "There was no sign of forced entry, Castle. And, apart from the notes on the case, nothing has been taken."

"That you know of," he cut in smoothly, trying to reason with her. "Gates needs to know, Beckett. You have to have police protection! If it was Maddox who broke in here last night he knows where you live. He can come for you at any time." His blue eyes darkened. "I'm not going to let you just stay here, waiting for him to show up so the two of you can finally have your showdown."

The moment the words were out he knew he had made a grievous mistake. All of the color drained from her face. Even her lips whitened as she stepped back from him. While he watched, her body seemed to close down, to fold into itself. Suddenly the bruises, which hadn't seemed so terrible after all, were standing out in deep purpley-blue patches. But it was the wounded look in her eyes—the hurt he had unintentionally put there—that really troubled him.

What did you do? he asked himself in sudden alarm. Do something, genius! Say something! Reassure her you didn't mean for it to come out that way! But instead he just stood there dumbly, his eyes raking over her face, taking in the damage his idle words had caused.

Beckett continued to stare at him in stunned bewilderment. How can he think that? After everything I told him last night, after the promise I made to walk away from this case, how can he think I would willingly just toss it all away!

The feeling of violation at having her home invaded was nothing to the anguish she felt in Castle's lack of trust. What did you expect, she berated herself. Have you ever given him a reason to think you'd put your life—much less a chance of happiness with him—ahead of this case? Look at your actions over the past few days. When he told you how he felt, when he told you he loved you, what did you do? You just bluntly rejected him. You made it clear going after Maddox was more important. Naturally he's going to believe that is still your priority. Did you honestly believe he would jump to any other conclusion? She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, but the only outward sign of her self-disgust visibly manifested itself in the form of a scowl.

Taking a long, slow, deep breath, she asked, "Is that what you think, Rick? You think I'm just going to—"

"Throw away your life for the chance to get Maddox, to get a name? Now why on earth would I leap to that conclusion, Beckett?" The stinging words were out of his mouth before he had time to filter them. It was like throwing verbal salt into the wound. He saw her wince then lower her eyes from his face. Horrified by his deliberate attempt to cut her, his mind taunted him, So much for your promise not to throw her choices back in her face. Look at her; look what you've done!

"I don't blame you for thinking that. But for the record, I meant what I told you last night." Her voice was much too quiet, much too measured.

"Beckett," he started, reaching out a hand to touch her. She stepped back, out of his reach. "Kate, I didn't mean . . . I'm so sorry!"

Swallowing back a sob, she shook her head, muttered, "Forget it, Castle." Pushing past him, she headed in the direction of her bedroom. When she reached the doorway she paused to look back at him over her shoulder. He was just standing there, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, his brow furrowed. She saw the regret, the self-recrimination in his eyes and relented. "Look, Castle, I know what you think about me. You've just made it abundantly clear I'm not to be trusted. That's fine." Bitterness tinged her next words, "It's not like I've given you any reason to have faith in me. But I'm through with not talking about things."

"Beckett—"

She held up her hand. "I'm not finished, Castle. The reason I can't call this in has nothing to do with pursuing Maddox. So far as I'm concerned he got away with it. But I can't afford to have officers in here, questioning me about missing case files I'm not supposed to have in the first place. Do you understand how much I would have to explain?" Her troubled eyes fell away from his face momentarily then swept back, veiled in a fringe of dark lashes. "Once I start on that explanation, everything comes out: the conspiracy, the cover-ups, Montgomery. Everything. I'm not willing for that to happen, Castle. Are you?"

"I'm not willing for you to make yourself a target, Kate," he said evenly. "You said Ryan filled Gates in. She already has this information. Just call her. She can order police protection for you."

She almost laughed at that. "Aren't you forgetting one teeny-tiny detail, Castle? I'm not a cop anymore. I'm a private citizen. She can't just order police protection for me because I think my apartment has been searched by a phantom assassin."

