Desperate Measures

by Linda Cajio

  “Can you get your money back?” she asked, from under the hat.

  “Naaa, it was a closeout sale,” he said, tucking his own hat under his arm. He lifted hers off her head and adjusted the headband straps inside. “Here. Try it now.”

  She put the hat back on. It fit perfectly. “This is wonderful. One size fits all egos and frustrates the pigeons at the same time.”

  “You’re in a good mood today,” he said, guiding her through the big double doors leading to the production offices. His hand at her waist was a serious attack on his senses. “Dare I think I’m the cause?”

  She laughed, but didn’t answer. Instead she changed the subject. “Those pictures I was looking at were very impressive. It’s a marvelous idea to show the company’s growth like that. Nobody would believe this big complex originally started in a home.”

  He nodded, stopping just on the other side of the doors. The quiet elegance of the reception area was replaced by the hum of voices and machines. He took two white smocks off a rack and handed one to her.

  “The photos were my aunt Teresa’s idea, when my father moved the company here to the Northeast in the fifties. We’ve expanded from one warehouse and processing plant to four, plus the executive offices. We have, my friend, production offices, loading docks, truck-scale sheds, guard shacks galore, a warehouse for raw materials, a warehouse for finished products, a credit-union building, cafeterias, rest rooms, locker rooms, quality control labs, research and development—”

  “Oh, my,” Ellen drawled.

  “Don’t interrupt me, I’m on a roll. Where was I?”

  “Rolling.”

  “Thank you. R and D. I said that already. A spice room, canning plant, separate kitchens for the sauces, pasta, soups, vegetables, bread crumbs, frozen entrees, and the fresh gourmet line. And lest I forget, a fishery room.”

  Ellen frowned on cue. “A fishery room? What’s that?”

  “That’s where they process the clams, calamari, and spine fish. I warn you now, it’s a room you’ll love to forget.”

  “Okay,” she said dubiously.

  “Then it’s showtime,” he said, putting on his hard hat.

  He took her everywhere and took great pride not only in showing her the entire operation, but in having her by his side. He had carefully planned their route so that they would arrive at one particular spot last. The other night had had too many interruptions, and he was taking no chances this time.

  As he escorted her around the various areas of Carlini Foods, he expected her interest to be only in the tomato sauce, yet she became excited with each aspect of the tour. She tested the tomatoes, and other raw vegetables for freshness, stared in wonder at the huge vats in the soup kitchen, tasted the bread crumbs just out of the oven, shivered in the frozen food plant to watch the processing, admired the gourmet meals with the appreciation of a connoisseur, and watched the smooth economy of the canning operation. She commented on the cleanliness of the plant and giggled at the male workers who wore hair and beard nets.

  In the spice room, she sniffed the air appreciatively. “It’s pungent, almost overwhelming. But it smells really good.”

  Joe nodded, still amazed at her enthusiasm. He never would have thought she would enjoy the tour this much. In fact, they were taking longer than he had anticipated. And they still had a way to go.

  He laughed when she walked unsuspecting into the fishery room and immediately walked out again.

  “Good Lord!” she exclaimed. “Now that’s pungent. What’s in there? Moby Dick?”

  “One would think so,” he agreed.

  “I’ll just watch from here,” she said, looking through the glass portal in the double doors.

  He had saved the sauce kitchen for next to last. He took her into the quality control lab room, got a little bowl out, and filled it with a couple of tablespoons of the current batch waiting to be taste tested.

  He set the bowl and a flat wooden spoon onto the stainless steel counter in front of her.

  “So this is it,” she said, eyeing the thick red sauce. Bits of tomato, onion, and spices swirled invitingly throughout.

  “This is it.”

  “Worth millions.”

  “Priceless, actually.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “Believe it.”

  Joe grinned as Ellen picked up the spoon and carefully tasted the sauce.

  She straightened and, with a mischievous glint in her eye, said, “Not bad.”

