The Good Mistress: A BWWM Billionaire Romance (2 page)

Chapter 1

Blake Baldwin

Beverly Hills, Four Months Before

THE SORT OF
man who lived life to the fullest, Blake’s upbringing taught him how to toe the line, to primarily get what he wanted, then strike when needed.

This was not the time to strike.

He glanced at the scotch on the marble mantle of the 2,000 square foot master suite, but refused to hear Diane’s fucking mouth about his drinking before noon, even if she had a point.

The feather duvet puffed around Diane’s delicate frame as she climbed around the Cal King bed. She had already thrown the feather pillows at him for waking her up so early. Her white silk robe blended with her porcelain skin, haphazardly opened as the hasty knot slackened. Blake glared at his beautiful wife, and then her demure features transformed into an ice princess. All the while, Diane’s pale gray eyes narrowed.

Blake snatched up his initialed
BB
diamond-encrusted cufflinks They awoke hours ago, and he’d satisfied the greedy little witch before showering and asking her ever so nicely to get ready.

“I’m not in the mood for your shit today, Diane. We have a funeral to attend. Get dressed.”

Diane pointed her cigarette at him as he put on a tie. “Sorry asshole, I don’t like funerals.
Your
employee,
your
business,
you
attend the damn funeral.” 

“Oh, it’s all
my
business now. That’s right. Guess what?” Blake walked over to the bedside table. “These are
my
meds. Remember that every time you take one of these happy pills or buy one of these stupid knickknacks.” He tossed a crystal figurine. It crashed against the French hand-painted wallpaper. “
I
bought it.
I
made you!”

“Oh yeah? Well you made me a material blonde.” Diane flipped her hair. “But guess what, asshole?”

Blake smirked, not even wanting to know her mantra or how “asshole” became his nickname. They had attended Yale together. Diane’s major had been undeclared for two years before dropping out. Her family’s money allowed her a lifestyle of frivolity. He’d been a Computer Science major, and now his money dwarfed her inheritance.

Back then, Diane had a real body: a tight ass and certified tits. Okay the tits were a size B, maybe… But palming them was amazing, amazingly fucking real. Now Diane was a trophy. There was once a time when he'd give a few billion for them to go back in time. Now silicone saturated her pretty, little “Prom Queen” genetic make-up. A fucking gorgeous zombie, since now only premium sedatives were her fancy.

“Warren just died.” Blake attempted to appeal to any morsel of humanity in his wife.

Diane blinked in response.

Warren Jameson had been on Blake’s financial advisement team. Barely twenty, Blake had invented a cell phone application at the start of the new millennium when apps at the time were, by societal standards, expensive. These days, most apps are free with the option to buy-in to various components after downloading. This had given Blake a foothold into the social media world. The entrepreneur, turned millionaire, continued his favorite past-time of writing codes, while dating Diane, who was still wealthier than he at the time.

“Let’s bow off the funeral. Blake, fuck me, baby...” She sank into a seated position at the edge of the bed. Burlesque had nothing on Diane as her long, dramatic, willowy legs swept apart, allowing him a glimpse at her tight little pussy “C’mon baby, you’ve always had an appetite.”

He licked his lips. Diane had waxed. Every contour within that cunt glistened, calling out to him. But the pink budded lips were of course plastic, too.

