Kisses From Heaven

by Jennifer Greene

  Kisses From Heaven

  By Jennifer Greene

  Loren Shephard is too proud to ask for help and too broke to pay for it. She has her hands full with a demanding career, a grandfather who can’t stay away from the bottle, a spoiled younger sister and a mansion that’s fallen into disrepair. When Buck Leeds stumbles into her life and starts fixing things—and arousing feelings she never knew she possessed—she can’t help but fall for the brawny stranger.

  Loren’s trust in Buck is shattered and she’s filled with self-doubt when she realizes her first impressions of Buck were all wrong. How can she build a future with a man that reminds her too much of her past?

  Previously published.

  60,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  When I wrote this story, women were doing the “superwoman” thing—trying to do it all: career, family, house and everything else. Potential careers for women were exploding at the time; we were finally getting a shot at jobs only men had before.

  It was a good time—a liberating time—but also a troubling time for women. We could and DID do it all, but we discovered en route that we were chronically exhausted…and had no time for ourselves.

  My heroine, Loren, is running herself to the ground…because she thinks she has to. She needs a specific kind of hero…but the one who shows up is the last thing she thinks she wants…

  When Carina Press picked up this story, I was especially delighted. Romances, in the decade this story was written, concentrated strongly on women’s issues of that time. They weren’t cause books—and neither were mine. But I think authors, like me, sought to support women on all the changes and trials they were going through.

  The issues may be different today, but I believe romances still have that unique relationship between the reader and the author. We understand each other. We’re going through the same things. And through our stories, we reach out—to support, reassure, comfort, and yes, to give a woman exactly the hero she needs.

  I hope you enjoy the story! And you’re always welcome to contact me, either through my website or Facebook.

  Jennifer Greene

  www.jennifergreene.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Loren!”

  Loren Shephard backed up four steps with a dozen folders in her hands, not to mention a coffee cup, legal pad and, dangling precariously from her little finger, a pair of tortoise-shell safety glasses. “I’ve been trying to avoid you all morning,” she said candidly to the heavily jowled man behind the streamlined teak desk.

  Her boss raised a severe eyebrow that would have quelled half the employees in the plant and sighed at Loren’s total lack of response. “The day I fire you I’m going to have to put on a pair of running shoes just to catch up with you,” he told her. “Don’t you ever just sit at your desk and hide behind a newspaper like everyone else who works here?”

  “Like you, sweetheart?”

  “Sit down and behave yourself.”

  She complied, perching on the arm of one of Frank’s massive office chairs. Her soft, teasing smile faded as she juggled the paraphernalia she was carrying in order to lower the glasses onto the end of her nose. As a businesslike gesture, it lacked something, probably because it was close to impossible for a scant hundred pounds of redhead with big gray eyes to radiate the aura of a female executive. She’d stopped worrying about that; she and Frank had resolved the women’s competence issue a long time ago.

  At the moment, her slim leg was still swinging impatiently; she had a hectic schedule this Friday and had no time to waste chatting up the boss. Frank acknowledged her body language with a grimace of recognition. For the past four years, he had been alternately fascinated by the shape of that swinging leg and irritated all out of proportion that his one female manager was more interested in her job than in currying favor with him.

  “Accounting sent down paperwork for six raises,” he said gruffly, tossing her a clipped set of papers that she recognized as having originated with her office. “Dammit, Loren, you know what the economic conditions are, and I expressly told everyone at the last staff meeting that there would be no raises for anyone until further notice.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but then there’s the difference between the letter and the spirit of the law, Frank. A few selective raises don’t affect the balance sheets, and when the economy does improve, you have to have men in the plant who know what they’re doing. These particular electricians are too damned good to lose—and they know they can get jobs anywhere, regardless of the economy.” She added, very gently, “We’ve been through this before.”

  Frank’s thick, beefy hand smoothed back the nonexistent hair on his bald scalp. “That’s no excuse for going over my head.”

  “I didn’t go over your head, Frank,” Loren said wryly. “I told you I was going to do it last week.” She paused. “Did you sign them?”

  His glare confirmed her minor victory. “Besides, there’s a morale problem when you give out raises to only a few—”

  She shook her head. “Just the opposite. Your salesmen and engineers can be replaced a dime a dozen, Frank. But the production people—the ones who make you money—are going to know you’re thinking of the plant people first, not the ivory-tower snobs in the office.”

  He leaned forward, making an elaborate show of shuffling papers on his desk. “Just don’t do it again.”

  “Yes, Frank.” She stood up.

  “And don’t go using that ‘snob’ lingo in the offices.”

  “Yes, Frank.”

  “And I’d like to see you give me just half the loyalty you give the plant workers,” he barked gruffly.

  “Yes, Frank.”

  “Shut up, Loren.”

  She gave him a cheeky grin and perched the glasses on top of her rusty curls, gathering the folders back together in her arms.

  “One other thing…”

  She half turned in the doorway, a question in her eyes at Frank’s oddly uncomfortable tone.

