Blood Relations (3 page)

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Authors: Michelle McGriff

BOOK: Blood Relations
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Chapter 3
Ovan was on the case. He was never far from it, actually. But now it was official, thanks to friends in low places; he'd been assigned. The thought of being the one to put a stop to the sick and crazed Allen Roman had kept him awake at night with excitement. While everyone else thought they were safe, believing that Roman had died, Ovan knew it wasn't true. Allen Roman had not died in Jamaica where he'd been banished to many years ago.
For the last few years, Roman had been in London raising hell under a new identity—that of Dr. Seymour Lipton. Ovan, too, had settled there, following his every elusive move, waiting for the chance to get assigned to the case. Although Ovan's home base was South Africa, where he was born, he made a living traipsing the world in search of law breakers who could not seem to be captured by the standard means of law enforcement. He loved his work and his partners, Maravel and Julia. Both women were geniuses with computers and masters of disguise—never short on ideas and identities. So when news of the “mad scientist” hit the airwaves, Ovan knew immediately he wanted to be on the case. Personal reasons more than logical ones pushed him forward. Ovan wanted to put a stop to Allen Roman.
A few months ago, apparently feeling the heat of Ovan's chase, Roman faked his death again. It had taken all of his creativity, but Ovan had the body exhumed. To the shock of everyone around, the body in the casket was not the black man, Allen Roman, but that of the real Dr. Seymour Lipton—a Caucasian man. It took all but an act of Parliament to get an autopsy, since Dr. Lipton had no living family. Nonetheless, it was completed, and proved that Seymour had died from heart failure.
As does everyone, sooner or later,
Ovan thought to himself at the time.
“They weren't looking hard enough,” Ovan pondered aloud. “I know Roman killed him.”
What he didn't want them to find in the body of Dr. Lipton, Ovan wasn't sure. But he knew in his heart that it was only a matter of time before something would link Roman with more than just fraud ... It would link him with murder.
There is no way Dr. Lipton died of natural causes.
With time, Roman's reasons for murdering the good doctor would reveal a renewed mission of Roman's own design—of this Ovan was sure. Ovan had plans to stop Roman before he carried any of it out. Like the chase of cat and mouse, this case had Ovan globetrotting in pursuit.
Allen Roman: the phantom so many wanted to believe was not a threat to international security.
Poppycock! People need to stop believing he's so bloody powerful and maybe he'll stop being so. International—yes. Threat ... only if you let him be.
Ovan kept his eyes open—wide—and today he'd hit pay dirt. Dr. Craven Michaels was pronounced DOA—heart attack. Normally it would have gone unnoticed, except he knew firsthand that Craven was in no danger of dying of a heart attack.
Heck, she nearly gave me one on our encounter
.
The women had the endurance of a mule!
Just the thought of her thick thighs, and beautiful brown eyes closed from reasons other than sexual satiation made him sad—no, it pissed him off. He knew who was responsible for Craven Michaels's death. It was none other than Allen Roman. Although the police had only seen the obvious, the crime scene had Roman's name written all over it. Her being healthy one moment and dead the next, and having all but confessed to have been working with Allen Roman ... Well, the coincidence was just a little too great for his taste.
And everyone thinks I'm crazy.
No, Ovan wasn't grasping at straws here. Craven had told him about the strange proposition requesting the use of her surgical expertise. She had brought her partner on board, and now regretted it. Why she regretted it, she hadn't fully explained ... well, not in a way Ovan completely understood. Talking to Craven was difficult at best. “Who performs private surgeries?” he asked, smoothing back his soft waves in the mirror. He was exhausted but trying to play it off. Yes, she was a healthy woman indeed.
“I just love your accent. Who'da thought London would produce someone as exciting as you,” she purred. “Mmm, yeah,” she moaned from where she lay, still writhing from the pleasure-filled hour she'd just had while he ... drilled her . . . for answers.
Ovan turned from her vanity and adjusted the towel around his tight abs. He was small set but very well put together with a nicely defined musculature—and not to mention healthy libido. Just the sight of Craven was arousing him, but he had to leave. He had to get back to work (well, she'd been a work out, but he meant real work).
He'd gotten plenty of information out of her ... plenty to work with. If nothing else, he knew Allen Roman was in the city.
She licked her lips, noticing his thick manhood rising. She curled her finger for him to come to her, to please her again. But he stood his ground. He needed just a few more answers, first. “Fine.” she acquiesced. “Yes, sometimes I work for cash—such as in this case. It was a lot of cash, so I said, ‘Yes, I'll perform the transplant outside my hospital's insurance network.' Sure, it's kinda ...” she wavered her hand side to side, “unethical, but, I am licensed so—”
“Where? I mean where would you do this ‘unethical' stuff? You can't possibly find hospitals to let you ...” Ovan stopped speaking at the sight of her stalking toward him on all fours, like a cat. Her large breast dangled, swaying hypnotically back and forth. He gulped air.
“No. I have a cabin, in Oregon. It's set up—”
“You perform procedures as complicated as organ transplants in your cabin?” he asked, fighting the two brains—one that ruled each of his heads.
