Part Two: Never Been Scorned

She'd gotten quite the head-start, but Castle could hear heels clicking around the corner and figured he was on the right track. He broke into a run.

"Bate!" he yelled, frustrated with his own inarticulate mess as he apparently decided not even halfway through her name to call her Kate instead of Beckett.

Down the empty hallway, the door closed the final inch.

Fine, then. If Beckett didn't want to stick around for the party, have drinks, meet people, relax—that was her prerogative. He wasn't about to let it ruin his evening.

He turned and headed back to the party where he was the most honored man in the room, all too aware that the one person whose admiration he wanted was no longer there.

If he hadn't felt scorned—bitter and just a little bit injured—he would have gladly traded every associate and acquaintance for the detective that got away.

The heavy door slammed shut behind them, and Kate couldn't stifle the laugh that emerged from her. Outside of work, it wasn't too often that she experienced the spike of adrenaline that she'd come to associate more with shootouts and chasing suspects, and the satisfying escape made her feel a little bit more alive; a little less like the pursuer and more like the pursued.

He took her hand and led her safely out of the back alley. They made it to the sidewalk amidst waves of pedestrians and the cacophony of traffic when Vince spun suddenly, facing her, letting his gaze travel her body and undoubtedly noticing the way that her breath caught.

"I probably should have told someone I was leaving," she said, as though working hard to keep her wits about her and not slip into a daze. "Not Castle, I mean. But the Captain, probably. . . ."

Vince took entirely too much enjoyment in reminding her: "You're off-duty, Detective." He thumbed her cheek and drew her into him for a soft kiss.

The embrace may have been gentle, but the adrenaline pounded through her. Her eyes were still closed when she found enough of a voice to respond. "I—I know."

"So you don't need to report to work for, what, another nine hours?" The rest of the question was not asked in words but in the way that his stubble brushed her cheek as his teeth sought out her ear.

"Ten," she said. Then again, she could be wrong. Time flies when you're bashing writers and then fantasizing about bedding one. How long had she been talking with this guy now, anyway?

He smiled against her skin, lavishing her neck with attention, ignoring the inconsistent current of passersby that parted around them as he initiated a more intimate kiss.

She let herself lean into him, aware that she felt reassured that he'd made no motion to harm her and—an even greater concern tonight—that they hadn't been swarmed by a hive of paparazzi. She liked this guy, but she would have been ignoring her cop instincts if she hadn't considered once that he could be some kind of criminal or media hound.

No, this was wonderful and real and so un-Beckett, but she was already swept up in it; grateful that this rare moment wasn't being interrupted by blinding photo flashes and the probability of a headline about Nikki Heat being caught in the act.

She murmured, "Maybe I owe Castle a thank-you after all."

Suddenly Vince sighed, pulled away. He ran his hand through his hair in dejected realization. "You were looking for him," he said gently. "When we were leaving—you were looking around, searching. For him."

Mortification didn't begin to describe her facial expression. "What? No."

"For what? His permission? Or just to see if he was watching?"

"Vince, no—that isn't . . . I was—avoiding the press." Damn, had she ever in her life been such an awful liar? Was it the alcohol or the simple fact that something about Vince Minaret and his stupid sixth sense made it hard to lie to him?

She certainly didn't need Castle's permission for anything, and she didn't want him to see her with Vince, but admittedly she had wondered where he was by the time Vince gently touched her leg and asked her if she wanted to get the hell out of there. What would Rick Castle say if he knew another writer picked up his so-called inspiration for Nikki Heat during the book launch party?

Now Vince studied her eyes, and even she knew she was busted. "You think about him a lot, don't you?"

"You like him," Will Sorenson had told her only mere months ago, when she'd failed to suppress a smile and the urge to mention Castle's name.

"No, I just . . . I don't know," she'd admitted then. "I think he's—interesting." And that was the truest answer she could have offered.

But even now, there was only so much that she was willing to admit, and replying to "You think about him a lot" with "I think he's interesting" would not only be honest but far too revealing this time.

It came out one notch above a croak, but she managed: "We see a lot of each other."

Oh, that sounded even worse than it was. She should have just said the jackass was interesting.

Interesting and infuriating and annoying and would Vince just please hurry up and kiss her again already?

But he didn't. He stared back at her in silence with a merciful expression that pained her; pained them both. When he finally spoke, he used the same tone of voice that Beckett had once used to turn down Richard Castle's invitation to a private debriefing: "It was nice to meet you, Kate." He took her hand, smiled, and pivoted to go.

She watched his figure retreat, and once he was out of earshot, she fisted her hands and groaned in frustration. "Damn it, Castle!"

"You're just saying that because you've never been scorned. What man has ever turned you away?"

She could kill him.