"A phantom assassin working at the behest of the Phantom Menace," he commented absently, the corners of his mouth quirking up involuntarily. Then, as his eyes lightened, he suggested, "You know, maybe that's the answer, Beckett."

She just looked at him. "Really? You're going to stand there and try to sell me on the idea that the answer to this case, to my mother's murder, is that the Phantom Menace is responsible? Unt-uh. I'm not buying it. Darth Maul did not kill my mom."

"Actually, Darth Maul wasn't the titular Phant—"

She rolled her eyes. "I don't care, Castle." Turning to enter her bedroom, she stopped again and swiveled around to face him once more. "Look, your wild theories are quasi-cute on most cases, but not this one. Cole Maddox is real. The bullet he put in my chest was real. The man he works for—real. Rick, the threat he poses to you, because of me, is real, too."

"Don't you think I know that?" His voice dripped with desperation. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Kate. You're in real, serious danger here."

"What gave it away?" she retorted sarcastically, lifting her chin characteristically. Quickly closing the gap between them, she moved to stand in front of him. "The milk's been spilt, Castle. Let's not cry over it."

He shot her a sour expression, but he understood her sentiment. The truth is there isn't much to go on here, he reminded himself. Even if she called it in there's nothing Gates can do about it. Maddox is much too careful to leave evidence behind. And Beckett's right; she can't report what he stole without bringing down the entire house of cards. His mouth tightened as he considered the options. Even if Gates was informed I doubt the woman would care enough to do anything to protect her. What's more, now that Beckett has resigned, Gates probably wouldn't be bothered with her one way or another. His eyes darkened from a medium blue to indigo. Well, if she won't do anything to keep Beckett safe, I will! There is no way in hell I'm going to leave her unprotected.

He looked down at her, his eyes burning into hers. "Come back to the loft, Kate. My building is more secure than the White House and my doorman, unlike Jai, isn't a blabber-beak. His mom raised him well; he doesn't talk to strangers." That witticism produced an unwitting smile from her. Pressing his advantage, Castle put his hand on her arm, the touch sending small electric currents flowing through them both. Softening his voice, he pleaded, "Please, Kate, I have to know you're safe."

She held his gaze momentarily before lowering her eyes again. When she spoke the words came out in a hushed tone. "I have no intention of staying here."

He closed his eyes and sighed in relief. "Good. Then you'll come home with me?"

At his use of the word "home" she stiffened. "No. Absolutely not. Do you really believe I would knowingly, willingly put you in danger? There's no way for me to know if Maddox is tracking me, Castle. It's not worth the risk. Not to you, not to Alexis, not to Martha. I won't stay here but I'm not going back to your place either."

There was a note of steel in her voice, a clear sign she would brook no arguments. A brief, awkward silence fell between them.

Beckett retreated, standing half in-half out of her bedroom, but her eyes never once left his face. You have to understand why I can't go back with you, she told him silently. I've already ruined Esposito's life. I will not endanger yours. I'll admit I've made plenty of mistakes, but this is one I can avoid.

That's the best I'm going to get out of her, Castle realized with a sigh of resignation. It's better than nothing. If she won't come back to the loft . . . He studied the look in her eyes momentarily and knew her answer about that was final. Since she won't, his mind amended, I'll get her into a secure safe house of some kind. At least then I'll know where she is. And I'll be able to arrange some semblance of protection for her. Now, where do the Feds put people they want to protect? He sorted through and discarded several ideas before landing on a feasible one. Perfect! he exalted, Of course she'll baulk at the suggestion, but it's a compromise we can both live with. Pleased with himself, his smile returned as his incurable optimism was restored.

"Are you absolutely dead-set against coming back to the loft?"

A stony glare was all the answer he received.

"I figured as much," he admitted, nodding his head. "Alright, then I'm going to put you up in a hotel."

"Castle," she started to protest, but the glint of determination in his eyes successfully derailed whatever she had intended to say.