  “You know Matt Roberts is leaving on vacation next Friday. You can handle both personnel and production for a couple of weeks?”

  What would happen, Loren wondered idly, if she told him no? Already, she packed her own job and half of his into a forty-hour week. There wasn’t a day she didn’t go home dead on her feet, and the Lord knew she had her own troubles. Still, so did Frank Humphreys. So did her 412 “boys,” as Frank referred to the plant employees. She loved her job, and more important, the hectic hours of her work week offered complete oblivion from the hassles of her private life.

  “Of course I can handle it, Frank,” she assured him. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I wasn’t worrying. I knew I could count on you, sweetheart.”

  Vaguely, she considered pouring her cooled cup of coffee on his head. Her annoyance was not so much for his patronizing tone as for his pat assumption—shared by all too many people lately—that she had an endless list of solutions for whatever problems might arise. She hadn’t. She also didn’t have the time to argue. There was an unemployment hearing at ten, then a meeting with Matt Roberts, four potential press operators to be interviewed, an insurance review…

  It
was two o’clock before Loren was able to call home, a sandwich in her hand and the call made standing. Her sister, Angela, had promised to watch their grandfather today. Angie was a very lush eighteen and Loren’s diametric opposite in every way…particularly in the reliability department. Still, Angela had promised. The phone rang. And rang. Finally, Loren heard the receiver picked up on the other end.

  “David?” whispered the sweet, silky voice.

  Loren’s eyes closed like shutters. “No, it’s Loren. Angela, you haven’t been asleep! At this hour!”

  “I was out late last night…”

  “Look for Gramps,” Loren clipped out curtly.

  Angela did not return to the phone for a full five minutes. “Look, Loren, we both know he belongs in an institution—”

  Loren slammed down the receiver, her stomach feeling as if she had just swallowed barbed wire. Not again. Not another Friday afternoon like all the others… She took a breath, and then another.

  A moment later, she dialed Frank, told him she was leaving, listened to his token protests, and lingered ridiculously long over putting on her coat and organizing her desk. The ache of weariness was already making itself felt in her spine, her calves, her eyes. It had been a very long week, and though Loren considered depression an unforgivable waste of time, there were occasional moments when she had to admit she had too much on her plate to handle. The house and her job, Gramps and his benders, the nubile Angela…

  She applied lipstick and ran a brush quickly through her hair before leaving. Confidence builders. In the mirror, a wisp of a redhead stared back at her with dark pewter eyes, her white wool coat not unlike the cool white porcelain of her complexion. Loren knew color would return in a moment. Her chin was already tilted up, and her shoulders were squared. She had more steel in her makeup than her appearance showed. The men called her “sprite” behind her back and “sexy” to her face. She dressed in feminine styles and pastel colors for them; today, a powder-blue wool sweater and matching skirt that softened her thin frame. Loren enjoyed the nicknames because she knew they were intended affectionately; more than that, she knew that she had the men’s respect. There had never been a hint of an unwanted pass.

  It was frigidly nasty outside. The remnants of February slush, a March wind and a threat of snow held over from January. Her sandaled heels obstinately crisscrossed the puddles. She refused to be 5’1” unless she was prone and alone. Hugging her coat close to her, she huddled in the five-year-old van and coaxed the engine, trying to persuade the reluctant motor that it was a nice spring day and worth starting for. It vroomed finally, and Loren set off. She took Route 275 to the I-94 exit to Livernois, trying to ignore the little ball of panic in her stomach. The bar was not nice. The area was worse. But the sheer pity she felt for her grandfather overrode her hesitations. He had lost everything—son and daughter-in-law, wife and fortune. All too empathetically, Loren understood not only why Gramps drank but also why he insisted on doing it in a skid-row bar. Never an institution, she thought furiously.

  A horn blared as she inadvertently weaved out of her lane. The Motor City had no tolerance for poor drivers. Which she was. Detroit liked sassy cars for that matter, and her van was close to an anachronism already.

  The parking lot of the Slippery Lady was no better plowed out than it had been the week before. She didn’t allow herself to hesitate before getting out of the van; her fear and revulsion of the place were real, and to get past them she had to keep moving.

  She pushed open the claptrap door to the bar and had to blink hard to adjust to the smoky dimness. All conversation stopped when she closed the door behind her, and her hands abruptly turned to ice. It was even more crowded than usual. The bartender was a woodpecker of a man with a shiny face, a thin beak for a nose and a helmet of soft black fluff for hair. A pair of toughs who had been arguing in a booth stopped to stare at her. A salesman was brooding over his liquid lunch; a trio of tattooed bikers raised speculative eyebrows at her; a beefy, brooding man in the corner didn’t bother to turn around; and there was a giant at the far table in the shadows who was intimidating by his size alone even though she couldn’t really see him. She tried to look at no one and everyone as she searched for Gramps, desperately praying that this time he wouldn’t be there and she could walk right back out again…

  But he was there. She walked past the catcalling whistles and the steady male stares. Her teeth just bit at her bottom lip as she heard a chair scrape behind her. Gramps was slumped very peaceably on a table in the back. A whistling snore, the pale eyes closed, his whisper-soft hair so dear, that big emerald winking at her from his ring finger… She took a breath and bent down. “Gramps?” she whispered.

