61. 63: Saturday

63

Despite his reassurances, Kate can tell that Alexis's leaving has cast a shadow over Castle's spirits. Maybe he just misses his daughter, maybe he's worried about her - knowing him, it's probably a combination of both - but he's been distracted all afternoon, didn't even flinch when their taxi almost crashed into another car on the way back.

They've hung around the house, gone to the pool, napped, and still he's a little forlorn, still he takes a few more seconds than he normally would to respond to any of her nudges.

She needs a plan.

Kate borrows his laptop under the pretense of checking her email, explores their options with her bottom lip curled between her teeth, her toes tracing patterns on his thigh. Castle is sitting at the other end of the couch, pretending to read; the book must not be that fascinating, because the last time he turned a page was a good fifteen minutes ago.

She finally makes her choice, glances at the time - almost six. A perfectly reasonable time to go to dinner, she thinks, and then-

She closes the laptop and gets up, stretching before she looks back at him. His eyes are on her bare legs, yes, but they lack the usual mischief, the spark in them.

She presses her lips together, considers, decides to leave him alone for now.

Kate heads for their bedroom, vaguely disappointed when he doesn't follow, goes for the closet anyway. She unpacked on the first day, as soon as they got here (well, as soon as he let her out of their bed, anyway), and she finds a strange satisfaction in seeing their clothes lying side by side on the wooden shelves. Even though half of Castle's stuff is still wrinkled in his suitcase.

Kate picks one of the dresses she hung up, a short, blue, shimmering thing that she may or may not have bought on purpose for this trip. She runs a hand over the silky fabric, presses the dress to her body, and smirks.

Perfect.

She showers, takes her time, washes her hair with the cherry shampoo that she still uses sometimes (but it's not for him, of course not). Then she does her makeup, stretched on tiptoe over the sink, almost surprised at the way she looks with mascara, eyeshadow, and eyeliner on.

She's only worn light make-up all the time they've been here, because they're always going into the water anyway, and it's summer, and Castle doesn't seem to care; so the Kate reflected in the mirror, with those smoky eyes that look even better against the gold of her tanned skin - she looks different, exotic. A stranger.

A sexy stranger, she'll give herself that.

Kate grins and puts the pencil back into her small case, steps into their bedroom again, thinking about shoes.

Heels. She needs heels tonight.

She kneels down and slides her suitcase out from under the bed, unzips it. She only brought one pair of heels with her, black and really, really high; just slipping her bare feet into them makes her feel powerful.

A bit funny, too, after a week of flats.

Hm. Castle's gonna love them.

She checks her reflection, musses up her still-damp hair because he told her once that he loves it when she looks a little wild. Dangerous. Dangerous is the word he used.

Okay. She's ready.

"Castle?" she calls, stepping back slowly before she turns to make her way into the living-room. He issues a non-committal sound that is apparently the only answer she's going to get.

"Let's go out tonight," she tells him just as he comes into sight, sagged into the couch, not even trying to read anymore. Suddenly the nickname White Whale takes a whole new meaning.

Not really that white anymore, granted.

He looks up but she can tell he's not paying attention, her outfit not registering. "I don't know, Kate," he says, flat and unconvinced. "I'd rather stay here, I think."

She takes a slow breath through her nose. "Castle."

He must hear the tinge of annoyance in her voice, because his eyes snap back to her, and this time he sees. He sees her.

He sits up in the couch, staring, mouth open. That's more like it.

"I'm going out tonight," she declares, emphasizing each word. She takes a leisurely, deliberate step, watches his eyes fixate on her legs, the provoking heels. "You're welcome to come with me, or stay here, Castle. Your choice."

He stumbles to his feet, his gaze never leaving her. "Coming," he says, somewhat breathlessly. "I'm coming."

She's so pleased she doesn't even care about the double entendre.

The Barefoot Iguana.

The name of the nightclub still makes Castle laugh, but he has to admit the place in itself is really cool. It's built like a cavern, but decorated like a forest, and the foliage that runs along the wall has almost taken over the small table Kate is sitting at.

He hands her one of the cocktails he just got at the bar, some exotic drink that the bartender, a nice guy called Wayo, mixed for them (secret recipe, he told Castle with a broad smile that made the writer slightly nervous) and sits down across from Kate.

She's truly gorgeous tonight, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, the make-up making her look a little more like Beckett - like the bad-ass detective who dances her way into nightclubs to arrest drug dealers, drives his Ferrari like there's no tomorrow.

He loves that, loves her, and if he's honest half the fun of seeing her like this is because he knows - is even intimate with - the other, softer side to her, the Kate who falls asleep curled into his chest, her face bare, her heart open to him (mostly open, getting there open).

She's extraordinary.

He lifts his glass and clinks it against hers, drinks in her smile, the way she moves her head in time with the music.

"I want to dance," she leans in to tell him, giving him a lovely view down her dress as she rests her weight on her elbows. He presses his lips to hers, quick and dirty, can feel the taste of the cocktail on her tongue.

Mmm, nice. Wayo obviously knows what he's doing.

"Let's dance, then," he tells her with a quirk of his eyebrows, and he knocks back the rest of the cocktail, can only tell the alcohol is there from the soft buzz in his blood. A smile dances on Kate's face, the lights from the dance floor painting her red, blue, green; there's not a single color that can make her less beautiful.

She takes a sip of the cocktail and sets it back on the table, gets to her feet while reaching for his hand. Their fingers tangle; he brushes his lips to the corner of her mouth, doesn't have to bend at all.

Sexy, sexy heels.

She leads him onto the dance floor, her hips swaying, so graceful, so elegant in everything she does. He could spend his whole life watching her.

Kate twirls back and circles an arm around his neck, her mouth flirting with his jaw, her body so close in that blue, shimmering dress that he just wants to take off of her. Has been wanting to take off of her for a while now. But then she undulates against him, a siren, irresistible, and he finds himself following, lets the music take over, guide his feet.

He's dancing in a Belizean nightclub, spinning Kate Beckett around, and as his heart pounds with the drums he realizes that this is exactly what he needed, the perfect way to keep Alexis's return to New York out of his mind.

He looks at Kate, and she looks back at him, breathless and enjoying herself, that glint of knowledge shimmering at the back of her eyes; he doesn't even care that there are people around, that there might even be paparazzi (following him in Belize, right, sure Castle). He just grabs her, pulls her against his chest, and he kisses her, invests the haven of her mouth with his gratitude.

Because she always knows what he needs.