"Just hear me out before you launch into a protest, Beckett. What good is there in having all the money in the world if I can't use it to keep the woman I love safe?" Walking purposefully toward her, he pulled her into his arms, leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "We're partners, Beckett," he added, dropping his voice to an intimate, near-whisper, "I'm in this with you for better or worse. I get that you don't want me involved, that you're terrified something might happen to me or my family, but that ship has sailed. So far as I'm concerned, you're a part of my family now. I protect what's mine, Kate. I always have and I always will. Besides, I'm the one who knocked over that first domino, remember? This is my mess just as much as it is yours."

Blinking furiously, she tried hard to hide the raw emotion his words produced. He was being sweet again—too sweet. She drew in her breath quickly, determined not to give in to her desire to lose herself in his arms, to press her mouth to his, to wrap her arms around his neck. Uncomfortably aware of her reaction to his nearness, she tried valiantly to find a way to break the spell.

Keep your head, Beckett, she cautioned herself, well aware she was in the middle of an emotionally dangerous moment. If you don't say something casual you'll fall to pieces, and you know you can't do that. Not yet, not while there are still so many unknowns, not while Castle may be in danger.

She managed a smile. "For better or worse, huh?" she quipped, forcing her voice to lightness, "Proposing so soon?"

She bit her lower lip in that tantalizingly sexy way which tempted him to lose all control. His eyes focused on her mouth and suddenly he found it difficult to remember his name, much less what she was saying. All he could think about was his urgent need to crush her mouth under his. And then her words registered and he lifted his head.

Beckett's smile widened as she grinned at him wickedly. Then, just to toy with him, she arched her eyebrows mischievously.

"For better—" he started then stopped. His face flamed red as he tilted his head to look at her, his eyes widening as realization set in. "Did I say that?"

She gave a low, sensual laugh as she teased, "Freudian slip?"

"I, uh . . ."

"That's the second time that's happened to you." She smirked, amusement turning her hazel eyes a perfect blend of brown-green.

He couldn't help himself; he stared. His own eyes, unguarded and filled with awe, softened. After a long moment he finally managed to ask, "When was the first time?"

She gave a low, sexy laugh. "You don't remember suggesting we get hitched?"

"Did I do that? When was—? Wait just a second! Are you referring to our conversation just a few short minutes after we were rescued from that man-eating tiger?"

Nodding, she corrected, "I am, and it wasn't 'a few short minutes,' Castle. We were already back at the precinct!"

He flushed hotly. "You're the one who started it, Beckett." Adopting a high-pitched feminine voice, he intoned, "But next time let's do it without the tiger."

To his surprise, she laughed outright. "Wow! Wow. Castle, I had no idea your memory was slipping that badly! I distinctly remember that being my parting shot, not my warm-up."

Barely suppressed amusement danced in his eyes, but he deliberately kept his voice neutral as he said, "That's what I was talking about earlier—you always have to have the last word."

"Mm," she murmured.

"See!" He pointed at her. "That right there! That constitutes a word. And for the record, I stand by my statement. You definitely started that conversation. I may not remember word-for-word how the topic of being cuffed came up, but I know for certain you broached the subject!"

"The topic was hitched, Castle, and it came up when I mentioned our experience was the weirdest close-call I'd ever had. You agreed with me—rare, I know—and then you said, and I quote, 'But I'll tell ya, after that experience, if I ever had to be hitched to someone, it would be you.'"

His eyes widened in surprise as his mouth curved up in an engaging grin. "I'm flattered, Beckett. I had no idea you hung on my every word. That's remarkable! You remember a conversation we had nearly six months ago practically verbatim. Tell me, do you recall all of our conversations in such detail?"

Damn it! Her cheeks grew hot as she realized she had inadvertently betrayed her absorption in him. Knowing she had revealed too much about herself, she quickly tried to cover. "Only the ones in which you dig yourself a hole," she retorted, parrying hastily, "They're particularly memorable."

Folding his arms across his chest, he gave her a look which clearly said he wasn't buying it. "Right, Beckett. Keep telling yourself that. You know full well you hang on my every word—printed or spoken. There's no need to deny it."

