Femme Fatale
"Why do our keycards have the same room number?" she asks, stepping off the elevator onto the top floor of the Buffalo Thunder hotel.
"Maybe because we're in the same room," he says as if it were obvious.
She slows her tread. "So you got us…one room?"
He stops in front of a glossy pair of doors at the end of the hall.
"One suite," he corrects. The apprehension in her chest eases. "Which means one room for each of us and a shared living space," he announces, pushing the doors open with a flourish once the lock blinks green.
Sunlight spills through a wall of windows, illuminating a huge area that's ornamented with upscale Southwestern decor and furnishings.
Everything is a tapestry of warm browns, burnt reds, and sunset oranges, accessorized by cacti and agave plants in hand-painted ceramic pottery. There's even an adobe-style fireplace and one wall is a vibrant mural of Native American artwork.
It's mind-blowingly gorgeous and incredibly intimidating, her senses overwhelmed.
"You rich or something?" she jokes.
"Well, I'm nowhere near James Patterson rich, but I do okay," he responds with a playful grin, heading toward a set of doors on the left.
"Castle, this is really extravagant. Are you sure you can afford it?"
He dumps his blood red duffle on his bed with a long-suffering sigh.
"I'm not going to re-litigate this, Beckett. Please stop worrying about the cost and for that matter, worrying about anything at all. End of discussion."
He forcefully unzips his bag to punctuate his point and effectively close the subject.
"I'm gonna take a dip in the pool. You should come. It'll be a good way to cool down and take your mind off of things," he suggests.
She enters her own room on the right, throwing her saddlebag over a chair. "I'm exhausted. I think I'd rather take a nap."
"No better place than poolside. And you can work on your tan."
Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip, biting back a smirk. "You're working really hard to see me in a swimsuit."
He pops out of his room, a pair of swim trunks in hand, toting a devilish grin.
"If you're not comfortable in a swimsuit, you can just skinny dip."
He claims a cabana with two chaise loungers and puts in a request for two Tom Collins with one of the pool attendants. Beckett had said she might join him, and he was feeling optimistic.
Ever since the call with his mother, she's been more relaxed and receptive. He never imagined she'd go so far as to kiss him (albeit on the cheek) for a silly little drawing. But he'd sketch her a thousand more if it would achieve the same result.
Kisses from Kate Beckett were like shots of espresso, jolting him to his core and waking up parts of himself he didn't know were sleeping.
It surprises him, the effect she can have on him. He's not sure he's felt anything like it before.
He and Kyra couldn't keep their hands off each other, but there wasn't this…he doesn't know what to name it, the effortless way he and Kate can communicate in sync (when she's not actively shutting him out), their conversations a choreographed dance he already seems to know by heart, whether it's a zesty tango, a light-hearted quickstep, or a graceful waltz.
And maybe Kyra was more influenced by her parent's disapproval of him than she let on. Even though he proved he wasn't going to end up homeless or teaching at a third-rate college in New Hampshire like her mother predicted, her family still didn't think much of his character, believing him to be a reckless and over-the-top thrill seeker who only cared about chasing the next big thing. He was just another carouser, fallible to the hedonistic behavior that accompanied the twin demons of fame and fortune.
He thought Kyra knew him better than that, that she would never give into such aspersions, but it's the only conclusion that makes sense, the only conclusion that explains why she started to pull away from him the more attention he got from press publications, society rags, and tabloids. But she never expressed her concerns, and he didn't push because he was afraid of ruining a good thing (or what he thought was a good thing anyway).
He breaks out of his reverie when the pool attendant reappears with his drink orders on a tray.
He palms over a cash tip and murmurs a thank you as he takes a sip of his Tom Collins and proceeds to choke on it when he spots the mirage of Kate Beckett in a swimsuit.
Or whatever you call the brownish-green ensemble clinging to her svelte figure, revealing miles and miles of skin.
She walks toward him as if in slow motion, an absolute vision, all long arms and legs. A sheer pashmina is knotted around her waist and she's done something with her hair so that it's slicked back. It looks like she's about to participate in a bikini shoot for Vogue. His brain is short-circuiting, and the only thought in his head is that she's going to be the death of him.
He quickly busies himself with applying some sunscreen, so he has something else to occupy his mind; an attempt to restrain himself from openly ogling at her. He's twisting and turning, trying to reach his back when she enters the cabana, a couple towels in hand and a tote bag slung over her shoulder.
"Need help, Writer Boy?"
He unwinds from his uncomfortable contortion. "Yes," he says, quick and eager. Shit. Too quick and eager.
She snorts lightly.
Busted.
"Think you can restrain yourself?" she asks while setting her things down on the available lounger and plucking the sunscreen from his grasp.
He nods, not trusting himself to speak. She's offering to rub lotion on him. He cannot screw this up.
"Turn," she instructs and he obeys without question.
He hears the splutter of cream exit the tube, and then, nimble fingers are pressing firmly and smoothly over his back, distributing the sunblock in an even smear. He seizes slightly at her chill touch.
