“With a prosecution,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Dr. Botende said softly as he released her and sat back down. “But did you have to engage in a fistfight?” he asked exasperatedly.
“He was trying to kidnap Joey!” Petra cried. “They steal babies because they’re easier to transport. None of them want to tussle with a full-grown ape. They would get killed. No, they sneak around and snatch the babies!”
“That guy got what was coming to him,” Noella said defiantly, rising in protest.
Petra smiled at her feminist friend. “Yes, and he won’t be out of jail for three years.”
“A year and a half with good behavior,” Dr. Botende cautioned. “Jails are crowded, and the authorities release prisoners back into society as soon as possible. The state doesn’t want to pay for their upkeep. You’ve made an enemy, my dear. Not only did you interfere with his thievery, you beat him up in front of his friends. His pride won’t let him forget that. You keep your eyes open when you go back into the jungle.”
Petra nodded in agreement. “Those are wise words, and I intend to take your advice.”
She wasn’t giving him lip service. She knew how dangerous the incident had been. Her opinion on poaching was that it was a horrible practice. No animal should be killed or stolen from its natural habitat for food or money. On the other hand, many Congolese were living below the poverty level, and some poached in order to feed their families. It wasn’t a cut-and-dried situation.
She only knew it was her job to protect her subjects. And she would defend them by revealing their beauty, intelligence and their usefulness to the world through her work.
* * *
Petra flew economy from Kinshasa to New York City, trying to sleep as much as possible. The flight took nearly nineteen hours, and when the plane landed, after going through the airport’s strict time-consuming protocol subjected to anyone who was entering the US from a country where diseases like Ebola were reported, she went straight to the Manhattan hotel where she’d reserved a room.
It was a little after two in the afternoon, and the first thing she did upon entering her room was begin peeling off her clothes so she could take a nice long soak in the tub. She didn’t feel sleepy when she got into the tub of sudsy warm water, but after toweling off and slipping into the plush robe provided by the hotel, she suddenly felt so tired she could barely hold her eyes open.
She turned the covers back on the fresh-smelling bed and lay down in the robe, only her feet beneath the covers. Propped up on pillows, she relaxed against the headboard and closed her eyes.
Her body seemed to be floating on a cloud as she sank into the cool, heavenly scented sheets. Sleep claimed her. The next thing she knew, her cell phone was ringing. She’d placed it on the nightstand beside the bed earlier, and she turned to read the display now. It was Susie Greer from the Bitty Berensen Primate Conservancy, with whom she had a meeting the next day.
She yawned and then answered, “Hi, Susie.”
Susie sighed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I woke you, didn’t I? You must be exhausted after that long flight.”
Petra smiled. Apparently she sounded sleepy.
She sat up further in bed and swung her legs off the side, then glanced at the time on her cell phone: five fifteen. She’d slept almost three hours. “No, no, it’s all right. I need to get up and find something to eat, anyway. Has the meeting been rescheduled?”
“No, it’s not that. I wanted to talk with you about something before you got here tomorrow.” She cleared her throat. “Petra, there’s no easy way to say this. The conservancy is running out of money and things look bleak unless we can find investors. We’ve managed to raise some funds, but what we need is the backing of a company, or private individual, who is as devoted to saving the lives of primates as we are. We think we’ve found someone. His name is Chance Youngblood, and he’s the CEO of Youngblood Media. They’re a billion-dollar company that’s involved in television, the internet and publishing. Mr. Youngblood will be at the meeting tomorrow, and we need you to give your usual brilliant report on your progress in the Congo. You know, when you show us footage and talk about your research. Nothing extra. I’m only calling to give you a heads-up because I didn’t want you to be surprised to see someone else at the meeting tomorrow. So no worries, all right? Just be you. Okay?”
Petra stood up and began pacing the floor. From the nervous inflection in Susie’s voice, and her attempt to downplay Petra’s part in it, she sensed tomorrow’s meeting was not going to be routine. “You don’t sound calm, Susie. How important is Mr. Youngblood’s support to the conservancy?”
“I’m not going to pretend with you, Petra. It’s very important.”
“What happened, Susie?” Petra asked. “Are donations down? Did someone do something creative with the books? We’ve known one another for nearly ten years. You can be frank with me.”
Susie took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Jon is under investigation for misuse of funds, Petra.”
Petra’s mind was racing. Jon Berensen was the founder of the conservancy. He’d formed it in honor of his mother, Bitty Berensen, an American zoologist who had studied mountain chimpanzees in the Congo for thirty years before her untimely death from a fall in the mountains.
Six years ago, he’d generously offered to finance Petra’s research in the jungles of the Congo because he said she reminded him of his mother. They were both American zoologists devoted to preventing primates from becoming endangered species. Also, Petra’s training and education were impressive. He felt it was almost as if she were carrying on his mother’s work.
“I would never suspect Jon of something like that,” Petra emphatically told Susie. “Never!”
“I don’t, either,” Susie whispered, as if she were afraid of being overheard. “I think Kent did it.”