  “Not bad!” came a voice from behind her. “That’s great sauce, lady. Good solid flavor, fine texture, pleasing bouquet. The best batch we’ve ever made!”

  She turned around to find a young man grinning at them.

  Joe grinned back. Miguel Sanchez was the assistant foreman of the process vats, and he was continually fighting with the quality control people over the taste and feel of the sauces. “ ’Morning, Miguel. And all the sauce batches are the best ever according to you. You just want to get out of here by five.”

  Miguel laughed. “Hey, Mr. Carlini. Is this the new health inspector? If it is, I think I’m gonna enjoy inspections from now on.”

  “This,” Joe said in a warning tone, “is Ellen Kitteridge. And she is not the health inspector.”

  “It figures,” Miguel said. “No breaks for the working man.”

  “Ell, meet Miguel Sanchez, who’s just leaving,” Joe said, hinting blatantly.

  Ellen smiled at him and held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sanchez.”

  With a flourish the assistant foreman lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “A real pleasure, beautiful lady.”

  “Miguel thinks he’s the reincarnation of Don Juan,” Joe said, glaring at his employee. Miguel was a little too charming to suit him. “He’s going to be the reincarnation of an unemployed man if he doesn’t get back to work.”

  “Good-bye, lovely lady,” Miguel said, without blinking an eye. “I’ve got to go talk to my union rep about the lousy working conditions in this joint.”

  The young man strolled away. Ellen laughed. “He’s a character.”

  “He’s a something all right, but I like him anyway,” Joe said. Okay, so he was jealous, he thought. He was entitled. He turned to her. “To pick up where we were so rudely interrupted: What do you mean the sauce is ‘not bad’?”

  She smiled. “I mean the sauce is not bad, which is better than the sauce is not good.”

  “It’s great sauce!” Joe said, and proceeded to quote his assistant foreman. “Good solid flavor, fine texture, pleasing bouquet. The best batch we’ve ever made!”

  She laughed and licked the spoon again.

  Joe took the utensil out of her hand. “For ‘not bad’ sauce you seem to like it. You’ve licked the spoon clean.”

  “Caught, darn it,” she said, shaking her head. Then she grew serious. “It’s excellent, really.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am a little,” she admitted. “Does that make me a food snob?”

  “Probably, but don’t lose sleep over it,” he said, taking her arm.

  She visibly stiffened, as if jolted by lightning. Joe knew she had been. The shock of his own response to their touching was rocketing through him too. With her, it came out of nowhere, he thought. Unexpected and overwhelming. He was more than ready for their last stop.

  “Do you cook?” he asked, his voice hoarse. They had to talk about something, otherwise he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

  She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t pull away either. Finally she said, “I used to. Where are we going?”

  “The last stop,” he said, and led her toward their final destination on the tour.

  When they reached yet another set of wide double doors, he pushed them open, and they walked into a huge warehouse the size of two airplane hangars. As far as the eye could see were cardboard cases of bottled spaghetti sauce stacked in pallets six high. Forklifts whizzed in and out the open bay doors to their l
eft. Nobody seemed to notice them at all.

  “The Carlini fortune,” Joe said with pride.

  “Is all this sauce?” Ellen asked, staring in wonder at the sight before her.

  “In one form or another. This way.”

  He escorted her down the main aisle between the pallets until they were far from the noise and the workers. He turned right through a narrow passage between the tall stacks. Cases towered above her head. He turned right again down another passage and stopped. He spun her around, bringing her so close they were touching breast to chest, hip to hip, and thigh to thigh in the narrow space.

  “What’s back here?” Ellen asked. Her voice was breathless. She tried to edge away from him, but there was nowhere to edge to.

  Joe gazed down at her. The lunch whistle blew. Right on cue, he thought dimly, his mind and body succumbing to her presence. Her eyes were wide with anticipation and tension. The slim column of her neck was arched invitingly toward him. Her skin was impossibly silken, and her lips were flawlessly made. Why had he ever thought she wasn’t perfect? She was.

