Blood Relations by Michelle McGriff Page B

Michaels . . . or maybe her murderer!” The last comment hit a chord, Ovan could tell.
    â€œHe’s not going to frame me like this,” the man spat, angrily charging at him.
    â€œWho is framing you? What are you and Allen Roman up to?” Ovan asked while tussling with the man, gaining the upper hand. At first speculation he figured the man for more of a scholar, less of a fighter, with his lanky, nerdy appearance. But he was wrong.
    â€œI don’t know Allen Roman,” the man said before fists came to blows and Ovan had to rely on brute strength to get the man off of him.
    â€œOf course you do. Craven did and you must be the partner she was talking about.”
    â€œAnd what of it!”
    â€œThen you know Roman is alive too—ah ha! Framing you! Roman is framing you for Craven’s murder!” Ovan hit the man hard, knocking him off his feet. “I just want some answers.” Ovan spat after knocking the man to the floor. “Hand over what you pulled from the desk.”
    â€œWhat?” the man asked stupidly.
    â€œWhat’s in your pocket!” Ovan yelped, reaching down toward the pocket of man’s jacket.
    â€œYou mean this!” The man then, instead of pulling out a gun, pulled out a syringe and stabbed Ovan in the arm.
    â€œBloody hell!” Ovan exclaimed. He stumbled backward as the drug took its immediate effect. “Did you just kill me?” he asked, his double vision immediately beginning to cross his eyes.
    â€œNo, but you’ll sleep awhile ... at least until I call the police and report your intrusion in my girlfriend’s house. Maybe I’ll tell them you murdered her.”
    â€œYour girlfriend?” Ovan asked, struggling for consciousness.
    Hap quickly put the syringe away before pulling a tissue from the box that sat on a small table and wiping the blood from his lip. “Yes. My girlfriend.”
    â€œWho ...” Ovan was struggling to speak. He was going down. “... are you?”
    â€œWouldn’t you like to know.”

Chapter 19
    Rashawn smoothed on the wrinkle cream. It was designed to search and destroy ahead of time, or so it promised. Her older sister had recommended it, along with Yam Cream and Cat’s Claw tea and several other potions, poultices, and elixirs to ensure youth for many years to come.
    Just then, from the mirror, she noticed Chance watching her from the bed. He wore a half-smile, an almost sarcastic smirk—if she wanted to go there in her mind.
    â€œThanks for the dinner, baby,” she purred, avoiding all mention of Juanita getting the first taste. She was leaving tomorrow and the trip was all that was on her mind.
    â€œAnything for you,” Chance responded, climbing from the bed and walking up behind where she sat facing her vanity mirror. He ran his hands over her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, before moving her hair and kissing down the back of her neck.
    â€œYou smell like a pie,” he teased. “All these fruity greases and creams,” he joked on, looking at the labels of her miracle mixes.
    â€œStop, Chance,” Rashawn mumbled, hiding her humiliation. It was nothing Chance had said in particular to embarrass her; she was just feeling. . . that way .
    Just then, he slid his hands down the front of her robe and down under the top of her soft satin gown, cupping her full breasts, gently thumbing at the nipples. Rashawn looked at him in the reflection of the mirror. He looked at her. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so she could see his eyes clearly in the reflection. He wanted her. It had been a couple of weeks since they’d made love, and Rashawn had started to wonder if they had reached “that” point in their relationship. Her sister had warned her about letting the love wane: “Don’t let it happen, girl,” Carlotta, her oldest sister, had told her.
    Arching upward, she accepted the nonverbal proposal, sighing