Kent Marshall was the conservancy’s accountant. Petra sighed. Not another accountant cooking the books. She shook her head. What was she supposed to do now? The company was in dire straits. She’d been friends with Susie for nearly ten years. They’d met in college. Susie had introduced her to Jon because Petra had been a big fan of Bitty Berensen. It had been an honor to meet her son. She just couldn’t believe Jon would embezzle money from the conservancy.
She sat back down on the bed, feeling hopeless. Was she supposed to run the other way when her friends were in trouble?
Or stand by them and try to help save the conservancy? She would have to put on one hell of a show tomorrow to sway Mr. Chance Youngblood to invest in a company that may have a crook at its helm. And the conservancy would have to be transparent with him in order to get his help. She couldn’t imagine an intelligent businessman putting his money on a losing horse.
Susie said, “Petra? Are you still there?”
“Yes, I’m here,” Petra said tiredly.
“I know I’m asking a lot of you, and that’s the reason I told you the whole truth. You would do that for me.” She paused. “You don’t have to assure me that you’re going to be there tomorrow. Think about it and call me back, if you like.”
Petra couldn’t stand the hopeless note in her friend’s voice.
Susie must be under tremendous pressure. She must feel like her world was collapsing. She’d devoted her life to the conservancy, to the detriment of her personal life. She was around the same age as Petra, and had never been married, either.
“Don’t worry, Susie. I’ll be there tomorrow, with bells on.”
“Thank you, Petra! And I’m sure Jon will be found innocent. He has to be. I can’t believe he would bring shame on his mother’s name. He loved her too much.”
“I don’t believe it, either,” Petra assured her. “Now, I’d better go find something to eat. See you in the morning.”
“Yes, see you soon,” Susie said softly.
You certainly made me want a drink, too, Petra thought after she ended
the call.
Chapter 2
“What makes you think you deserve a hundred thousand per episode?” Chance Youngblood asked Drea Jackson, one of the stars of the network’s most popular reality shows, ’Round the Way Girls. It was based in Brooklyn, New York, and followed the lives of five women trying to make it as actresses in New York City.
He supposed it was true that Drea was the most reactionary, loud and boisterous member of the cast, and because of that, she received a great deal of media attention and had avid fans on social media, but that didn’t mean she deserved twice as much as the rest of the cast received. Frankly, he thought the twenty-one-year-old was out of her mind. And way too egotistical, to say nothing of believing the hype about her that made the rounds on the internet.
No doubt she was beautiful. She sat pouting now, her full red lips announcing to the world, Look at me, I’m gorgeous; therefore you should reward me with your rapt attention. And don’t forget money. After all, beautiful women deserve to live in the lap of luxury!
“You can’t deny that I bring in the viewers,” she said, pointing at him with her forefinger, the nail of which was painted to look like a black-and-silver dagger encrusted with diamonds. The nail looked as sharp as a dagger, too.
“Drea,” Chance said calmly, “I only let you in my office out of respect for the work you’ve done on the show for the past three years. ’Round the Way Girls is doing well. But it’s due to a concerted effort of all of the cast members, not just one. Your pay is commensurate with how much revenue the show brings in. When the show earns more, you’ll earn more. We can revisit your request next year. Now, please go. And remember, your agent is the one who discusses this sort of thing with the company. Not you. You’re the talent. He or she is your representative.”
Chance could tell she was furious by the Clint Eastwood–like squint trained on him. Her well-endowed chest heaved as she rose from the chair in front of him. He hoped she wasn’t going to make a scene because he wasn’t averse to calling security. He would not lay one hand on her. Not with the climate the entertainment industry operated in these days. He wasn’t going to be accused of sexually harassing anyone.
He sat quite still. Their eyes were locked. She appeared to be trying to make him change his mind by just the intensity of her stare. He almost laughed, because this was beginning to feel like one of those classic shoot-outs in the middle of the street in a Western. Would she draw first, or would he?
She let out an exaggerated sigh and turned toward the door. “It was worth a try,” she said nonchalantly.
“No harm in trying,” he said, his tone casual. He watched as she opened the door and quietly let herself out.
It was only then that he sighed with relief. Young people were so entitled these days. As if everybody owed them something. What had happened to working hard and being patient while earning your rewards? No. Everything had to happen in an instant. They were so eager to be stars and live like ballers. She was lucky she hadn’t gone into his father’s office back in the day with her grievances. His father would have tossed her out and told her to come back when she had a valid reason for receiving a raise in pay. She would have been lucky to not have been fired on the spot.
He chuckled softly because his thoughts had reminded him of his father. And he wasn’t even thirty-one yet. Was responsibility turning him into an old man already? He’d been CEO of the company for only two years, since his father had retired. He’d assumed the position would go to one of his older siblings: Alia or Brock. But Alia wanted time to concentrate on her painting and chose to have minimum participation in managing the company, and Brock preferred finance and the nitty gritty of actual numbers involved in running a billion-dollar multimedia company. He was the numbers man. Chance was therefore the reasonable choice to lead the company and be the face of Youngblood Media to the world. He was the idea man, with his finger on the pulse of America—or more accurately, what type of entertainment the world craved.