  He had lived through two days of torture for this moment. The tour had been a joy and an agony. He had planned their route to the finest detail, insuring that they would end up here, in the vast, darkened warehouse. Now he allowed himself to feel what he had been holding back since she first drove onto the premises. This time nothing was going to interrupt them.

  “You and I are alone back here, Ell,” he said.

  “Joe, I don’t know—”

  “I don’t know either,” he said, cupping her face in his hands. He pressed her back against the cases until her soft curves were crushed against his hard muscles. “But we’re going to find out. Now.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers.

  Seven

  Even as she clung to him, Ellen told herself she shouldn’t have come on the tour. She had known something like this would happen.

  Still, she couldn’t stop herself from responding to his kiss. She needed this, needed Joe’s mouth on hers and his arms around her, needed his hands skimming across her back. His body was pressed against hers, and she could feel every inch of flesh and bone and muscle. Their clothes were a thin barrier between them.

  His tongue mated knowingly with hers, teasing her senses. She could feel her desire gladly meeting his. His hands kneaded her derriere and lifted her into him. She wanted to cry out in satisfaction and need. The kiss was like a lifeline, forcing her to reach out and accept it. Accept Joe.

  A thread of panic spun through her, and she tore her mouth away from his.

  “I’m not ready,” she whispered, gasping for breath. “I’m not ready.”

  “Yes, you are,” he whispered back, crowding her against the cases.

  “No.” Even as she said it, her hips pressed to his in denial of the word.

  His hands slid between them to capture her breasts. Ellen moaned as his fingers worked her nipples through the barrier of clothing. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force back the heavy drowning waves coursing through her veins. The man certainly knew how to give a tour, she thought.

  “Joe, please,” she said in lame protest.

  “Please what, Ell?” he asked, his hips nudging softly at hers.

  “Please don’t stop.”

  His lips instantly found hers, and she was lost in mindless pleasure. It was voices, two men laughing loudly on the other side of the cases, that finally made them break apart a few moments later.

  Ellen felt as if she had been through a whirlwind. She could feel her hair, so tight in its bun before, now loose and flopping on her neck. It was horrifying to think what the rest of her might look like. She had no idea what would have happened if people hadn’t wandered by, but if she could hear them, then it was possible they could hear …

  She straightened and side-stepped away from Joe. His eyes were glazed, and his cheekbones were tinged with passion. She knew she had done that to him, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or ashamed.

  She had to make light of this, she thought. Mature adults kissed all the time, so it was silly to make a fuss about it.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “I had no idea a warehouse was so … interesting.”

  “I saved the best part for last,” he said, tucking in his shirt.

  She forced herself to reach up and straighten his tie, as if it were a commonplace action. “There’s lipstick on your cheek. Give me your handkerchief.”

  He pulled a pristine white one from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Do you always bring women into the warehouse and kiss the life out of them?” she asked in as casual a tone as she could muster, while wiping at the imprint.

  “Only on the third Tuesday of the month,” he replied. He touched her cheek. “Ell?”

  Her attempt at lightness collapsed at the tender gesture.

  “I don’t know,” she said brokenly. “I lost too much the last time. I don’t think I can go through it again, and nobody can guarantee me that I won’t. Can you?”

  He was silent for a long moment, then said, “No, I can’t. So well go slow. How about lunch to start?”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to go anywhere, but she managed a laugh at the abrupt change of subject. “That’s slow?”

  He grinned. “Sure. We’ve got a dining room in the executive offices. It’s part of the tour.”

  Ellen admitted to herself that she didn’t know what she wanted. But the more she was with Joe, the more she wanted him. She was at a crossroads, and she knew it. Still, she thought, a free lunch wasn’t a bad deal.

  She nodded, straightening her hair as best she could without a mirror. “All Carlini Food products, I’ll bet.”

