I wrote this story a while ago; if you are a writing buddy, you may have already read it in email form. I've changed it around a little. It gets a bit steamy, therefore is rated M.

Prompt:
Jealous Beckett, old flame who's her equal intellectually and physically. AU.

Exotic Dances for the Reluctant Beginner

November 16, 2010, 12th Precinct

This being mid-November, Kate was slipping her heavy blue overcoat on, and her mood was as gray as the weather. Adding to her irritation, Castle was begging. For her. To do something... fun.

"Oh, come on, Beckett, this will be..."

"If it's so much fun already, why do you want me to come?"

"Because my mother's got a cold, Alexis has a biology midterm, and I don't want to have to beat a bunch of overheated fangirls off with a stick."

Beckett arched an eyebrow at him. "If this is what your Tuesday evenings are like, I suppose your Fridays are an outright nightmare."

Castle's face flamed. "Perhaps that wasn't the best wording, but... please?"

"I don't have anything to wear."

"Last time you said that you wound up wearing red." He smiled at the memory. Now it was Kate's turn to blush. "Just wear a nice LBD. Something you can dance in. You'll be fine."

"Little blue dashiki?"

"Little black... wait, so, you're actually coming?"

"Okay, Castle. You've been following me around for, what, two years now?"

Castle pouted. "It's only been since March 2009, off and on." Stupidest summer ever.

"Somehow feels like longer. If the press is going to be throwing my photo up on Page 6, I might as well give them something to look at other than, "Cop wears nothing but blue latex gloves and Burberry."

Castle tilted his head. "Nothing?"

"In your nightmares."

He smirked. "I don't know about that..."

They rode down in the elevator. He said, "Want to share a cab?"

She shook her head. "I need to pick something up on the way."

Like an emergency mani-pedi, a new lipstick, and a big, thick slice of courage. Her hands were already sweating.

•

Beckett's Apartment, 7 p.m

Castle was on time, as usual, and she was running slightly late. She'd let her hair grow out in layers over the summer, and was struggling with the last little wisps of her chignon. She hurried to the door, still in her stocking feet, to find him looking way too relaxed in a three-piece suit. "I'm sorry, I just..."

He looked down at her, charmed at how she went from sexy-intimidating to adorable-sexy with such a minor adjustment as going barefoot and wearing a lavender terry bathrobe.

He said, "No worries, we don't even have to be there till 7:45." She stood there hesitating, wondering whether she should let him in. He looked down at his feet: polished Italian shoes. Then he looked down at hers. She hadn't put stockings on yet. Her toenails had been painted fire-engine red; her fingernails didn't match them, but were rather a subtle, iridescent shell pink. He thought, "Your fingernails say you are all lady. Your toes tell another story." He said, "Just close the door and I'll stand out here like an idiot, waiting."

"Oh! God. Come on in." She scurried back to the bathroom, gesturing at the kitchen. "You know where the wine is? Sorry, I didn't have time to let it breathe..."

Apparently, she was a little out of breath herself. He smirked. "I don't know, should I get started before we even get there?"

She shot him such a look of panic that he said, "Pinot grigio it is, then." He didn't even wait for her to say yes.

"So who's the benefit for?" she called out. She was putting in pearl drop earrings.

"Dance Folklyrico. It's an ensemble troupe that teaches under-served kids."

Beckett smiled out of the bathroom at him, her hair still askew, then ducked her head back inside. "Folk dance? Really?"

"Teaches appreciation for melody, coordination, plus every dance offers opportunity for hand holding and other nonviolent social interaction." He thought, "You could use a few sessions yourself." He said, "May I approach?" and held up a half-filled glass of wine.

Beckett called out "All right, just behave yourself."

"Always," he said. He knocked on the door frame, just in case, and handed her the half-glass of wine he'd poured. "Wouldn't do to show up tipsy at such an event."

She said, "Good point. Thanks. So much better than half-empty." She took a sip and smiled appreciatively.

"I really appreciate this, Beckett."

She nodded into the mirror. "Sure." Still fixing her hair. She frowned, taking out the pins. "Maybe I should just wear it down."

"If you want it up, I'm something of an expert with this. Hair."

She rolled her eyes. "Really."

"Well, for one thing, I was dragged along with Mother's summer stock troupes a few times as a kid. Had to pitch in on everything from sweeping the stage, costume changes, touch-up paint, to hairdressing... Also I think Alexis went to at least thirty Princess Mermaid Pony birthday parties over the course of her childhood. So there were updos."

