His heart stops when he sees her.

Of course he's heard about Diamond's beauty, lustrous as her name, with glossy streaks of thick hair, fascinating eyes that seem to change color in different lighting, with a killer body worth more than a 5-carat jewel, - but catching a glimpse of those legs that look like she's trained at the New York City Ballet Company and an ass that's as hard as her name, he actually stumbles, finds himself pitching forward as he thinks if her face comes anywhere near matching her body, he's done for.

His eyes follow her voluptuous form walking away from him in the ultramarine dress, her skin practically translucent as the fabric hugs the feminine curve of her hips and the smooth line of her ass, making his groin jump at the realization that she's not wearing anything underneath, not even a slutty thong.

The concierge, a short, blond man with hints of Irish heritage, is looking at him like he's seen this reaction a thousand times before and with a she's-way-outta-your-league-grin relays, "You've got twenty minutes with her before her bodyguard," he nods towards a Hispanic man with bulging muscles and an even bigger bulge under his jacket, (hiding what Castle speculates is a hefty Glock) "interrupts and makes sure payment is given for services rendered."

"Twenty minutes, huh?" Castle asks, figuring even an hour with her wouldn't be enough to satisfy him.

"Believe me when I say most men don't need that long."

"I can only imagine. Thanks for the heads-up concerning her Beefcake Bodyguard," and then he's strolling towards the unnerving man, holding his steely gaze, black eyes drilling holes into his ruggedly-handsome face.

Rick extends his hand and genuinely smiles, speaking in what he hopes is a gentlemanly manner. "I'm Rick Castle here to meet with the infamous Diamond."

The man doesn't reach for his hand but cooly checks him over, raking his eyes down his tall frame, sizing him up, evaluating how fast he can bring him down if it becomes necessary.

"Don't try anything with her," he warns, "or you won't like the consequences."

Rick holds his hands up in surrender, a teasing smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Don't worry. I promise she'll stay as virtuous as she is right now. I only have a few questions for her."

The way the man glares at him clearly states that he isn't impressed with a namby-pamby author who used his celebrity status to finagle his way into his boss' life.

"Questions only," he reiterates before growling, "Follow me."

Rick kept up with the man, meeting stride for stride, as he escorted him down a plush, deserted hallway.

The hispanic nods his head towards Room 117 and then takes position outside the door, leaning back against the wall.

"She's ready for you," he drones, while folding his arms across his chest, leather jacket pulling taut across his abdomen, exposing a hint of gold.

It doesn't pass by the author's notice it could very well be an Officer's badge.

There's more going on here than what I was led to originally believe.

He looks at his reflection in the gilded mirror in the hallway and straightens his mauve Pancaldi tie before turning the handle to the suite.

It's dim inside the room. The blinds are drawn closed to keep the heat of the afternoon sun at bay. He sneaks a peek inside the posh restroom and notices Clive Christian perfume, Tracie Martyn face powder and what the hell?

He swallows nervously as there's a thigh holster lying near the sink.

He calls out, "Diamond?" making her aware of his presence but when he walks into the sitting room area her back is turned to him as she removes a delicate chain from around her neck, a wedding band dangling from it.

He gazes at her graceful back, the long, lean lines of muscle that have been contoured due to hours of yoga, the thin but muscular arms which tell him she can easily defend herself and he's transfixed, watching her carefully remove the necklace.

She turns to him, a coy smile lighting her features, and she breathes, "So you're the famous author, Richard Castle?" and then he's looking into the face of an exotic angel, exquisite bone-structure, prominent cheek-bones, skin as pure as freshly fallen snow, eyelashes sweeping as gently as a butterfly's wing, lips that look as soft and kissable as a baby's.

"Cat got your tongue, Mister Castle?"

His body immediately responds to the sensuality in her tone, her voice purring with undertones of, 'I like to be fucked senseless.'

"No," he smirks and reaches for her polished hand. "Just a little surprised that the rumors about your beauty aren't quite true."

As he clasps her hand in greeting, she quirks her eyebrow and laughs. A melodious sound which rumbles through his hand, ricochets across his chest and seems to pierce him straight through the heart.

"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 his best, I'd-love-to-see-you-stark-naked-writhing-beneath-me, smiles. "I see you've been doing your homework on me."

Her eyes scan over to the end table where his last 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."

A tinge of something (he refuses to believe it could be jealousy) stabs at his gut at the implication of her words.