Her face flooded with guilty color but she refused to yield the point. "Ha! This from the man who usually goes on and on about the pitfalls of fame and how his adoring public—which, by the way, I haven't seen in quite a while—is always bothering him? You do realize I usually tune you out don't you, Castle?"

"Ouch! You really are a mean, cruel beast! That hurts almost as much as a paper cut." His eyes clouded and he poked out his lower lip in a pout. "Why do you enjoy hurting me so much?"

She was immediately contrite. Apologizing earnestly, she said, "I'm sorry, Rick. That wasn't my intention. I was trying to tease you, not—"

She broke off at the change in Castle's expression. He flashed a grin that was pure seductive devilry which completely took her breath away. Catching the twinkle of mischief in the recesses of his eyes, she tried unsuccessfully to look away. The audible thump of her accelerating heartbeat did nothing to ease her embarrassment; she savagely wished the stupid thing would shut up.

"Kate, Kate, I can't believe you fell for the oldest trick in the book!" he teased, delighted by the fresh wave of color staining her cheeks.

"And you call me the beast? You brute!" She pushed him away then stormed into her bedroom. "You're unbelievable!"

"I know," he chuckled, totally delighted by her reaction. Then deciding it was time to end the game, he poked his head into the room and looked around. She was standing in front of her closet, one hand in her hair, the other wrapped around her midsection. That's her pensive pose, he told himself, recognizing it as the one she employed when she was stumped. "Need help?"

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes then returned her attention to the contents of her closet. "I'm trying to decide what to pack."

Coming to stand beside her, he stole a quick look at her face and was immediately reassured she wasn't angry or annoyed with him. Relaxing, he suggested, "You might as well be comfortable, Doll. You're going to be holed up in a hotel room, not out and about shopping in SoHo."

Rolling her eyes, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not planning to stay away for a long period of time, Castle: a day, maybe two at the most. But you can be assured I'm not going to just sit still, watching daytime television in a ratty pair of sweats with my hair pulled back in a ponytail."

His eyes flickered to her soft auburn hair. The long, gently waving locks framed her face, making her seem simultaneously vulnerable and strong. With the bedroom's overhead lighting the natural red highlights running through the varying shades of brown were more pronounced. The temptation to reach out and touch it was almost overwhelming.

As though sensing what he was thinking, she shot him a withering look. "Don't even think about it, Writer Boy!"

"What?" he protested, lifting both hands in an innocent who-megesture, "I wasn't going to do anything."

"Right," she scoffed, both hands landing on her hips, "Of course you weren't."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocked up on his toes. "Scout's honor."

"Uh-huh. I'm not going to fall for that one again. You were never a scout."

"You really do remember everything I say, don't you?" he teased again, his eyes sparkling now.

"Castle!" she exclaimed in exasperation, "Can you please focus for one minute!"

Extracting his hands from his pockets, he held them up in surrender as he apologized, "Sorry. Now, what were we—" he broke off for the space of a heartbeat then came back with, "Oh, that's right! We were picking out your clothes. I have to say, Beckett, I like this aspect of our partnership. I haven't had the opportunity to select a woman's clothes since . . ." he trailed off, considering it, "Uh . . . Since you, actually."

She glared at him. "You have never picked out my wardrobe."

"Ah, but you're forgetting." He held up a finger as he grinned at her. "I picked out the gown you wore when we went undercover at that fundraiser."

She looked at him blankly, intentionally dense.

"Jewel thieves? Celebrity auction? Anything?" he queried.

"Oh," she shrugged noncommittally, "That one."

He arched his eyebrow. "Yes that one. You know, Beckett, I still haven't fully forgiven you for not coming to my rescue. You have no idea how much torture that evening caused me."

Laughing at him, her mouth curved up at the corners as she teased, "Poor, poor baby! Life is so tough for a bestselling author."