“Sometimes. I have a partner, but sometimes it's just better to work ... how should I put it?” She put her finger to her lip and then grinned, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “Alone. Cash and carry. My cabin is out in the middle of nowhere, so yeah, we do surgeries there.” Craven's smile resembled a naughty teenage girl caught in the bathroom with a cigarette. “I guess it's illegal but whose gonna tell? You? It doesn't really seem like you're the type of law man who sticks real close to the book. Besides, I do what I do when someone needs me to do it and I do it well—no complaints. Like now, I know you need me to perform an emergency procedure on that right there. It looks painful.” She pointed at his lower anatomy. “And I'm ready, willing, and able to take care of that ... no charge.” She winked.
“What about your partner? What's his take on this whole thing?”
“Honey, my partner wouldn't enjoy this as much as I would. Trust me, he ain't hap-hap-happnin' like you are,” she giggled.
“I didn't mean this ...” Ovan stammered. “I meant ... never mind. You're one wicked woman. What's his name?” Ovan said, fighting the pull of her eyes.
“Now, come on, Ovan, you want to know too much. First you wanted to know who's paying me. Now you want to know my partner's name. It's just too much. Next you'll want to know where I put the money that dude gave me as a retainer and directions to the cabin. Besides, I just told you my partner's name—you were not listening,” she whined, rising to her knees and wriggling her tight body, giving her breasts and hair a hearty shake while running her hands over her flat stomach, as if she was growing uncomfortable in her own skin. Craven looked Ovan over from head to toe and took in air deeply, wantonly. She was getting antsy now. She was done talking business. Ovan was not too tall, lean, and rather wiry, which came in handy at times like this. Many people were taller than him and therefore underestimated him, especially women. Some said he looked a lot like the performer Prince, which he often used to his advantage—his large bedroom eyes and long lashes gave him a look of innocence that was sorely misinterpreted. He was far from innocent, and as far as any other resemblances to Prince, well, he wasn't that vocally talented either.
Craven had gotten out of bed and shook her thick hair wildly again, seductively, before placing her hand on her hip and again curling her finger back into her direction.
“Just give me one name,” Ovan asked, taking only one step, battling the draw of her seduction. “Your partner or your benefactor.”
She stepped closer, noticing his manhood tenting the towel wrapped around him. “I'll tell you after.”
He moved forward, the peak of the towel standing between them now. “Is one named Allen Roman?”
“I said I would tell you after,” she growled, biting playfully at his bottom lip. She was taller than him by a couple of inches, but nothing seemed to be a problem for the limber woman.
“You wouldn't lie to me, would you?” he asked, pinching her pointed nipples.
“I'd never lie to the FBI,” she said before dropping to a squat and taking his towel with her.
“We'll have a copy of Michaels's autopsy report as soon as I can get through all this blinkin' red tape and archaic encryption. I guess it's been proven again, you can't always have a body when you want it,” Maravel remarked smartly, bringing Ovan's mind back. Her tone was implicative and dripping with sarcasm. He felt his eyebrow rise slowly while giving her the “I can't believe you just put my business out there like that” look. She winked ever-so-covertly and turned back to the computer monitor where she was trying to build a report for lifted files from secure data bases. It was her forte. “I did, however, finally manage to get a copy of the autopsy on Dr. Lipton—London's faxing it over.”
“How in the world did you manage that? Finally. God, that took forever. They are always a bugga to deal with. Why is that? You'd think their files would be more accessible.”
“Right, I'm sure they are to someone with authorization to use them.” Maravel chuckled, seemingly ignoring his close presence as he leaned over her shoulder to get a closer look at her data—and get a nose full of her perfume. She'd been right about one thing: her body was one he had never been able to get his hands on. Those were the rules ... well, sort of. He'd broken them only once with their other partner, Julia. But then again, rules are only rules when one of the parties objects—like Maravel.
Chapter 4
Juanita stretched. Her afternoon nap was filled with delicious dreams of Chance Davis, her ex-husband. Even after all these years she had a warm spot in her heart for him. Or maybe it wasn't her heart, maybe it was just her bed. She would always have a place waiting for him there. Unfortunately, getting him away from that wife of his was a serious quest, a never-ending and, so far, unsuccessful challenge—but even after all these years she still had to regularly try. Getting Chance back had put a damper on everything else she used to find fun, including sex with other people. Maybe she was obsessed—who cared. Rashawn had something that belonged to her and she wanted it back! That wasn't obsession, that was the difference between right and wrong. And Rashawn was wrong for coming between her and her Chia Pet—Chance.
That Rashawn Ams had been a formidable opponent when she snagged Chance all those years ago, putting her fatherless son in his face, playing on her and that boy's needs for some emotional stability. Oh sure, Rashawn had been stalked and nearly killed by that psychopath Doc, “Until she shot him all to pieces
phhhst
.” Juanita blew a raspberry while thinking of the situation that had stayed on the front page for days:
College professor claims self-defense after shooting security guard nine times at close range.
