Diamond's / Kate's POV
...
If she didn't owe Captain Roy Montgomery her life, she wouldn't have agreed to meet the writer.
Richard Castle, author extraordinaire, flamboyant womanizer and officially a top-notch cad in her book wants to meet her, an up and coming escort with Mommy issues.
How did she get to be so damn UNlucky?
No, she tries to convince herself, the skip in her beating heart isn't excitement over meeting her favorite author.
No, she's not hoping he's as good-looking or quirkily brilliant or quite as notorious for his skills in the bedroom, as the tabloids portray.
No, adrenaline isn't rushing through her system over her expectations of him.
And no, (her eyes swipe over his jacket photo one more time) she hasn't been glancing at his picture all morning long thinking if he's just as handsome in person, she might throw caution to the wind and break her number one rule.
She approaches the concierge desk, all sweet sophistication for the one man whom she knows has her back.
She's extremely lucky to have a kind-hearted pimp who truly cares about his girls, does research on the men first to make sure they're reputable, decent, without a hidden violent streak. She's grateful the Captain recommended Kevin Ryan to her after that fateful day a year ago as she honestly doesn't know where she'd be if he hadn't of rescued her. . . She'd needed someone to save her from herself, be a friend as well as a protector, be the brother she never had, and Ryan certainly fit the bill.
"This one's easy, Diamond," the Irishman spoke warmly. "No need to worry. Just a curious author who wants to gather information from the best."
"Nothing's ever easy. Especially with a man who's notorious for being the next Casanova."
"I'm confidant you can handle him or I wouldn't have allowed the meeting."
"Oh, I can handle him all right," she drawls. "It's satisfying his curiosity I'm worried about. . . Has Esposito arrived?"
"Yes, he's making sure the recording equipment is set up properly in your room."
"Is there a concern with Mister Castle?"
"No. You know my motto though: It's better to be safe than sorry."
"I couldn't agree with you more. . . When you see the author, please tell him I'm ready for him.
Ryan's easy, light laughter lifts her spirits and calms her fraying nerves. "The question is, - is he ready for you?"
"Is any man?" she quips with a bright, confidant grin, - twirling her mother's ring around her neck for the second time that day.
"No heterosexual man," he agrees. "You look extremely lovely this afternoon. . . The poor man doesn't stand a chance."
No, he doesn't, she thinks humorously while thanking Ryan for the compliment, and she strolls away from him nonchalantly, tamping down her sixth sense which is screaming she might very well be the one who doesn't stand a chance.
She briefly speaks to Esposito before heading to her room. "Impress upon Mister Castle the only thing that's going to happen between us is TALKING."
"You got it, Diamond," her part-time bodyguard replies, flashing his overtly-masculine smile which betrays how much he loves showing her clients who's in charge.
She heads into her room and turns on the listening device, knowing Esposito records his conversations with her clients, hoping she can glean a bit of information about the writer before she sees him.
She taps her 4-inch strappy heel impatiently and about jumps out of her skin when she first hears his voice, - rich, deep, smooth as Richard Hennessy cognac.
"I'm Rick Castle here to meet with the infamous Diamond."
Oh Gawd, he sounds exactly as she imagined, - sensual, dangerous, with a bad-boy vibe that emanates through every syllable.
"Don't try anything with her," Esposito warns, "or you won't like the consequences."
She smirks at her ever-faithful bodyguard's threatening tone and is grateful she isn't pouring herself a drink when she hears Castle's response, or the expensive merlot would've spilled everywhere.
"Don't worry. I promise she'll stay as virtuous as she is right now. I only have a few questions for her."
Kate, you're in serious trouble, because her weakness is a charming, self-assured man with a sense of humor, - and this one sounds like he's smug, funny and ...
"Questions only," Espo growls. "Follow me."
She quickly turns off the monitor and dabs her favorite perfume on her wrists as well as behind her knees, a fruity concoction with the distinct scent of cherries.
She doesn't want to give him a clue as to how unsettled she is, (no need to boost his ego) so she decides to remove her necklace to prevent her hands from fiddling with it.
She hears the door to her suite open, and a few seconds later he calls her name, but her back is to him as he enters the sitting area. She finishes removing the necklace and sets it aside before turning to face him.