  He leaned forward. “Don’t tell anyone, but we’ve been known to sneak in a Pat’s cheesesteak upon occasion. Ready?”

  She giggled. “Ready.”

  He escorted her with great dignity out into the open, and this time the warehouse was nearly deserted. Once more nobody, to her relief, looked particularly interested in them. Maybe everyone did think she was the new health inspector. She hoped so.

  They walked through the executive offices and into the dining room. The green-striped wallpaper and Queen Anne-style furniture made for elegant surroundings. A visitor would be impressed with the company’s obviously thriving prosperity.

  The room was crowded with people eating lunch. Realizing a good portion of them must be Joe’s relatives, she batted down a huge wave of butterflies. She had momentarily forgotten this was a family business. Then she spotted Mario. He was staring at her, his eyes narrowed and calculating. A shiver ran down her spine, and she had a strong notion she was being dissected for possible use.

  Joe touched her elbow. “This way. I’ve got a table reserved.”

  Before they could move, Uncle Thomas was waving and hurrying toward them.

  “Joey, you brought Ellen!” the older man exclaimed, when he reached them. He kissed her on the cheek as if he had known her for years.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” Ellen said, smiling at him. It was nice.

  “Quit flirting, Uncle Thomas,” Joe said, tightening his grip on her elbow. “Otherwise I’ll be forced to be jealous.”

  Thomas smiled happily. “As if I stood a chance, Joey. Come, Ellen, let me introduce you to some of the family.”

  Ellen innocently walked into the lion’s den with a lamb, in the form of Uncle Thomas, leading the way. She had no idea just how far she had entrapped herself until the older man stopped at the first table.

  “This is Ellen Kitteridge, Joey’s girl,” Thomas announced proudly to the two women at the table.

  Ellen froze.

  “Joey’s girl?” the women echoed in unison, their expressions lit up with eager speculation.

  “This is Joe’s aunt Teresa and cousin Marlene, Ellen.”

  Ellen wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Unfortunately, the damn thing refused to cooperate, and she was left to
shake hands with Teresa and Marlene. “I’m just a friend,” she said.

  “I should be so lucky,” Thomas said, winking broadly.

  “Ahh … Uncle Thomas,” Joe began.

  But Uncle Thomas was unstoppable as he launched into the story of meeting the two of them in Atlantic City. Clearly, Ellen thought, when Joe had explained to Thomas what Mario was up to, he had neglected to correct any notions of her being a “date” that evening.

  She glared at Joe. He shrugged. She was tempted to find the nearest samurai sword and put it to good use. She wondered in mortification how she could have believed Uncle Thomas was a sweet, kindly man. To her further irritation, she became aware of Joe smothering amusement when Teresa asked him if he was bringing Ellen to a christening on Sunday.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, at the same time Joe said, “Of course. It’s for my nephew,” he added to Ellen. “I was going to ask you, but the family just beat me to it.”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “We’ll discuss it later.”

  But the damage was done. Thomas’s voice had carried to the next tables, and suddenly people were calling out for introductions to “Joey’s girl.” Everyone ignored her corrections, and they all insisted Joe bring her to Sunday’s christening to meet the rest of the family. Sensitive to all the speculative glances, Ellen suspected Joe’s family was more interested in her “celebrity” status than in her being Joe’s new girlfriend.

  Joe was smiling and accepting the attention, as if there were nothing extraordinary about it. What, she wondered, could she expect, after the way she had just kissed him?

  She was torn between being angry with him and with herself for this mix-up. And she had no idea how to correct it.

  Wonderful, she thought. It looked as if she were going to a Carlini christening.

  As Joey’s girl.

  • • •

  “I can’t.”

  Joe held his temper at the words. It was after lunch, and he and Ellen were standing in the lobby. He could feel the company receptionist craning to hear their conversation. Keeping his tone low and even, he said, “I know my family got carried away, Ell, but—”

  She shook her head. “Going to the … communion—”

  “Christening. For my nephew. My sister Carol’s baby.”