“Did you see what he put me in?” the anchorwoman screeched, struggling against Ryan and Esposito’s strong arms. “Every single time! And he wouldn’t listen! Oh no, he knew best, and apparently that meant making me out to look like I'm fifty. Fifty! I'm thirty four, for heaven’s sake! Well, I showed him ... he won’t be doing that to anyone else!”

The entire TV studio watched, mouths open, as she was dragged out, protesting wildly that she had been fully justified in sending the CableNews’ stylist to the great newsroom in the sky as he tried to persuade her that lace and pink ruffles did go together, and would enhance her natural red hair while she reported on the latest unemployment figures.

She might have gotten away with it, too, except she’d started to wear things that could only be described as slinky, showing her assets and making the weatherman sweat profusely.

“That’s what happens when you upset creative types,” Castle said, sighing dramatically. “Push too far, and they just go off the rails.”

“Creative types?” Beckett looked at him. “You mean like you?”

“Exactly.”

“So if I push too far you’re going to hit me over the head with a hot iron?”

“Not my style.” He looked smug. “I’d just kill you in print.”

“Really.”

“Besides, I know what I look good in.” The smugness factor increased. “I’ve been voted best dressed man in the city four times, you know.”

“Only four? I'd have thought you’d consider that a failure.” She walked out of the TV studio, heading down the long corridor towards daylight and freedom. “Besides, didn’t you have a stylist? You had an interior designer.”

“Didn’t need one,” Castle asserted, quickening his pace so he was next to her. “I’ve got Alexis – she’s really good at knowing what works for me. And of course my mother is always happy to give her opinion.”

“Your mother?”

A flash of multiple animal prints – all worn at the same time – sprinted across his mind. “Yes, well, I think that’s more a case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’.” He shrugged. “And believe me, I’ve got a lot of failures in my wardrobe.”

“Like what?”

“Polo neck sweaters. Hand-knitted Peruvian vests.” He shuddered. “Flares.”

Beckett was having a hard time keeping a straight face, her imagination throwing up an image of Castle in just such an outfit all too easily. “I'm sure you looked ... dashing.”

“You’re never going to find out.” Mischief bloomed. “Unless you’d like to come back to my place and go through my wardrobe with me. I’d let you dress me.” His eyebrows were working overtime.

“No, thank you.” She pushed the door open and stepped into the winter sunshine.

“Then I could do the same for you,” he said, following her like a faithful cocker spaniel.

She looked down at her outfit of choice this morning, at the multiple shades of brown, the jacket that had fitted somehow better on the hanger than it did on her, the chocolate rollneck, the blanket coat ... “What’s wrong with what I'm wearing?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he said, holding up his hands in self defence. “If you like it, that’s fine.”

“I do,” she asserted. “I wouldn’t wear it otherwise.”

“Then that’s fine. Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.” He looked around the car park, his lips pursed. “Only, you know, if you like I could take you shopping. My treat.” Then he yelped, grabbing his arm where she’d pinched him.

“I don't need your help to dress myself, Castle,” she hissed, glaring at him.

“No, okay, I can see that.” He rubbed his arm. “And can you not do that?” he added. “I bruise easily.”

“Okay.” She moved past him, ‘accidentally’ treading on his toe instead.

He limped along behind, probably concentrating too much on the ache in his foot to stop his mouth from running away with him. “I was only suggesting something a bit more feminine,” he muttered. “Something softer, more colour–” He jerked to a halt, Beckett having spun on her heel to face him.

“Do you really want to finish that sentence?” she demanded, her hand hovering very close to the gun at her waist.

“No. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips shut and throwing away the key.

“Good.” She turned back towards the cars, seeing the boys finally getting the murderer into the back of the black and white. “Because I’d hate to have to do the paperwork if I shot you. And we have a confession to take.”

He nodded, his eyes drifting to her backside as she strode confidently in front of him, wishing the coat wasn't quite so shapeless. Maybe he could kill her stylist. Now that would be justifiable homicide …