"I knew I shouldn't have expected you to understand," he sniffed, pretending to be affronted, "Only a person who has suffered the tortures of the damned can appreciate the horror of being bid on by members of both sexes and then having to give the winner an 'evening to remember.'"

She turned to face him fully. "Uh-huh. Only a person who's suffered the tortures of the damned. And what do you think I was going through, having you shadowing me all over New York?"

He grinned at her. "Come on, Honey, you know you loved it!"

Immediately her eyes narrowed into slits and her mouth compressed into a fighting line. Without warning she reached her right hand up to his nose, pinched and twisted. "I told you—don't call me that!"

Writhing in pain, he twisted in his effort to get free. When that failed, he whined, "Apples! Apples, apples, apples!"

She released her hold on him. "Are we clear?"

He rubbed his nose with both hands, not bothering to look at her. "I think you dislocated my nose!"

"Castle!"

Keeping one hand on his now-red nose, he dropped his other and glared at her. "We're clear: no food names."

"No exceptions."

He nodded then repeated, "No exceptions." He was quiet for a moment then unexpectedly smiled sweetly and crossed his arms. "You know, Kate, I have two consolations from that night."

Her expression softened as she looked at him curiously. "Two?"

He sniffed (apparently his nose still functioned) then nodded. "One, I fetched the highest bid of the night." She rolled her eyes but he continued anyway, "And two, I managed to snag a dance with the most beautiful woman there."

His blue eyes, intense and unwavering, bored into hers. There was no way for her to mistake his meaning. Reading between the lines, she was startled to realize that for all of his lightness, he was being serious. He really did view his dance with her as a highlight of the evening. The knowledge was both overwhelming and empowering.

"Honestly, my dear detective, when I picked out that dress for you to wear, I never thought you'd sweep me off my feet. The moment I saw you I was bowled over. Stunned. And it was a particularly uncomfortable feeling for me," he admitted, his voice husky.

Two lines cut between her brows. "Why?"

Taking her hands in his, he looked down at them, refusing to meet her eyes. "Because I knew that night I was in real danger of messing up the operation. It was hard enough having to do surveillance, fend off my mother, and dodge pleas to donate to a hundred different charities, all while wanting to do nothing but dance with you." He laughed softly to himself. "But that was nothing to my determination to ward off any and all admirers out to snap you up. I even considered unfriending the mayor! Only for a moment, though."

"Castle," she started but he wasn't quite through.

"I don't expect you to believe it. But it's true. And it was killing me not knowing where you were keeping your gun!"

She laughed in spite of herself. "I'm still not telling you."

He shook his head. "I'd rather you never tell me. Sometimes the fantasy is more fun than knowing."

And suddenly everything from his adorable confession to his unwavering sweetness washed over her. With an urgency borne out of her desperation to show him just how touched she was, she leaned forward unexpectedly and kissed him lingeringly on the mouth. Surprise momentarily paralyzed him. He was simply too startled, too stunned to react. And seconds later, too aware of a reciprocal wave of desire. Her kiss was thrilling; it created a riot of sensation filled with tenderness and passion so heady he almost lost all sense of space and time. Dropping her hands, he slid his arms around the small of her back, pulling her tighter. Then, when breathing became a necessity, he released her.

They stood silently at the door to the closet, each drawing in a ragged breath. Their eyes, locked and searching, danced together in perfect unison. And then Beckett gave him a naturally radiant smile, a smile that started in her soul and fanned out to her smoky green eyes before finally coming to rest on her lips.

Stirred to his very core, the best Castle could muster was, "May-maybe I sh-should select all your evening clothes in the future."

"Yeah, well," she began, her face flooding with lovely color as her eyes dropped from his, "speaking of that, I really should get packing." She shot her right hand through her hair, a reflexive gesture she used to buy time, and then glanced toward the upper shelf in the closet. "I have a bag up there I can use. Can you pull it down, Sweetheart?"

He saw the one she meant and easily lifted it down for her. "So," he hedged, a demon of mischief dancing in the depths of his blue eyes, "does this mean you're going to let me go through your drawers after all?"

