“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’.”