Desperate Measures

by Linda Cajio

  Joe grinned. It was intriguing to know the elegant jet-setter liked something as simple as roller skating. Her body movements were naturally graceful, with a sexiness that left him breathless. Unfortunately, he’d been the cause of embarrassment for her, and he doubted if she appreciated it. He certainly wouldn’t if the situation had been reversed.

  Still, she was his only hope.

  “Dammit,” Joe cursed out loud, as a wave of guilt at using Ellen washed through him. But he hadn’t spent years building Carlini Foods to where it was to have some punk like Mario pull it down. He knew he couldn’t do anything until he had absolute proof of Mario’s treachery. As much as he hated to admit it, a roller skating rink hadn’t been such a crazy choice for a secret meeting. The place had the friendliness of a neighborhood stoop and the anonymity of a subway station. Two people could meet and chat without anyone thinking it odd.…

  But he’d violated the anonymity part with Ellen.

  He had to fix that, and very soon. Ellen Kitteridge was surprising and puzzling, he mused. On the outside she was serene and poised. Yet he had glimpsed yet again today the fire inside her.

  He had to see her again. He had to prove to her that he wasn’t a nut. He also needed an edge with Mario, and he had a feeling she could provide it.

  Ellen Kitteridge gave him an edge all right, Joe thought, smiling.

  And in more ways than one.

  One week later, Ellen stood on the orchestra stage in front of hundreds of people at the Four Seasons Hotel and smiled stiffly at Joe Carlini. The heat of anger and embarrassment flushed her cheeks as she accepted the oversized check from him.

  “As chief executive officer of Carlini Foods,” he announced into the microphone, “I am pleased to make this donation to Graduate Hospital.”

  “On behalf of the Graduate Hospital Fund-raising Committee, I thank you very much,” she said, forcing herself to offer her hand for the traditional handshake. Her fury and humiliation deepened as she thought of her “fortune-hunter” theory.

  His strong fingers closed around hers, and the now familiar reaction to him burned through her body. Camera flashes popped and applause filled the room.

  “You stinker,” Ellen added succinctly through the din.

  His jaw dropped in astonishment. “What?”

  “You heard me.” She pulled her hand away and, turning around, walked briskly off the stage.

  Lettice was waiting at the front of the stairs. “Very nicely done.”

  Ellen shoved the check into her grandmother’s hands. “Very forcibly done, you mean.”

  Lettice shrugged. “He insisted on you accepting it. It’s a very sizable and much needed check. He seems nice enough—no visible warts at any rate. What else could we do without making a fuss?”

  “That’s the first rule of the Kitteridges, isn’t it?” Ellen said, her voice as dry as the Gobi desert. “Never make a fuss when being humiliated in front of everyone.”

  She walked away, leaving her grandmother staring after her.

  “Is the check too small?” Joe asked as he appeared alongside her.

  “No, and you damn well know it,” she said, giving him an angry glance. To her disbelief, her brain registered how attractively his tuxedo fit his leanly muscled frame. The music began again, and she continued along the edge of the dance floor, determined to collect her things and get to her car as fast as she could. She wanted … needed to get away from him.

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re very emotional?” he asked.

  She whirled around on him, oblivious to witnesses. “I’m not emotional!”

  “Could have fooled me,” he said, looking pointedly at the people surrounding them.

  “Right.” She took his elbow and dragged him onto the dance floor. As he put his arm around her back, she kept a foot of space between them. She willed herself to ignore the hot rush that thundered through her body at his touch. His eyes held a knowing look. She could ignore that too. Smiling sweetly as they began to dance, she added, “Please excuse me if I step on your toes. I plan to frequently.”

  “And I just gave you a check.”

  “To prove you were exactly who you said you were. But did you have to do it so publicly? A letter on company stationery or a newspaper article with your picture or even a case of romano cheese would have done just as well.” She stared up at him, resisting the urge to smack his handsome face. “But you insisted on giving the check here at the dance and only to me. I’m not even a member of the committee! And I certainly don’t want my picture in the paper, and now it will be. And I don’t want people talking about me, and now they are. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “When I blow it, I do a bang-up job. Look, Ellen, I’m really sorry. I honestly thought you would appreciate the donation and realize I’m not a nut.”

  “You’ll have a hard time proving it by me.” She sighed in resignation. “I suppose, though, it isn’t entirely your fault. I’m not sure why I should suppose that, but I do.”

  “I promise I’m not crazy, and I don’t have ‘things’ about people, so do you think you can stretch your imagination just a little further and help me?” he asked, swinging her around in time to the music.

  “I guess I better.” She smiled slightly. “Lord knows what you’ll do next time.”

  “I’m a desperate man,” he agreed.

  She admitted that he was a man, at least. Very much one. His tuxedo jacket fit his broad shoulders perfectly and emphasized his lean waist and hips. Even with the space between them, she could feel the heat from his body. Her own body was responding with the growing urge to move closer, to touch hip to hip, breast to chest.…

  “I’m better off the skates,” he said in a low voice.

  She swallowed. “It just takes some practice.”