"Epic, I take it?"

"One had butterflies. May I?"

"All right." She took a sip of her wine. "No butterflies." She had enough of those in her stomach. She didn't know they were planning to do a duet with the butterflies in his stomach.

He turned her toward the mirror and cracked his voice into a Fairy Godmother trill. "Now, sit on your little vanity chair and close your eyes."

She was immediately suspicious. "Why?"

"Never trust anyone who tells you to trust them. But it's more fun to be surprised than to stand there criticizing every little move I make, right? And if you hate it, you can just take out the pins and wear it down. It's a no-lose proposition."

She sipped a little more wine and sat down. "Good point. Just watch where you put your hands if you want to keep them."

"Agreed." He took her last hairpins out and set them aside, then brushed her hair. She rarely went to the salon, and only for coloring, although she'd gotten a lot of head-shakes and grimaces from exasperated hairdressers. (Ok: truth be told? Kate Beckett cut her own hair more often than not. All she needed was two mirrors, a comb, and a good pair of barber shears, and it beat constantly having to make and break appointments. Last time she'd gotten a little overzealous with the layering.) Nobody else had brushed her hair in years. Castle steadied her temple gently with his left hand, and ran the brush through in long, loving, sweeping strokes. It felt sensual, decadent. She sighed, feeling the wine course through her veins, feeling the warmth of his body, not touching but just behind her. She wondered how it would feel to have that hand glide down her neck, down her shoulder...

But he took his hand away, using both to tease her hair very slightly at the top. She said ruefully, "Every time I try to rat my hair, it just ends up looking... ratted."

"It's something of an art form," he agreed. He made a twist at the nape of her neck, then folded it up vertically under a pocket of looser hair, doubled it and pinned it in place as he went, topping it with a smooth little coil. "Hair spray?"

"Haven't used it in years."

"Do you have any?"

"It's under the sink." Stealing a peek at her hair in the mirror, she bent over, her bottom bumping him slightly. He fought the urge to bump it right back, with a good deal more gusto. She caught his startled look and crouched down.

"Oops. Sorry," they both said. He stepped back, she rummaged and produced a can of cheap hair spray that sported a little bit of rust on the bottom rim.

"'Industrial Strength Agua-Nette'? I love this stuff," he chuckled. He gave her a light misting, smoothing the stray hairs. "And if you get hit by a car, it decreases your chance of concussion by 20 percent."

"Really?"

"Absolutely, it's right here on the label." He pointed at the fine print.

Faking naïve curiosity, she turned to look, and pretended to read. "You're right. 'Helmet hair guaranteed'. Now I feel safe."

He laughed. She elbowed him gently then stared at the mirror. He held up the hand mirror and spun her to look at the back. "See?"

"I look like my mother," she said quietly.

He looked at her for a long, serious moment. "No doubt she'd be proud to hear you say that," he replied, and held up his glass, a quiet toast, a small sip. She did the same, then gestured down at herself. "I need to dress."

"I'll just wait..." he said. "Out there."

"Yes. You will."

She closed the door, dressed quickly, put on her strappy black stilettos, and stepped out. The dress was navy blue, slinky, with a deep sweetheart neckline and long sleeves. There was enough wire in her merry widow corset/bra to carry power to the entirety of Manhattan, and it was uncomfortable but probably worth the pain, judging by the expression of mixed pride and longing on his face when she emerged.

She looked at the mirror again. "I feel like it needs something."

He thought, "I feel like it needs to be torn off your body and discarded on the way to your couch. No, maybe the dining table." He didn't say that out loud. He murmured, "It's perfect."

"No," she frowned. She went to her jewelry box and produced a pearl necklace. "Here. Very Jackie O, but the clasp is sort of impossible."

"Pearl necklace," his brain conjured up an image too obscene to mention, and he said, "Let me help you with that." He could tell from her innocent expression that this slang was a phrase with which she was not familiar, and oh God. Did he want to explain it to her in juicy detail? Yes he did.

He poured himself just a little more wine. She came to him, held out the necklace, turned her back to him. He placed it carefully around her neck, enjoying its weight as it settled and draped against her collar bones. The clasp was gold, and tiny, and he had to lean in closely to fasten it with fingers that felt too thick and clumsy. She felt his breath warm on the back of her neck, and it was all she could do to keep from turning, kissing him, making him late for his stupid benefit or make him miss it altogether. She could tell from his expression that he had a thing for pearls. She wondered if he actually just had a thing for her, but she knew how it was with Castle and women.