Her mouth curved up at the corners. "You have the highest hopes and the lowest mind I've ever encountered, Castle. You really do want me to shoot you, don't you? What the hell am I supposed to do with you anyway?"

"Love me?" he suggested, batting his eyelashes at her.

She laughingly shoved him aside. "You want to do something for me? Go back to the kitchen and warm up the muffins. My stomach's starting to rumble and I assure you, Cranky Kate is not who you want to see this morning."

"Oh, I think Cranky Kate has already made an appearance," he informed her, rubbing his nose again for effect. Then, noting the withering look she tossed in his direction, he quickly added, "I'll have them ready in no time."

Waiting until he left the bedroom she swiftly flew into action. Taking only long enough to change her clothes, she set to work. Ten minutes later she emerged, her overnight bag and toiletries case packed, and a spare pair of boots tucked under one arm.

Castle looked up as she entered the kitchen, greeted her with a smile. "Ready for the muffins, Doll?"

She sighed. "There's nothing I can do about you calling me that, is there?"

He shook his head, said seriously, "Nope. You're just going to have to live with it. But don't worry: I'll still try other names out on you." He winked at her. "Just not edible ones."

"As soon as we eat I need to call my dad," she informed him as she deposited her luggage and boots in a nearby chair. "I want to tell him I resigned myself."

Castle propped his elbows on the counter as he watched her unwrap the muffin. "So, that was one of the errands this morning? Going to see your dad, I mean?"

"Mm, these are delicious!" she emoted, carefully sidestepping his question. For some private reason of her own, she didn't want to reveal her intended destination just yet.

He took the hint and ate the rest of his muffin in silence. While he understood and respected her desire to tell her father about her decision to resign, there was something about it that troubled him. Now why is that? he wondered, his brows knitting together as his brain tried to pluck out the splinter. It isn't her telling Jim. If I were in her place, the first thing I'd want to do is let Alexis and Mother know I'm safe. So then what is it? As the mental splinter pricked again, he sighed.

"Something wrong, Castle?"

He looked up, saw her watchful expression, and shrugged. "I'd say no but I'd be lying. I don't think it's a good idea for you to call your dad now, here."

She set her muffin on the counter and stared at him as though he were an alien life form. "Why the hell not?"

I don't know! I just don't know! his mind yelled. But instead of saying that, he looked away. His eyes landed on her laptop and suddenly everything fell into place.

"You can't call him, Kate." He shot his hand through his hair then rushed on before she could protest. "Short of physically following you around what's the easiest way for Maddox to track your whereabouts?"

Her brows furrowed as her eyes darkened from a smoky green-gray to a rich, dark brown. The shadows in them gave her a haunted, hunted look. At the reminder of Maddox's looming threat, she grew more somber than before.

"Maddox is a professional," she said at last. "I don't know how, but he managed to find out where I live. The next logical step is to assume he's tracking me via the GPS signal on my phone."

"So if he's doing that you can't very well make an outgoing call to your dad. Not on your phone, anyway."

She met his eyes, made her decision. "Okay, I agree with you. I can't call Dad from my phone. In fact, I ought to leave it here. Let's let Maddox assume I've taken the day off, resting after our little encounter."

Little encounter? He arched an eyebrow. It's a damned miracle she's not dead! Not dead . . . Hmm. Lifting a hand to his chin, he rubbed it thoughtfully. Maybe Maddox believes she is! He glanced over at her. "Say, Beckett, he may just be working under the false assumption you're dead."

"I don't think so," she said slowly, mentally reviewing her showdown with the hired assassin again. "He bolted when he heard the approaching sirens. The man is cautious, Castle. I'm sure he knows by now I'm alive and kicking."

He slapped a hand to his forehead. "Of course he does, damn it! He wouldn't have come here, searched your place so carefully if he thought you were dead."

Another, more troubling thought rose to the surface of his mind. Suddenly an overwhelming feeling of anxiety and fear rippled through him. His voice took on a strained, strident tone as he ordered, "Beckett, we need to leave. Right now!"