With a coy smile, she breathes, "So you're the famous author, Richard Castle?" and Wow . . . She's suddenly staring into eyes bluer than a bed of blue hydrangeas and look kinder and gentler than Mother Teresa.
She's taken back by his obvious admiration of her beauty. His pupils dilate and his mouth falls slightly open as his eyes rake over her face and he looks so adorably dumbstruck that she can't help teasing, "Cat got your tongue, Mister Castle?"
"No," he smirks and reaches for her polished hand. "Just a little surprised the rumors about your beauty AREN'T quite true."
Her eyebrow quirks as the laughter bubbles up and over, spiraling out of her chest, and she's surprisingly pleased the man is as smooth-as-his-voice.
"Well, I certainly haven't heard that line before. I have to give you props for the most original way to introduce yourself."
"'Originality' is my middle name. It comes naturally with the Writer territory."
"Mmm, a playboy author who happens to live with his mother and dote on his daughter? . . . I just may have to agree, - you have 'originality' written all over you."
"Now, I'm flattered." He flashes her a, 'I'm-going-to-have-the-time-of-my-life-making-you-my-next-conquest,' smile. "I see you've been doing your homework on me."
Did she actually let that slip? She'll never live it down if he finds out she's a fan.
Her eyes scan over to the end table where his latest Derek Storm novel resides. "My body guard, Esposito," she informs him, "thought it might be a good idea to know a little about you before we met."
"He's a smart man."
"Yes. . . Among other things," and she tempers a grin thinking the author would get a kick out of learning Esposito's a homicide Detective.
"I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."
The sincerity in his tone seeps through her skin and draws goosebumps along her flesh.
"Did I have a choice, Cas-sle?" she purrs, slipping easily into Diamond's persona, enjoying the effect she's having on him.
"You always have a choice."
"Not in certain situations," flies out of her mouth before she thinks about it and then she silently berates herself for raising his curiosity about her personal life.
She can't handle another complication in her life right now. . . Especially one of the 6 foot 2, blue-eyed kind.
"Would you like a drink?" she asks, needing to put some distance between her and his massively broad chest and masculine thighs and the undeniable aura of, 'I-can-bring-a-woman-to-ecstasy-in-less-than-five-minutes-flat'.
She walks over to the bar and takes a deep breath, pulling out the Italian merlot and with a resounding 'pop', removes the cork and pours the red liquid into a champagne glass, hoping her slightly-shaky fingers are hidden from view.
"No, I'll get right down to business," he says firmly and she sighs in gratitude because the sooner this meeting's over, the better.
She's not used to feeling this frazzled, upended in her own territory, especially by a man.
"Please do," she replies and sips delicately at the wine, noticing his eyes are pulled to her lips.
"I understand you only service high-profile clientele."
"Yes, or rather," she chuckles softly, "the men believe themselves to be high-profile."
"How does one make an appointment with you?"
"You're here, aren't you?" and she shakes her head from side to side, a growing smirk glistening her lips at the eagerness in his voice. "So you already know the answer to that question."
His laugh is full, boisterous and lights up his smoky-blue eyes. . . She believes they just might be the most beautiful eyes she's ever seen before on a man.
"I had to jump through hoops and practically sell my soul to get a meeting with you."
Her answering smile is natural with just a hint of flirtatiousness. "Most men do."
She directs him to a high-back leather chair, far enough away that his European cologne isn't distracting her and yet, close enough so she can read him easily and possibly tease him mercilessly. "Please have a seat."
As she sits across from him, his eyes noticeably drop to her legs, and she finds herself curious about whether he's a leg or breast man. She allows the slit in the front of her dress to open sinfully, exposing 80% of her thigh and with a seductive, 'I-know-exactly-how-I'm-affecting-you' smile, crosses one leg over the other, swinging the crossed leg temptingly towards him.
The croak in his voice as well as umm, the delightful, growing problem in his pants, tells her he's more of a leg man.
"How long have you been in the business?"
"I'm still considered to be green, so not very long," skirting particulars that she doesn't want generally known.
"As you know, I'm starting a new novel and my heroine is trying to get into the business. . . How should I approach her becoming a 'high-class call girl'?"
She cringes at the term, 'call girl,' bloody well hates it, and it must show in her appearance as the author immediately apologizes. "Forgive me. I believe the correct term is 'high-end Escort'."