•

Terpsichorean Theater, Just off Broadway, 7:45 p.m.

The Dance Folklyrico benefit was actually quite lovely. It was more low-key than a red carpet, held at the Terpsichorian, a restored art deco theatre just two blocks from Broadway. They stood around in the lobby eating tapas and drinking sparkling Cava, schmoozing with other donors and guests.

Castle told her quietly, "Go for the stuffed mushrooms. The bruschetta's basically salsa on toast."

Kate nodded and whispered, "Good to know."

Castle was working the crowd with Kate at his side, talking up the benefits of social interaction, the scholarships for promising dancers, the sister programs with local youth orchestras and chamber groups, the letters of recommendation and the need for deeper pockets to support the students and their art. Beckett watched, seeing a side she hadn't noticed at the last benefit they'd attended. That night, she'd been too busy looking for a murderer. She hadn't been looking closely at Richard Castle, Author: this cultured gentleman, truly in his element. She felt suddenly intimidated. How could she ever fit into a world like this? Seized with awkwardness, she hung back on the sidelines, examining the Terpsichorian's collection of vintage live-theatre posters. One featured the great theatrical diva, Cecilia Jeffries, starring in Sweet Charity. Looking closer at the lobby cards, Kate noticed a young Martha Rodgers in a supporting role. The poster was from 1968, years before Kate was born.

A tall, elegant woman, maybe in her seventies, noticed Kate absorbed in the posters. She looked Kate up and down. "Perhaps you are a dancer?" she smiled.

Kate shook her head. "No, I took a few years' ballet as a girl, but I turned out to be more of a tomboy. I still do Pilates, though."

The lady inclined her head. "Keep at it, Darling. It suits you." A young man in a tux approached her and said. "Dame Cecilia, it's time to head to our seats."

Dame Cecilia nodded, then smiled at Kate. "If you'll excuse us. I don't move as nimbly as I used to." She took her escort's arm and leaned gracefully on him as he walked her slowly into the auditorium.

After the hors d'oeuvres, they went in to the main auditorium for the performances. Beckett noticed Dame Cecilia, seated in the handicapped section, surrounded by admirers hoping for autographs, which she signed with a radiant smile.

Beckett smirked and nudged Castle, murmuring, "She's not signing anybody's boobs."

"She used to sign things a bit lower down," he winked. Kate's eyes went wide, scandalized.

He whispered, "My mom knew her back in the 60s before they both moved up out of the chorus. She was quite the party animal."

"You're no gentleman," Kate tried to hide a smile with a scowl. "Gossiping like that."

Castle grinned. "It's not gossip. You should read her memoirs. Dame Cecilia's no lady, in the classic definition of the term." He paused. "On the other hand, she's a truly great human being."

Since he was a principal donor, Castle had to go backstage for a bit before the performance. He said, "I'll meet you at our seats, so keep it warm for me?"

Beckett's eyes shifted. "I'll just set it on fire so you can find me in the dark," she smirked.

He looked just slightly scandalized, and leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Not in a crowded theater, Beckett." The usher guided Beckett to the front row, next to the house-right center aisle seat. While the orchestra tuned up, she looked through the program: ten different dance troupes, eleven different styles of dance from traditional ethnic to ballet and hip-hop. The finale was to be a tango, featuring professional dancers who had graduated college through scholarships offered by the organization.

The orchestra was made of up middle-schoolers up through college students, all dressed in black and white, their serious faces deep in concentration. Kate braced herself for an evening of cacaphonic misery, but was pleasantly surprised by the skilled players, who seemed to magically pull themselves together when Dame Cecelia and her escort walked onto the stage. She bowed to applause, and spoke into the microphone.

"Good evening, everyone, and thank you so much for coming out to support Dance Folklyrica. We serve thousands of children throughout the New York State public school system, after-school programs, and even home-schoolers. We bring dance to the children, and children to the dance. Tonight's eclectic range of performances will showcase dances from all over the world, performed both by beginners and, as a special treat, a consummate professional tango choreographer. We hope that, afterwards, you will stay and join in your choice of simple dance lessons. Thank you so much for supporting the scholarships for Dance Folklyrica. We know that this show is a shameless ploy to invite you to give even more." The audience chuckled, and she gave a broad wink. "We trust you will find yourself inspired to do so. And now, Ladies and gentlemen, Boys and Girls, and every possible variation thereof, please welcome: the Queens After School KinderCare program, taught by Ms. Jennifer Hollis, performing 'El Colas'."