She stared at him in consternation. "Castle, what's wrong?"

The color drained from his face as he shook his head, but two hot, blue flames ignited in his eyes. "Right now, Beckett! Right now!"

Without waiting for her to throw away her trash, he grabbed her hand and, practically dragging her around the kitchen counter, scooped up her bags, boots and purse, and unceremoniously propelled her toward the front door.

"Castle, will you wait a— Oof! Oww! That was my knee, you idiot! God, you're worse than Maddox!"

He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Sorry, Beckett. Do you want me to carry you?"

"No!" She shot him a dirty look. "But you don't have to drag me either! I'm perfectly capable of walking!" Extracting her hand from his, she leaned over and rubbed her knee furiously. "Besides," she grunted, "I have to get my phone out of my pocket."

Minutes later, once Castle had Beckett safely settled in the backseat and her belongings safely stowed in the trunk of the taxi, and had given the driver the address, he was finally able to sit back and relax. Concern darkened his eyes as he gave her a sideward glance. She was staring straight ahead, her mouth a straight line, her eyes shadowed under her drawn brows. Even with a fierce expression on her face, she looks lovely, he thought.

"How bad is your knee?" he ventured after a minute of silence.

She turned to look at him and the worry lines on her forehead faded; she even managed a smile. "I'll be okay, Castle. What's one more bruise?"

"I'm sorry about that," he apologized again, "But I just had to . . . We were talking, and then suddenly it occurred to me if Maddox is keeping tabs on you, he would have bugged your apartment."

Her eyes widened in sudden fear. "Damn it, Beckett! You should have thought of that! Rick, if my place is bugged, he's going to know about you!"

He waved that away. "I'm not worried about that, Kate; I'm more concerned that we may have said something that will lead him to where you'll be staying."

She reached for his hand. "I don't think we did. All you said was that you were going to put me up in a hotel room. You never said which one, and there are literally hundreds, if not thousands, in the city. He's going to have his work cut out for him if he tries to find me that way."

"You're sure?"

She looked at him strangely. "He isn't God, Castle. Maddox doesn't know everything; he isn't omniscient."

He squeezed her hand. "I know that, Kate. That wasn't what I meant. I just wanted to be sure we haven't compromised your safety."

"I'm positive," she reassured him. "You didn't name the hotel. In fact, you still haven't told me where we're going."

To her surprise, he chuckled softly. "You mean you didn't pick up on the address I gave our driver? 59 West 44th Street?"

She gave him a blank look.

"Nothing?"

"I know this probably will come as a shock to you, Castle, but I don't have the street addresses of every four- and five-star hotel in the Times Square area memorized."

He hung his head in shame for her. "I don't know what's more disappointing: you not knowing where we're going or the fact that you don't have a mental rolodex of hotel addresses."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Funny, Castle. So, are you going to keep me in suspense or are you just going to spit it out?"

"Hmm. That is an interesting suggestion. Keeping you in suspense is so much fun!"

"Cas-tle!"

He gave her an adorably devastating wicked smile. "Come on, Doll! Aren't you going to let me enjoy this?"

To her great dismay she found she was starting to blush again. What the hell is the matter with me! she fumed silently, He didn't even give me a compliment! She looked away.

"It isn't often I get to play a chivalrous knight to a damsel in distress," he confided quietly, leaning in to whisper in her ear. His breath, hot against her face, sent a thrill through her.

In an effort to get her rioting pulses back under control, she twisted in her seat to get a better look at his face. "A knight? Really? That's a bit overly dramatic even for you, Rick."

His grin widened. "You know you love the cheesy lines, Kate. Besides, if you want me to tell you where you'll be staying, you're going to have to put up with my buildup."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, get it all out of your system, Writer Boy."

"Thank you," he murmured then drew back from her. "As I was saying, Beckett, I don't get a chance to play knight very often—even though I have saved you more times than you've saved me—"

"Don't start again!" she interrupted, her intense brown eyes narrowing at him.