  His gaze lowered, taking in her dress. The long bodice of burgundy lace clung to her breasts and hips, and the calf-length cream taffeta skirt was tucked up on one side by a cluster of burgundy roses. “You’re very beautiful in that dress. At first I thought I was seeing more than I should.”

  “It’s an illusion,” she murmured, her resistance melting at his intimate tone.

  Words seemed inappropriate after that. He pulled her closer, until her breasts were touching his chest. Her nipples began to throb at the feel of a hard, muscular chest. His thighs brushed hers, rubbing her skirt against her sheer silk stockings. Her veins were filled with hot syrup.…

  She realized how much danger she was in and immediately stepped out of his arms. “I have to go home now.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he volunteered.

  “I’m fine.”

  He took her arm and steered her off the dance floor. “I’ll walk you. Besides, you’ve just agreed to help me, and we need to discuss that.”

  His expression dared her to argue with him. She didn’t, knowing it would be futile. Anyway, she thought in disgust, if she argued with him, the newspaper columnist here tonight would probably print it word for word.

  They were silent until they were outside and the doorman had called for her car. Joe guided her away into the shadows for a little privacy while they waited. She pulled her coat tighter around her body, grateful for the cool air. It would keep her head clear, and her internal temperature down.

  “How am I supposed to help you?” she asked briskly.

  “Let me explain my problem first,” he said, his own voice businesslike. “Carlini Foods is a family-owned and run business, and although we went national three years ago, we haven’t changed much from when my great-grandfather started the company. Mario, the guy from the rink, really is my cousin. He was hired a few years ago and as a family member was put in a position of some trust. But very reluctantly. He’s always been a little too wild. I have good reason to suspect he’s trying to sell our tomato-sauce recipe.”

  Ellen froze. “Did you say sauce?”

  Joe nodded. “Yes. Ma
ma Carlini’s Homestyle Italian Sauce, to be exact.”

  She felt as if the shadows were closing in on her. “I don’t believe it. You pester and humiliate me for a sauce recipe?”

  Joe snorted. “I didn’t pester, and I said I was sorry. Ellen, it’s a sauce recipe that’s worth millions.”

  She gasped. “Of dollars?”

  “Food is big business. Our sauce has a quarter of the national market, and it’s the cornerstone of the company. As I said, Mario was given some trust, and he has access to a quarter of the sauce processing, and therefore a quarter of the recipe itself. Three other family members each have another quarter. Only my father, as past CEO, and myself know the entire recipe and processing. And there’s just one written copy that is kept in my office safe. We’re tighter than the Coca-Cola people.”

  “I would guess so,” Ellen murmured, awed by all the secrecy for a sauce recipe.

  Joe let out a long breath. “At least I thought we were secure, until I overheard a piece of Mario’s phone conversation with someone last week. He offered to sell the recipe. I’m damned if I know how he got it, but I’m not surprised he’d sell it. He always needs money, more than his salary and stock dividends pay. To say he likes his lifestyle expensive is an understatement. And he’s found out borrowing money from the company is impossible. If he manages to sell the recipe to a big food conglomerate, they could produce the sauce more cheaply, and that would put us out of business very quickly. I’m telling you more than I’ve told my own father, but I have to stop Mario.”

  “Can’t you just fire him?” she asked. “Surely you have cause.”

  “I have to have solid proof. That’s the problem with a family business. You can’t fire someone on suspicion. Can you tell me anything you might have noticed about him that day? If he talked to anyone, handed something to anyone?”

  Millions of dollars, she thought absently, as she realized what her excessive caution might have caused. Joe was trying to save his family from ruin, and she had nearly blocked him. She concentrated on that morning at the rink. “I did see him talking to a man when I was getting my skates off. I remember them because, besides me, they were the only ones who weren’t at least looking toward your … exit.”

  He made a face. “Just talking? He didn’t give him anything?”

  “Well, no, not that I could see.”

  “And the man. Can you describe him?”

  “Dark hair, I think.” She shrugged helplessly. “Very average. I mean, nothing stood out about him. I feel foolish about being so stubborn the other day. Telling it now, there really isn’t anything even a nut could use.”

  Joe chuckled. “Actually, more than you think. At least he met with somebody while I was occupied.”

  She giggled, thinking of how he had flown out the door with the greatest of ease. “If I had known there would be a pop quiz, I would have studied harder.”

  “Would you know the other man if you saw him again?”

  “I suppose,” she began, unsure. “I think so.”

  He smiled. “If I find out my cousin is meeting someone again, would you be willing to help me one more time?”

  She wanted desperately to say no. Joe Carlini was dangerous to her. She could feel it with her every helpless response to him. But she just couldn’t shake the idea that she might be contributing to the theft of millions of dollars if she didn’t.

  “I guess I owe you something,” she finally said, grinning at him.

  “I promise to make it worth your while,” he said.

  His head bent suddenly, and he captured her mouth in a kiss, taking her by complete surprise. It started out as a kiss of gratitude, but quickly changed to one that sent pleasure and alarm spreading through her body. The conflicting emotions swirled through her senses with equal intensity, stilling any protest.