Dame Cecilia and her escort left the stage as a gaggle of kindergarteners in bright clothing came bouncing in, boys in pristine white and girls in bright, full-skirted, flower-like dresses. After settling into formation, the orchestra started up, and the children performed an interwoven dance from Mexico, holding hands, twirling, stomping their tiny feet. It wasn't the cutest thing Kate had ever seen, but she had seen Alexis Castle holding a kitten at some point, so it was tough competition. This was followed by a troupe of tween girls, doing an Irish jig and reel, their curly wigs bouncing, embroidered dresses sparkling, smiles coached to perfection and frozen on their glitter-glossed lips.

Castle returned to sit with Kate then, guided in by an usher during applause. He tested the seat carefully with his hand. "Not too cold," he whispered.

She grinned over at him. "There was a fangirl. I beat her off with a stick."

"Thanks." He sat and applauded with the rest of the audience as a troupe of middle school girls in kimonos came onstage. They performed a dance with the Japanese fan, snapping them, flirting with them, posing and bowing. Then came some high-school-age boys, Morris dancing, banging the flat blades of blunted swords, then interweaving them into a star. As the performances continued, they became more and more sophisticated, more and more rousing, with each troupe introduced and allowed their bows. For the last dance performance, the stage went dark a moment, and the announcer's voice came up over the PA: "Due to injury, graduate Amy Wrighton is unable to perform tonight. The finale will be performed by graduate Alvin Summers, dancing with a special surprise guest. Please give a warm welcome to virtuosa Selma Cortez."

The lights came up slowly, spotlit in cold blue and purple, to reveal a woman standing alone.

Kate heard Castle let out an odd little sigh of anxiety, but it was too dark to make out his expression. She turned her attention to the stage. Selma Cortez was of medium height, exquisitely beautiful, supple and curvy. Spirals of her curly black hair escaping a loose bun. She wore a draped, white-gold 1930s-style dress, in layers of bias-cut, translucent silk chiffon that set off her olive skin, and her T-strapped shoes sparkled with rhinestones. At the stage's edge, an accordion started up softly, was joined by a piano, upright bass and a drum. Cortez moved with feline grace, acting out a grief and loneliness that somehow brought a lump to Kate's throat. A young, slim man appeared out of the shadows, in a loose white shirt and high-waisted tight pants. The light grew warmer, in hues of red and gold, as he circled around her, first tentatively and then with greater boldness, and their dance became a tango, the dancers moving back and forth, pressing close then pulling away, her leg wrapped around his hip as he dragged her across the floor.

Kate watched, rapt. It was incredibly sexy, probably too sexy for this mixed-age audience. Selma Cortez wasn't wearing much in the way of a bra, and with her back to him, Alvin's long hands slid along the silk of her bodice, actually over her breasts, leaving her already-erect nipples obviously hard; her red lips formed an O then widened into a joyful, lascivious smile. She whipped around to face him, he dragged her back, and the two dancers pressed together in a near-kiss. Kate crossed one of her legs over the other, leaning forward slightly in her chair, lips slightly parted. She felt the pressure of her silk panties against her sex, and breath caught in her throat. Castle watched her sidelong, the golden light caressing her exquisite face, her eyes dark beneath thick lashes. Her back arched slightly. He wondered what would happen if he were to take her hand, or put his own on the small of her back, but he restrained himself.

If Castle were the kind of man who talked at the theater, he would probably have said the wrong thing at that moment, something like "So is this what gets you hot, Beckett?" But he knew better, shut up, and just watched Kate sidelong as Alvin laid Selma back in his arms, worshiping her lithe form, their motions alternately sharp and savage, then languorous, then building to an almost orgasmic surge of motion. Kate felt an insistent throb between her legs, as intense as if she'd been watching a love scene, or reading one in a book. The pas de deux went on just a little longer, then a chorus of other dancers joined them on the stage, the ensemble clearly choreographed where only a moment before, the dancing couple had seemed so very intimate, so spontaneous. Kate sat back, a little relieved, and the tingling at her core abated. The ensemble finished the dance, with the starring couple at center, and there was a thunder of applause. The entire audience stood and clapped for about five minutes as each troupe bounded or bounced or sashayed onstage, loudest of all for the tiniest child dancers, and finally for the orchestra.