"Cold hands. Cold hands!" he yelps.
She removes contact.
"This is a limited-time offer," she says.
"Maybe if you just rub them together for a second…"
"Take it, or leave it," she says, impatient.
He's screwing it up.
"I'll take it," he dashes out. "Please?" he adds for good measure.
An amused huff from her, and then, the return of her cool hands, coating him in lotion, methodical and precise. So methodical and precise, she's done in less than a minute. He'd find it impressive, if he weren't so disappointed by the fact that the entire affair was over way too soon. Because, despite the initial nip of frost, her careful ministrations have a pleasant warmth fizzing in his veins, something about the whole exchange, tender and intimate.
"Happy to return the favor," he says, as even-keeled as possible.
She chews her lip, contemplating. Holy hell. She's contemplating it.
"Okay, but just the upper back. I can reach the rest. And no—"
"—inappropriate commentary, I know. I assure you, my lips are sealed."
He definitely cannot screw this up.
"Turn," he instructs, all business. She obliges with a suppressed laugh and gives him an unobstructed view of her back, which he can only describe as an alabaster work of art.
He tries to copy her methodical precision while he massages the cream in (he really does), but he gets sidetracked by the sharp wings of her shoulder blades, the peaks and valleys; the oblique curvatures, as if carved from marble. His thumbs skim over them in reverence, utterly in thrall of her.
"Castle?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you done?"
She swivels, facing him, and his gaze automatically drops to her chest.
"Uh, yeah," he says lamely. Swallows. "Sure you don't need help with the front?"
She smacks him upside the head, but there's no bite to it. More of a light swat.
"You never learn, do you?"
"Can't blame a guy for trying."
She pokes a finger into his sternum, putting distance between them.
"Eyes back in their sockets, Cowboy."
After waiting around fifteen minutes for the sunscreen to properly set and downing his Tom Collins, he's taking a running leap and cannonballing into the deep end of the pool, a huge wall of water splashing out in his wake.
When he surfaces, Kate's patting herself dry with a towel.
"Oh, did I get you?" he asks innocently.
"You are so getting it for that."
"Does that mean you're coming in?" he asks with a challenging grin, treading water.
"Depends. Think I'm clear for swimming, Doc?" she asks, sticking out her ankle.
"Lemme see," he says, making his way toward her like a spellbound sailor lured by the song of a siren.
She meets him at the pool ledge, bunching up her pashmina and using it as a buffer between her and the hot ground as she slips her legs in the water, half-in, half out. While he props himself against the pool wall, she lifts her left foot for him and he examines it with a meticulous eye. The swelling's all gone, and the green splotches have transmuted into a web of blue. Progress, he thinks.
He cradles her heel, gently adding some compression.
"That hurt?"
She blanches slightly, sucking air through her teeth.
"Barely," she grits out.
"Liar."
"I'm a big girl. It's fine," she says, dismissive.
"Kate," he chides softly. "You should be wearing your brace."
He's unable to decipher her expression, and he doesn't have time to work it out before he's suddenly being pushed underwater.
He fights to resurface, and after a brief struggle, he's able to break for air, gasping and choking. He gawps at her, stunned.
"Now we're even," she simpers.
"I could've died!" he exclaims, hacking a cough.
"That's absurd," she guffaws, "What, can't hold your breath for two measly seconds, Big Rick?"
He combs a hand through his wet hair. "I'll have you know that I can hold my breath for a very long time," he says, indignant. Then, inordinately pleased, "Also, thank you for calling me Big Rick."
"You're hysterical," she deadpans.
He puffs up his chest. "I bet you I can swim from one end of the pool to the other without coming up for air once."
Her eyebrows quirk with intrigue. "What're you betting?"
"Pride," he suggests. "Or clothing," he tacks on, mischievously.
The golden flecks in her eyes beam bright with amusement.
"Tell you what. You make it all in one go, and I'll give you the gummy bears in my bag."
He gasps. "You've been keeping gummy bears from me?"
"I'm simply looking out for your dental health."
"Your concern is touching." He raises his pinky. "But you've got yourself a deal."
She loops her pinky around his, squeezing confirmation, and his heart skips a beat.
He swims to the far end of the pool and pauses to deliberate. It's not Olympic-size or anything. Maybe ten yards in length. Not insurmountable but definitely a feat. Back and forth. One breath. He can do it. He can.
But what if he makes a fool of himself?
He glances at her, hesitant, and she throws up her hands.
"What're you waiting for? Chicken?" she jeers.
Right. Okay. It's time to prove his mettle. His masculinity is at stake after all. That's why he's doing this. Yeah. Definitely nothing to do with the fact that Kate Beckett has him hook, line, and sinker, and he'll try practically anything if he thinks it'll impress her.
"Those gummy bears are mine!" he shouts.
And then, he takes a huge gulp of air, submerges, and propels himself forward with a purposeful breast stroke. He completes one length with little trouble, but his lungs are burning by the time he's halfway through the second. He pumps his arms and legs harder. C'mon. Almost there.