  His kiss was like fire, she thought dimly. Hot and sweet and drugging all at the same time. She found herself opening her mouth to his, even as her arms crept around his shoulders. Her hands delighted in the feel of strong muscles beneath the expensive material. Her tongue dueled with his until the air was roaring in her ears. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. Not … perfection.

  Suddenly he lifted his head. “Your car’s here, Ellen.”

  His matter-of-fact words halted the wild spinning, and she crashed back to earth.

  She straightened, opening her mouth to tell him that couldn’t happen again.

  He set his finger against her lips, stopping her before she started her lecture. “Don’t. It was just a kiss.”

  She stared at him. If that was just a kiss, then he’d obviously never heard of a volcano. She certainly felt like one about to erupt. Dammit, why had she ever agreed to help him? She prayed he never heard another thing about his cousin.

  She fought the urge to throw herself back into his arms when he took her elbow to escort her to her car. She decided Ellen Kitteridge was synonymous with “Big Dummy.” She didn’t know whether to run away in fear or scream in frustration.

  Instead, she got in her car and drove home.

  Three

  “Atlantic City!”

  Ellen gasped into the telephone. It was only noon on the day after the dance, and Joe expected her just to hop into the car and go to Atlantic City with him? He was crazy. And she must have been insane to have agreed to help him.

  “I’ve discovered Mario is going down to the Palace tonight,” he said. “He gambles there, but I have a feeling it’s for more than—”

  “Joe,” she interrupted, trying to get as much steel as possible into her voice, “I know I said I would help you if I could, but I cannot go to Atlantic City with you!”

  “It’s just for an evening, Ellen. You might catch a glimpse of the person Mario was with at the rink.”

  She smiled thinly. “Now I’ve been wondering how that would help. After all, even if it was the same person, how could you find out who he is?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Joe said, patience clear in his voice. “If I could get a look at him, I might be able to trace him. I know you’re not thrilled about this.…”

  That was an understatement if she had ever heard one.

  “… but I promise to be a good boy and to spot you twenty dollars for the slot machines.”

  She chuckled. Still, the Palace was a hotel … with rooms … and they would be together.…

  “Does it have to be Atlantic City? I mean, can’t we wait until he goes to the rink again?”

  “You just want to see me fall flat on my face, don’t you?”

  “It’s tempting.”

  “Look, Atlantic City is only a couple of hours away. You’ll have a nice evening of dinner and gambling, with some looking around in between.”

  She hesitated. She had called her lawyer for some background on Joe Carlini. After all, she had reasoned, she had a right to know. But she had been surprised at the sudden enthusiasm from her normally unflappable counselor. It seemed that Joe had taken Carlini Foods, a thriving regional company, and made it national three years ago when he had become CEO. The company had already acquired five percent of the overall national market, which was evidently some kind of food miracle, and the sauce in question had over twenty percent of the tomato-sauce market. Joe had also brought out a line of gourmet Italian sauces and pasta that had found markets in specialty stores. He was credited with building up Carlini Foods until it was practically a blue-chip investment.

  No wonder he was desperate to keep all that safe.

  “Ell?”

  She swallowed at the way he had shortened her name. It held an intimacy that she’d never heard before—from anyone.

  “All right,” she finally said. “But just an evening in Atlantic City. If your cousin’s planning to leave from there for New York or Boston or anywhere else north, south, east, or west, you are on your own. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. I’ll pick you up about two.”

  “Two! But that’s the middle of the afternoon!” />
  “It takes a couple of hours to get there, and I think it would be better if we were already there and settled in when he arrived.”

  She gripped the phone tightly. Unfortunately, his plan made sense. “Fine. Two.”

  “Not only are you beautiful, but you’re a great human being, Ellen.”

  “And you,” she said dryly, “are a great soft-soaper, Mr. Carlini.”

  “I’m never soft when I’m around you. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  He hung up before she could get her mouth open to say anything, including “good-bye.”

  “Great,” she muttered, setting the receiver down in its cradle. She wondered if she had imagined that sudden intimate turn to his voice—or the way he seemed to be talking about something entirely different than she.

  If she wasn’t imagining things, then she would have to correct any mistaken impression he might have about her. Okay, so his mouth had created a firestorm in her, and his arms had felt so right around her. She was an adult who could control her reactions. She’d help him this one time, and that was it.

  No more Ms. Nice Guy, Ellen sternly told herself. She’d been Ms. Nice Guy in Europe. She decided she’d better tell her grandmother about her “date” this evening.

  Now that, she thought, groaning silently, would be interesting.

  As he steered his Mercedes through the heavy afternoon traffic on the Atlantic City expressway, Joe sneaked yet another glance at the woman sitting in the passenger seat.

  Ellen Kitteridge looked as if she were made for his car. She had an elegance that suited the butter-rich tan leather interior. She wore a cream silk shirt and matching skirt. Her only jewelry was gold button earrings and a single, delicate gold chain nestled under the shirt’s lapels. Yet he could easily believe she was once a princess.

  “When I was a kid,” he said, wanting to dispel the tense silence between them, “we always used to go down the shore. Mostly to Wildwood. What about you?”