  His soft blue eyes opened obediently. Abruptly, he slung an arm affectionately around her, throwing her off-balance. Her purse clattered awkwardly to the floor, and she heard a snicker behind her. Her teeth clenched together. She took an instant to smooth back a strand of her chin-length hair and then moved swiftly. The overcoat on the rack by the booths was Gramps’s. She reached the rack but could not make it back to her grandfather before one of the motorcycle men laid a hand on her arm. He didn’t speak or need to. The look in his eyes conveyed clearly what he wanted.

  She shook her head and moved to pass him. He grabbed for her arm again, and she stood stone-still, her gray-blue eyes turning to ice. “I said no. Got it?”

  The hand dropped, but the man still stood there. She whirled around, afraid he would see just how terrified she was. From the back of her head, she saw another big shadow getting up and swallowed. She hated all of it. Maybe none of them meant any harm, but it turned her stomach to be the best entertainment the bar had had all day. She took the coat back to Gramps.

  The bartender was leaning over the counter, his mouth pursed in disgust and indignation. “Next time you just talk him into having his Friday afternoon bout on his own side of town, sweetheart,” he warned her. “We’ve had enough of it. I run a respectable bar here—”

  Loren stiffened, her face turning chalk-white. “He didn’t break anything?” she inquired quietly, aware that everyone in the place was listening.

  The bartender’s voice rang out loud and clear. “That’s not the point. Next time I might just be calling the police—”

  Her vulnerable eyes turned haunted. “Please…I…”

  “Lay off her!” The furious voice came from behind her…and a distance up. Six feet three inches up. By some miracle, everyone else seemed to have suddenly settled back in their seats, minding their own business again, not looking. For an instant, she stared at the bartender, who looked as shocked as she did that anyone had taken up her cause in a place where people seemed to enjoy trouble. The woodpecker’s mouth was open; he promptly closed it.

  She glanced back at the giant and then did a double take. Not many people had the same rusty shade of hair that she did. His, though, had a peppering of silver at the temples. The man was huge and had a face that belonged in the bar…and yet didn’t. She saw the two scars on his face and the frame that could take care of itself in any dark alley; she’d heard the gravelly voice, but there was still something wrong…his eyes. It was his eyes that didn’t fit. The dark green gaze was sharp, intelligent, oddly compelling, and aimed straight at her. “I’ll help you out with him,” the rough voice offered.

  Rapidly, she regained her poise. “Thank you, but I can take care of my own,” she said crisply. Which had approximately as much effect as fending off an atomic attack with a BB gun. The pair of green eyes said as much. The stranger’s size and stature said he could do as he damn well pleased, and at the moment he was holding her grandfather’s coat. She snatched it, leveling a steady cold stare at Sexy Eyes before turning back to her grandfather. “Come on, darling,” she coaxed.

  William Shephard stirred, waking with a wide-open smile. “My darlin’ Loren…and haven’t I been telling you not to be comin’ here? Sure, and…” The Irish monologue went on and on. She managed to get one of h
is arms through a coat sleeve and then, with one knee on the bench, she leaned in front of her grandfather to try to angle the rest of the coat behind him. It wasn’t easy. One could have heard a pin drop in the place; the stranger was still standing behind her, and her hands were shaking.

  “I would like another drink before we go.”

  “Yes, Gramps.” She managed with strange ease to get the other arm in the remaining sleeve, only to realize he had divested himself of the first.

  “There’s someone behind you, darlin’.”

  “Yes, Gramps.” She gave up, awkwardly got the coat completely off again, blew a wisp of auburn hair from her cheek and buttoned up her grandfather’s suit jacket instead. “Are we ready, sweetheart?”

  “Are we ready…?” Her grandfather focused dizzily on the giant behind her.

  “Buck,” the man supplied.

  “Buck,” Gramps echoed. “You help Loren. She shouldn’t be here. I’ve told her over and over…”

  “Yes, Gramps,” Buck replied in an exact parody of her own patient voice.

  Any other time, Loren might have smiled. But now, exhausted and exasperated, she flashed him a baleful look. Those dark green eyes were just waiting for her, far too bright for a man who had presumably been drinking all afternoon. The fabric of his black turtleneck, now frayed, was nevertheless of good quality. Excellent quality. Hard times? She worked with too many blue-collar laborers to be wary simply because of rough features and size, but there was something about the way he looked at her that caused a prickling at the back of her neck, like cat fur.

  “Come on, darling.” She put one of Gramps’s arms over her shoulder and attempted to maneuver him out of the booth.

  “He’s still got a bill to be settled here,” the bartender called out belligerently. The giant faced him with a level stare, and the bartender’s voice promptly lowered two polite octaves. “Actually, miss, it’s only for that last drink…”