"Shush. My point is I thought the perfect place for you to stay the night is in one of New York's finest fortresses. A genuine writer's castle—as it were. Back in the twenties and thirties, New York's most illustrious wits, playwrights, critics and columnists formed one of the most cherished institutions in the city: the Algonquin Round Table. Just picture it, Beckett," he encouraged, his face glowing with the subject, "Right there, in the lobby of the hotel, men like Robert E. Sherwood, Robert Benchley, and Alexander Woollcott met with women like Dorothy Parker and Edna Ferber to exchange literary and cultural ideas and opinions! Did you know the Vicious Circle met in the Rose Room daily for over ten years? Ten years!"

She smiled in appreciation of his enthusiasm. He's so cute! I've never met anyone who can get so much pleasure out of a literary folk legend. Her eyes sparkled as she asked, "Ten years, huh? And they never tired of each other's company?"

He wiggled his eyebrows. "Let's just say the men never tired of Dorothy Parker's company. Ever! I'm pretty sure she had her way with at least three of the regulars. But something more important than a romantic fling emerged from the Round Table, Beckett. A real, genuine post-World War I literary movement. Without this group, Scott Fitzgerald would never have been inspired to write The Great Gatsby. Hemmingway would never have put pen to paper!"

"Or drink to mouth," she cut in dryly.

He grimaced. "You have me there, but we wouldn't have The New Yorker, Broadway would never be the same, and jazz music may never have taken off. Needless to say, I could put you up at the Plaza; I could book you into a suite at the Waldorf. But why would I do that when the safest place for you is my home away from home?"

She laughed. "I thought that was the 12th precinct."

"Touché." He grinned at her then confided wistfully, "After the early reviews of my first book came out I imagined myself to be among the literary elite. I had visions of knocking back Algonquin cocktails while making pithy remarks about other writers." He shook his head. "It didn't happen, though."

Studying him shrewdly, she asked, "What happened?"

He shrugged. "Black Pawn had me on too tight a schedule of book tours, readings and signings. Six months after it hit the presses, In a Hail of Bullets was up for the Tom Straw award, effectively sucking any leisure time I had into the dark, bottomless vortex of oblivion."

She gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. "Sorry you never got to live out your fantasy, Castle."

"There's always tonight," he told her earnestly, then wiggled his eyebrows at her for effect, "Trust me, Beckett, the fantasies I have about you are far sexier. In fact . . ."

Whatever he had been about to say dangled as the taxi abruptly slowed and threaded its way to a stop in the midst of Times Square. Peering out of the window, Beckett drew in her breath as she took in the façade of the towering, legendary hotel. Its name scrolled in white script against a black backdrop struck an impressive note. Green awnings, shading twin picture windows on either side of the main doors, both had a large cursive A on them. Gingerly opening the car door, she stepped out of the cab and waited for Castle to scramble out behind her. A minute later, with her belongings in tow, they headed for the lobby.

"Subtle, Castle," she muttered as she reached for his hand.

"What?" he asked flashing her an engaging grin, "I doubt Maddox will think to look for you here."

The interior of the famous hotel was just as impressive as the exterior. It had a chic, sophisticated 1920's feel to it. With ample space to simply sit and soak up the atmosphere, the lobby was dotted with individuals and couples. Directional signs pointed the way to the elevators, the bar, and the hotel restaurant. On one side of the lobby was a gift shop, its display windows littered with Penguin classics, caricature posters of members of the original Round Table, a large spread of Dorothy Parker memorabilia, and other assorted items from the hotel's storied past.

The check-in process went smoothly enough. While Castle arranged for the room Beckett stood silently at his side.

It wasn't until they were in the elevator headed for the eighth floor that she finally found her voice. "Perhaps, Rick, one night at the Algonquin won't be so bad after all."

Thoughts? Was Kate's apartment really bugged, or is Castle on a paranoia trip? Let me know . . .