Dame Cecilia returned to stage right. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for your support and for joining us tonight. We'd like you all to take this opportunity to try some delicious desserts donated by Evelyn Rose Patisserie, join us for coffee or hot chocolate, and meet the dancers and musicians whose hard work and dedication have made this program so successful. And, if you care to, join us for an impromptu dance lesson – we'll have short sessions starting in ten minutes..."

Castle arose and offered Kate his arm. "I got to be on the dessert selection committee. You really do need to try the rosepetal-pomegranate cheesecake."

"Sounds great," Kate said. She felt oddly vulnerable, too visible. The evening was coming to an end, and this was feeling more like a date than she had anticipated or agreed to. She arose, but didn't take his arm. "I think I can make it up the aisle on my own."

"I'm sure you can," he said, but she saw a flash of hurt in his eyes.

She hesitated, realizing she was probably making too much of it. "On the other hand, you can probably use a bodyguard." She let him take her elbow then, and he cupped his hand around it, his thumb just grazing the sensitive skin on the inside. She felt that touch through the silky knit of her dress and throughout her nervous system, and it set her on fire. Then she looked up and saw a lush red kiss print on his left cheek.

"Really, Castle?"

"What?"

"Looks like you ran a gauntlet through the Bloomingdale's cosmetics counter." She sniffed. "Plus, you smell like Poisson du Mer."

He touched his face, baffled, then panic and embarrassment did a tango across his face. His eyes closed, exasperated. "You mean Sîren du Mer? That was Selma. I meant to tell you..."

"Oh, you know her?"

He hesitated. "I knew her."

Kate said, "Knew her as in..."

The open expression of his face shut down a little, and he ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Like that," Castle said. "She was lead dancer in Evita. Mother had a part, I was working summer stock as a grip. Then her partner had to bow out."

"Isn't it something of a leap to put you onstage?"

"I was tall and fit the tuxedo. Believe me, I wasn't much of a dancer before that, but her partner... well, I heard he pulled a groin muscle."

"Whose?"

Castle blushed. "Katherine Beckett! I... look, okay, you're absolutely right. She, uh, gave me dancing lessons."

Seeing Beckett's look, he added quietly, "Perhaps some of those lessons were more horizontal than vertical. But it was intensive. We spent a lot of time together."

"I bet you did." They came out into the brightly lit lobby, now crowded not only with guests and patrons, but proud dancers, still sweaty, excited to meet their audience and, in most cases, eat cookies.

"We became pretty good friends. I did all right on stage, we finished out the tour, moved on to other things, and we've barely seen one another since. Sherry?" Castle grabbed two tiny glasses of golden cordial off a tray. Kate shook her head no. "It's dry. You'll like it."

Kate took the glass, glowering, but didn't drink. Castle grabbed a dessert plate. "There's a lot of really good stuff here, do you mind sharing?"

"I'd really rather not..." Kate didn't want to finish the sentence. "I'd rather not touch anything that goes near those extremely busy lips of yours."

"Oh, come on, Beckett," He said something quietly to the waiter, and the waiter nodded, disappearing into a side room. "Live a little."

Castle grabbed a dessert fork and placed three treats on his plate: a little triangle of pinkish cheesecake, a yellow petite four garnished with lemon zest, and a bite-sized cup of crème brulee in a chocolate shell. "These are so good, the top shatters like ice and turns to caramel in your mouth."

Kate thought about what it would be like to have him shatter like ice and turn to caramel in her mouth. That sounded much too attractive, and she was much too angry. She glared at that crème brulee the way a nun stares at a go-go dancer: disapproval for an invitation to stray from the path of righteous indignation.

Castle was still trying to get her to lighten up. "Ever played with a kitchen blowtorch, Kate? Fastest s'mores ever..."

Kate said sourly, "You have quite a full plate, there."

Rick withheld an exasperated sigh. "Look, I'm obligated to stay here a little while longer, but if you want to go early, I can call you a town car."

Kate was about to say yes when a woman's voice, soft-rough as suede and accented, called out "Oh, Ricardo, there you are!"