He got to work at seven every morning and didn’t leave until he felt he’d put in a full day’s work, and that was usually after the office staff had cleared out. He worked hard, and he played hard.
Tonight, when he took the elevator down to the ground floor, there was only the senior security guard at the front desk.
“Good evening, Mr. Youngblood,” was his friendly greeting. “Another late night, huh?”
“Unfortunately,” Chance said with a smile. “Have a good evening, Mr. Robinson.”
“You, as well,” said Walter Robinson, an African American gentleman in his early sixties. He’d been with the company for over thirty years. Chance had known him from childhood and could remember all the jokes Mr. Robinson had told him when he was a kid. His parents had always taught him to respect his elders, and even as an adult, he had never referred to Mr. Robinson by his first name, Walter. And even though he’d told Mr. Robinson on numerous occasions to call him Chance, Mr. Robinson preferred to call him Mr. Youngblood.
Chance left the Manhattan offices of Youngblood Media and turned right. He was within walking distance of his apartment. He enjoyed walking to work every morning, people watching as he strolled down the street. New York had its share of characters, and he’d encountered all sorts on his walks around the city. But basically, he believed New York City was like any other city in the world where people were pursuing their dreams. Everyone just wanted a safe place to live while making a decent living and fostering lasting personal relationships. Your basic recipe for happiness, as far as he was concerned.
He joined the throng of people getting off work and winding their way to subway stations, buses, personal cars or hired cars. He was heading to his favorite bar for a drink—an establishment which wasn’t one of those trendy places where young professionals met and commiserated with each other. It was a quiet, rather old-fashioned bar in a luxury hotel not far from his apartment. He’d discovered it by chance one night when he was walking home.
The place had the ambience of a 1930s’ speakeasy. It was dimly lit, with a huge U-shaped, highly polished oak bar, behind which were bottles of spirits lined up on shelves with a mirrored background. The bartender—at least the one he encountered every time he frequented the place—was a big muscular bald guy with tattoos on both arms. In a luxury hotel bar. The whole thing felt incongruous to Chance, which somehow made the experience richer. What Chance liked most about the bar was that it was usually practically empty. He could sit and enjoy his drink without being approached by anyone.
* * *
It was half past six before Petra walked out of her hotel and went in search of a restaurant, preferably a casual one because she was dressed in jeans, a pullover shirt and hiking boots, plus the ever-present safari jacket, which came with a zip-in faux fur liner. It was chilly tonight, and she needed the extra warmth.
She finally decided on a diner not far from a luxury hotel she’d always wanted to tour on Fifth Avenue. She figured the diner served good food because there was a line out the door and the crowd was uncomplaining. If the food wasn’t worth waiting for, she suspected they’d be much fussier. Or wouldn’t be there at all.
Once she got in and her plate was set before her, she knew she’d been right because the aroma was mouthwatering. One bite of the mac and cheese and they had a customer for life. Somebody’s Southern momma had created this recipe. She smiled appreciatively, and the guy sitting next to her (the tables were quite close together) grinned at her.
“This must be your first time here,” he said conversationally. He looked around forty, was tall and dark haired. Cute in an academic kind of way. Oxford shirt and conservative haircut. His eyes were dark blue.
“It is,” she confirmed.
“But it won’t be your last, I hope,” he replied, eyes on her mouth, she noticed. She felt self-conscious because her mouth was presently occupied.
“I’m afraid it might,” she said frank
ly. “I’m only in town for a couple days.”
“What a shame. Well, I hope you have a good visit,” he said as he rose and dropped a tip onto the tabletop. “Enjoy your evening.”
“You, too,” Petra said, smiling at him.
She enjoyed the rest of the mac and cheese, baked chicken and garden salad in peace. Or as much peace as being in a packed diner could provide. She was comfortable in crowds or in solitude. People interested her, so she found them very entertaining, and got along with people from all walks of life.
What had made her slightly uncomfortable in the presence of the academic type was the notion that he might start flirting with her. She was out of practice with the opposite sex.
Since she’d been dumped by her last boyfriend (fiancé, if she was going to be technical), Gareth Graham, a British scientist, adventurer and now TV personality, she had avoided all emotional entanglements with men. When he’d been offered the opportunity to star in his own show she had been happy for him, until she learned he felt he needed a new beginning. That new beginning hadn’t included her. The last she’d heard about him, he was dating a well-known actress.
Was she bitter? Yes and no. Yes, because she’d loved him and apparently he hadn’t loved her. No, because bitterness only hurt the one who was bitter by lessening your own happiness. The person you were bitter about contentedly went on with his life while you were stewing in your own juices. Completely unfair. If she were going to be bitter then, by God, he would feel the effects of that bitterness, if she were actively trying to exact revenge for his maltreatment of her. Which she wasn’t.
Gareth Graham was in the past. He didn’t matter anymore. However, the experience had made her cautious and not an advocate of marriage. Gareth had asked her to marry him. Another thing he hadn’t been sincere about.
She’d thrown the engagement ring in his face. Okay, maybe she was a little bitter.
Now, she told herself, she was going to concentrate on her career and avoid relationships. What were men good for, anyway?
Love in New York ; Cherish My Heart Page 16