“Right, I was convinced it was self-defense all right,” Juanita lied. She saw Rashawn as underhanded and sneaky for having played on Chance's emotions and his soft nature. “Heffa almost got my Chancy Wancy killed over her mess. I'll never forgive her for that.”
She smacked her cute, heart-shaped lips. “He wasn't ready for all those drama bags she was carrying. Putting some kid on him whose father she didn't know. It was not fair the way she trapped him. He was not ready to be a stepfather,” Juanita said with a huff. “He was ready to be a real father. I had his only child and our son needed him. But then ...” Juanita thought about Rainey, the beautiful, fair-skinned child Chance and Rashawn had together. “Okay, fine, so he has her. Damn that Rashawn, she even took that from me,” Juanita grumbled. Junior was dark skinned, tall, and husky, kinda like Reggie, Rashawn's son. But in Reggie's case, the dark complexion made sense considering that Rashawn was damn near the color of mahogany wood, even though she had those crazy gold-colored eyes. But he didn't have her eyes. Maybe it was Reggie's biological father who had dark eyes, for Reggie's were just off the color of onyx stone. He was a beautiful specimen of a black man and when he grew up, he'd break many hearts.
Juanita understood Reggie's dark tones, but then here comes Rainey with her fair skin and light eyes. Chance musta put ugly on that one, because she looked just like him. She was Chance's pride and joy—looking just like his mother. Rainey was a beautiful child and Juanita could tell he favored her over Chance Jr. “Yeah, well...” Juanita sighed heavily, glancing over at the picture of her son on the nightstand. “Just not right.” Chance Jr. was tall and dark skinned, with a head full of loose curly hair. Even at only fifteen, Juanita could see “basketball star” all over him. He was gonna be athletic, just like Rashawn's son. “So why is everyone acting like Reggie is all that? He's not, not with Chance's own star on the bench just waiting his turn.” Again, Juanita looked at Chance Jr.'s, picture, wishing he looked more like Rainey. But he didn't.
She kissed the picture and stroked it lovingly. “Doesn't matter, baby. Mama loves you.”
Juanita knew that Rashawn hated that she'd named her son after Chance. It was a constant reminder that she had been able to seduce Chance to her bed while the two of them were dating. And still Juanita raised suspicion that they “got it on” once in a while now—as much as she wanted it to be true. She wanted Chance back. Despite all her cheating and crazy acting, she wanted Chance back in her life. Besides, who else would love her?
Juanita was diagnosed a sex addict and borderline bipolar a few years back. It forced her to leave her practice, what with everyone joking that there was more “psycho” in her psychotherapy than should be. “To hell with 'em. Damned haters,” Juanita huffed, thinking about her life and how Chance had always been there for her. Maybe in his own way, he still was. He surely must still love her.
Chance just allowed the games to play.
He's such a pacifist,
Juanita thought, smacking her lips at his less-than-passionate lust for drama. Even when Rashawn was screaming paternity suit, Chance just took the whole thing with a yawn and responded with, “I don't want to take everyone through it, haven't we been through enough?” Yes, Chance had been through it. He'd nearly been killed and never once had Rashawn really thanked him for his efforts.
Juanita continued to paint the masterpiece in her mind—Rashawn, the heartless, selfish bitch who cared about no one but herself. Juanita sometimes didn't believe she really even loved her son the way a mother should. “Shouldn't matter who his daddy is,” she said, lying back on the bed, resting, on her chest, the picture of her son standing with Chance. Then she tossed it aside and reached for the phone. She called Chance's cell, her mood shifting suddenly. She needed to speak with him today. She needed money—today. Christmas was just around the corner and Junior wanted things. Sure, Chance had paid his support for the month, but how far did he expect twelve hundred dollars to go?
Back when she agreed with the court-ordered support, Juanita had a thriving practice. She didn't need Chance's little handouts, but the years had crept by and Junior grew tall and demanding. He ate like a horse. He wanted to wear trendy clothes and hang out with his friends drinking expensive coffee drinks and smoothies every-day—all the things that a working mother could afford, but then, Juanita wasn't a working mother anymore now, was she? Unlike Rashawn who worked constantly, ambitiously trying to prove something to everyone—bitching about how tired she was all the damned time, especially when Juanita needed some downtime and alone time, and especially when Juanita had requested that Chance Jr. stay over a few days beyond the weekend.
“Actin' like the kids shouldn't get close,” Juanita went on, still building on the fantasy that Rashawn was the true bad guy here. “That's her problem. She's jealous of me being a stay-at-home mom. Well, too bad! I need more money.”
And yes, Rashawn bitched about that, too.
Juanita sighed heavily at the thought of her rival. True, Rashawn had proven herself to be a worthy adversary. Sometimes Juanita felt ashamed at all the lies she had told to keep drama going, but then other times, like now, when she was so broke, and so lonely, she didn't give a damn.
“Put your stepfather on the phone,” she said gruffly, speaking to Reggie as if he were the only stepchild in the joint.

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