Selma had changed out of her dance clothes and removed the thick theatrical makeup, but was still somewhat under-dressed in her sparkly T-strap dance shoes, a floaty transparent lace top, fitted black camisole, and metallic purple leggings. She was even more beautiful up close, although Beckett was surprised to realize the dancer was older than Rick by over a decade. In her coils of hair, long, un-dyed silver threads snaked amongst the ebony. Speaking of snakes, Selma ran to Castle gracefully, her breasts bouncing, grasped his face between her hands, and gave him a fervent kiss on each cheek. He hugged her back, still balancing the plate and fork but trying not to upset the desserts, and Kate did a save of the utensils. He didn't give Selma a lift-up-and-twirl sort of hug, which Kate found somewhat gratifying. Castle patted Selma's sculpted shoulder. "Finally a proper hello."

Kate downed her glass of sherry.

Castle said, "Selma, I'm so sorry I didn't get time to talk with you backstage... I didn't know you'd..."

Selma's accent was adorable – maybe Portuguese, maybe Spanish. "It's ok, Sweetie, I just blew into town. I was gonna see the show, then it turn out poor Amy sprain her ankle during rehearsal today." She looked genuinely regretful, shook her head, then she and Rick said it simultaneously, sing-songing: "That what happen when we don' warm uu-up." They both laughed gently.

Beckett would have thought it cute if she hadn't already wanted to rip Selma's head off. She thought, "What in hell is wrong with me?" She forced a smile that, from the corner of his eye, struck Rick more as the baring of wolf's teeth.

He stepped from Selma and gestured toward Kate. "Kate Beckett, this is Selma Cortez. Selma, this is Kate Beckett, my partner."

He said it so easily. Kate reached out a hand, a smile frozen on her face. "Work partner. We work together. As partners." She grabbed Rick's glass of sherry, toasted him sardonically, and downed that as well.

Selma looked Kate up and down, appraising as Cecilia had done. "Rick, you're still dancing? Or is this your editor..." she stopped. "Oh, no, that was Geneva."

"Gina. No, Kate is an officer with the local police. She's the best detective on the planet."
Kate's expression brightened a bit, even though he was flattering her shamelessly.

Selma looked politely intrigued. "Always something new with you, Ricardo," she grinned. Kate came to understand that calling him Ricardo was something of a joke. Selma said to Kate, "You ever dance with this big lug?"

Kate shook her head. "Only for work purposes."

At Selma's confused glance, Kate added, "Sometimes we go under cover. Pretend to be..." she found herself lost for words.

"Pretend to be lovers?" Selma arched an eyebrow. Her grin at Rick was plain to read: "You are losing your touch, Ricardo."

Rick smiled wanly. "Kate's a wonderful dancer."

"Nothing like you, of course," Kate added hastily, to Selma.

Selma shrugged. "If I could do anyt'ing else better, I would. My mama use to say I'm born in dancing shoes. Sometimes I wonder, maybe I could be great chef. Maybe rocket scientist. When I retire." She stopped a passing tray ("Essacuse me, darling" to the waiter, with a gorgeous smile) and grabbed a crème brulee, popped it into her mouth, and her eyes rolling back, she made an absolutely sinful groan. "MmmmMMMMMm ohhh, my God, if I could eat nothing but that the rest of my life..." Weirdly, Kate wondered what kind of noise Selma made in bed, and judging by Rick's blush, he already knew. Selma licked her finger and gave them both a wicked smile. "You two want to join dance lessons?"

Kate had just popped Rick's crème brulee into her own mouth, and was rolling the heavenly caramel, custard and chocolate around on her tongue. It was an awkward time to answer. Rick said, "Sure! Five minutes."

"Hokey-dokey," said Selma. "I see you two in the ballroom." Kate tried to pull back. Rick grabbed the fork and took a bite of the cheesecake. "This is amazing. You should try new things, Beckett. In the Castle household we have a one-bite rule."

"I'm not a member of the Castle household."

"You are tonight," he smiled. He looked beyond her to someone standing behind, in a little alcove, a shrine to theater mavens of the past. Alexis and Martha were there, and if Martha had a cold, there was no sign of it. Alexis was holding a tiny chocolate cake about the size of a hockey puck, exquisitely decorated, with a single candle sticking out. The candle was white, and when Martha lit the wick, its tiny flame brought tears to Kate's eyes.

Martha said quietly, "Happy birthday, Katherine."

•••