And—
He bursts up in a spray of water, panting heavily as he hungrily guzzles the sweet, sweet taste of fresh oxygen.
He hears a hollering cheer and turns toward her, pumping his fist and grinning widely.
"Told you—"
But his blaze of glory is cut short by the trumpeting sound of his ringtone. Like a forest animal alerted by the crack of a twig, Beckett immediately absconds from her perch and guns for the cabana.
He swims over and quickly hauls himself out of the pool, water splattering onto the pavement as she picks up the call.
"Hello?" she asks, filled with breathless hope in one moment, and dejectedly deflating, the next. "No, yeah. You have the right number. He's right here. Just a second." She covers the receiver. "Colleen for you?"
"My publisher," he explains.
She hands him the phone and a towel. He wipes his face and puts the cell up to his ear.
"Well, if it isn't the queen of my castle," he gushes.
She launches a gummy bear in his direction and he darts his mouth open like a PEZ dispenser, expertly catching the sweet treat.
"Nice," she stage-whispers.
He flashes her a boyish grin as he chews, half-listening to Colleen.
"You like the outline?" he asks, perking up.
She tilts her head in question, mouthing, Outline?
But he ignores her, avoiding her gaze as he rises to his feet and makes a swift exit from the cabana, presumably in search of a place where he can't be overheard.
An uneasy feeling roils in her gut. What was that about?
She follows his trek around the pool, observing closely. Only to realize she's not the only one with her eye on him. Other women (and a few men) are shooting him appreciative glances. Maybe it's the low, seductive timbre of his voice or more likely, the display of his fine form, but it's like he's switched on an inner magnetic force, drawing everyone to him.
A pair of twenty-something girls in skimpy bikinis even go so far as to wave coquettishly at him, and disconcertingly, he offers them a little wave back. They erupt into a fit of giggles.
Ugh.
But she doesn't care. She doesn't. It's not like he belongs to her.
He finishes his loop as he wraps up his call.
"Gina, you are one of a kind. Thank you," he intones, warm and inviting. One of a kind, huh? Next thing, he'll be calling her extraordinary. "Yeah. Talk soon. Bye."
He snaps his cell shut and looks up at her with a satisfied smile.
"Who's Gina?" she immediately asks.
He blinks. "Colleen's assistant. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," she says quickly. Shit. Too quickly. "You just seem awfully friendly with each other is all."
"Jealous?"
Busted.
She bristles. "Why would I be jealous? By all means, flirt with whomever you want. The more, the merrier."
"It is unbelievably attractive when you use correct grammar."
"What's this about an outline?" she accuses, deliberately switching tack.
"Oh, nothing."
"It's not nothing." She narrows her eyes in scrutiny. "This wouldn't have anything to do with a so-called book character you're loosely basing on me, would it?"
"You know, some things are private. I'm not what you call a sharer when it comes to my writing," he says.
"You think you're real funny, don't you?" she huffs.
"Not so fun being on the outside, is it?"
She flips him off, not appreciating any of the irony. Not one little bit.
"But I will tell you this—" he says, winding up for a big reveal.
She crosses her arms, feigning indifference.
"Colleen said I'm projected to reach a million units sold within the next week."
She sizzles with shock, unable to maintain nonchalance. A million?
"Shut the front door."
He chatters excitedly as they walk back to their suite.
"And she wants to arrange a book signing for me to mark the occasion and generate some press," he says, "She said that if things keep going on like this, and my next book brings in similar numbers, they're gonna start grooming me to be their very own in-house Michael Connelly."
"That's amazing," she says earnestly.
"I told them I'm traveling on Route 66 and they suggested setting it up in Chicago for next Friday. Usually they recommend three weeks to properly explore the Route, but we're already almost half-way through and I think we can get a lot done in a week and a half."
"You keep saying we like I've already agreed to come with you."
"I'm confident I'll be able to persuade you, Motorcycle Girl," he boasts.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Because we are going out tonight," he says, opening the doors to their suite.
"Going out?" she asks, her pulse racing.
"To celebrate. You know, paint the town red. Have a ball. Let loose," he clarifies. But that doesn't stop the arrhythmic thumping of her heart. Especially when he gets a far-off look in his eye like he's planning something diabolical.
"What are you plotting?"
"Do you have anything nice to wear? Like a dress or…?"
She responds with a glare.
"Right. No dress. That's okay. I'll figure something out."
"Castle," she says in a warning tone. What is he up to?
"Why don't you take your nap? I'll wake you up when it's time." He snags the bag from the art market off the coffee table, holding it out to her. "Don't forget your dream-catcher."
Hold on. Back up.
"Time for what?"
A Cheshire smile curls over his lips.
"You'll see."
xxx
A/N: An alternative title for this chapter was To Love and Die in Santa Fe ;)
Disclaimer: The Buffalo Thunder hotel didn't exist until 2008, but since this is an AU, let's say it opened in 1998.