She smothers the notion that he might even be sexier when he's remorseful.
"It's not like you apply for the job, you have to be invited."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you have to impress someone, possibly audition for the role?"
He's gazing at her as if she's a rare piece of artwork. . . Titian's "Venus of Urbino" comes to mind as his eyes trail over her form.
"Something like that," she chuckles, hoping to short-circuit the electricity in the room. "I was on the streets for awhile, barely making it, worried how I'd last another day and then, thank God, someone with authority noticed my potential and recommended me for the position."
"Interesting. So I gather this 'person of authority' saved your life?"
"In a manner, yes."
"If you're willing, I'd love to hear more about him or her."
"Sorry, no. My past isn't an open book and I intend to keep it that way."
She won't allow a probing author with a face as appealing as George Clooney, and a body that puts Bruce Willis to shame, to try and unbury all the juicy tidbits of her past.
Ryan's insight filters through her thoughts. "What you need, Diamond, is a good, gentle, successful man who's still in touch with his inner child. One who can value you for who you truly are and not just focus on the sex symbol you portray."
She'd laughingly told him that that man didn't exist in the entire state of New York, and this author sitting across from her certainly doesn't fall into the category. . . At least, she won't allow herself the chance to get to know him enough to find out.
"Understood," Castle said sincerely. "How do your regular clients contact you?"
"An ad in the personal section of The Times."
"Is it true you don't have a cell phone?"
"Correct. Cell phones are easily traced and anonymity in this business is crucial to success."
More like crucial to staying alive, but she isn't willing to divulge that information.
"Is it too personal a question to ask how much you charge?"
She knew the question was coming, - expected it even, - but with him asking all devilishly, with wicked bright eyes, she can't help but respond in kind.
"You can't afford me, Writerboy," she hums, swinging her crossed leg back and forth, purposefully ruffling his, 'I'm-a-bad-man-in-this-business-suit', pant leg with her strappy toe.
A rush of heat slides to her loins as he openly ogles her from toe to head, - starting with her delicate ankles, up along her shins, thighs, curvaceous hips, flat abs, and settling on the soft mounds of her breasts.
Jesus, she can practically feel the pads of his fingers caressing her flesh while he systematically undresses her with his eyes.
His full lips, no doubt born to kiss, start at a self-satisfied smirk and then grow into an over-the-top-egotistical grin, man-pride oozing from his outrageous smile. As his eyes finally drag up from the twin peaks and land on hers, she senses what he's going to say.
"I never pay for intimacy, Diamond. . . I excel at giving pleasure to a willing woman."
Fuck, this man is good, and how the hell does he make his voice sound straight out of a porno film?
She tugs on her lower lip, pulling the plumpness into her mouth, wondering what lengths he'll go to, to try and bed her.
She's mesmerized as he reaches out and sweeps away a lock of her mid-length hair, twirling the curl delicately between his fingers before placing the loose strand behind her ear. She feels the heat radiating from his fingers, expects him to caress the outer shell of her ear, or swipe down the smooth line of her neck but disappointingly so, his touch never finds her flesh.
His eyes darken to a rough midnight hue as he restrains himself from touching her, focuses on her nibbling.
"I only seduce a woman who can appreciate my unique, unselfish skills in the bedroom. . . If you're ever interested in learning about real pleasure, give me a call. I'd be more than happy to share my talents with you."
It impales her then, like a Gladiator's battle sword, the utterly dangerous man Richard Castle could be to her. . .
She's used to being in control, commandeering the situation, only letting a man close enough to skim the surface but never letting him get under her skin.
Somehow, almost instantaneously, this way-too-handsome-for-his-own-good-author with a devil-may-care attitude, is clawing into her flesh with every husk of his voice and fevered glance, giving her the clear impression she'd enjoy every minute of it, of him, if she'd only let her guard down and relinquish the reins.
That's NEVER going to happen.
She has a strict code, one she lives by religiously, and this man, whose torrid gaze is piercing her soul, trying to ignite a fire within her that has long since been dormant, is not going to break her.
No man ever has, or EVER will.
"I have to say, the rumors about you, Richard Castle," and her face fills with disappointment, lips down turning softly in displeasure, "seem to be grossly true."