"I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice."

"Did I have a choice, Cas-sle?" and the way she says his last name, all creamy smooth like room-temperature butter, has him imagining her saying it while entwined in heavenly silk sheets.

"You always have a choice."

"Not in certain situations."

Ahh, there's definitely a story here. This could very well take multiple meetings to pull out her secrets, and the thought alone has him fighting back his body's natural reaction to her.

"Would you like a drink?" She walks over to the bar and pulls out a bottle of expensive merlot; with a resounding 'pop', she removes the cork and pours the red liquid into a champagne glass.

How the hell does she make pouring a fine wine look even sexy? He grudgingly admits that this particular woman would make folding laundry look unbelievably hot.

"No, I'll get right down to business."

"Please do," and as she sips delicately at the wine, he can't seem to pull his eyes away from her tempting mouth.

"I understand you only service high-profile clientele."

"Yes, or rather," and 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. "So you already know the answer to that question."

His laugh is full, boisterous and lights up his smoky-blue eyes. "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."

Well, he certainly can't argue with her there.

"Please have a seat," and she directs him to a high-back leather chair. She gracefully sits across from him, sitting down in one fluid motion that simply mesmerizes him. His eyes gravitate to her shimmery dress as the slit in front opens to expose a sinfully long leg.

His fingers curl to prevent himself from reaching out and ghosting across her silken flesh. His lips purse together, trying to prevent himself from drooling when she crosses one glorious gam over the other.

An image of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct swirls to mind… Confident in her ability to leave any man a quivering mess of desire. There's a raw, sexual chemistry about Diamond that unnerves him as well as excites him like no other woman he's met before.

"How long have you been in the business?" he croaks, hoping that mini-Castle's growing enthusiasm doesn't offend her.

"I'm still considered to be green, so not very long."

She's certainly being as evasive as possible.

"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'?"

As her eyebrows draw together and a faint scowl spreads across her features, he immediately apologizes. "Forgive me. I believe the correct term is 'high-end Escort'."

"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?"

"Something like that," she chuckles and he believes he'll never tire of hearing her laugh. "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."

"Understood. How do your regular clients contact you?"

"An ad in the personal section of The Times."

"Is it true that you don't have a cell phone?"

"Correct. Cell phones are easily traced and anonymity in this business is crucial to success."

Beneath her words he easily interprets she's afraid of one or two of her (quote/unquote) upstanding clients and doesn't want them having knowledge about her whereabouts.

Clever girl.

Scratch that. She's a dangerously gorgeous, clever woman who has hidden information that beckons to the writer in him.

Who's he kidding? Everything about her beckons to the man in him.

"Is it too personal a question to ask how much you charge?"

Her grin's mischievous and if he had to describe it to anyone else, he would've said, 'downright dirty' as well.

"You can't afford me, Writerboy," she hums, knowing exactly how she's affecting him as she swings her crossed leg back and forth, the toe of her four inch strappy heel ruffling his dress pants.

He clears his throat before ogling her from toe to head, starting with her delicate ankles, up along her thin shins, magnificent thighs, curvaceous hips, flat abs, and settling on the soft mounds of her breasts.

His lips start at a self-satisfied smirk and then grow into an over-the-top-egotistical grin, like he's just won the lottery or better yet, the Nobel peace prize.

His eyes finally drag up from the twin peaks and land on her green orbs, murky in their intensity as she openly studies him.

"I never pay for intimacy, Diamond," and his voice deepens, scraping along his vocal chords. "I excel at giving pleasure to a willing woman."

He watches in fascination as she tugs on her lower lip, pulling the plumpness into her lush mouth.

He can't stop himself from reaching out and sweeping away a lock of her mid-length hair, twirling the curl delicately between his fingers before placing the loose strand behind her ear. He's careful not to touch any portion of her skin, - the outer shell of her ear, or the dainty freckle that resides just below her ear, or the sexy Marilyn Monroe mole on her left cheek which seems to be calling his name, - afraid that if he touches her, even just barely skims her skin, he'll never be able to stop.

His eyes darken to a midnight blue as he 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."

"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."

Shit, he blew it. He's overstepped his bounds.

As he loses himself in the colorful depths of her eyes, the thought crosses his mind that he may have just met the one woman who's resistant to his charms, the one woman who'll make him earn the prize, and he determines right then and there, that Diamond will not be the one woman to slip away through his fingers.