Instead of taking the bait, Blake stared deep into Diane’s stormy gaze. Blake grabbed Diane’s calves, dragging her over. She grinned. He would be late to the wake.

~~~

Gray skies and a flurry of clouds added to the somber mood as the Catholic Cathedral loomed before him. An Armani shoe planted on the curb as Blake stepped out of the backseat. He personified luxury, wearing a custom suit made of the finest vicuña wool. He extended a hand to his wife, to which she glared and flipped her wrist for him to move as she got out of the car.

“I can’t believe you’d ruin my day,” Diane grumbled as the Mercedes-Maybach swooped away from the curbside.

In one fluid motion, Blake looped his arm through hers and yanked her close. “Don’t start, Diane.”

He nodded to a black couple. The woman had to be Warren’s family; the resemblance lay in her downcast, distraught eyes.

“Blake.” Diane stopped in her tracks. “I can already
smell
his dead body.”

Blake scolded himself for being the cause of this predicament. Nobody seemed to notice her dramatic display. They stepped into the sanctuary and noticed most of Warren’s wealthy clients stood at the back and came to pay their respects.

There were hushed cries, except for one very loud woman whom he remembered as Warren’s mother. He didn’t know who took the fucking cake: Diane’s furrowed nose and her silent argument, or Warren’s mother’s weeping.

Halfway down the aisle, Blake stopped in his tracks, his vision zoning in on a rare thing of beauty not fifty yards away. He watched her offer tissues and hug others. She seemed entirely too altruistic, too helpful, too giving. Where was
her
shoulder to cry on?

Blake had seen her hair before—that thick, silky, lustrously long mane—in a photo Warren had had on his desk. She’d been wearing a coy smile in the image.

Shit, I would have had her already if I had known how fucking gorgeous she is.

She flitted around, offering comfort to mourners, rubbing Warren’s mother’s back.

All sounds dissipated as Blake rubbed his fingertips together. Her long brown hair coiled into a thick braid over one shoulder, grazing a perky breast. Her natural beauty was a work of art he could study for hours. A smattering of gloss shone on her full, heart-shaped lips. She was the very thing that Diane pretended to be when they first met.

In this place, God’s place, he wanted to fall to his knees in worship and hike up that black dress which hid a delight of curves. He wanted to palm her ass while placing one of those ample thighs over his shoulder and then he’d have a plentiful feast on the succulence between her thighs as Jesus held out his palms in the background.

Her moans would become a symphony throughout the cathedral. Maybe he’d lay her on one of the pews. No, better yet, the stage, where he would anoint her cunt with his cock until a deliriously erotic smile illuminated that melancholic face.

Then she turned in Blake’s direction. Those chocolate brown eyes warmed through him, but the connection didn’t last a nanosecond. Mila looked straight through him.

Chapter 2

Mila

IN A FRACTION of a second, she went from selecting wedding ceremony flowers—peonies or lilies? —to telling Warren how she had sent in a proposal for a grant to this or that organization, to her fiancé being no more. There’d be no more happiness, no more arguments. No more asking Warren to turn off the MacBook or the iPad or his iPhone, or any other worldly contraption. No candid, lazy days where they would chat about the names of their future children and how he’d say their son and daughter
had
to resemble
her
; no great debates since the two disagreed about political parties.

A large canvas picture of Warren shrouded by a plethora of roses perched on a stand beside his casket. Handsome, with dark brown skin, he had the sort of trustworthy smile that made you want to reciprocate. But Mila couldn’t be capable of such a difficult feat then.  His Cherrywood, top-of-the-line casket lay closed. Mila's last image of the man she’d planned to marry had come over FaceTime, before a business meeting in New York.

The final message was a missed call he made from the airport as he waited for his return flight.

“Mila, I haven’t even started loving you like I should.” Warren’s voice had been somewhat muffled.

He paused.

She would give her life to see the expression on his face, because though thousands of miles away, his emotions were deep. Warren never groveled—most of the time, he gave her his full attention. However, the wedding planner
did
say these would be trying times. “But I love you with all of me. When I get back, I want to spend every waking moment talking about … peonies with you,” he had scoffed. She could only imagine that he was smiling. “Look, if you want hot pink bridesmaid’s dresses, I’m all in. I apologize for being so busy these past few weeks, and I know for a fact that the government grant you’ve been rewriting for months is already perfect. You really gotta stop second-guessing yourself. Send it in, beautiful.”

Then Warren, and a few others, boarded a company jet home…

Mila stifled a sob. He had wanted to make things right. And once he returned, they’d start over.

Her face was expressionless other than her turned down brow and a single tear at a time. She knew if she allowed herself to feel, she would break.

Warren’s mother, Mrs. Jameson, had damn near passed out from seeing the closed casket.

Since Mila and Warren weren’t married, her parents probably wouldn’t show at the funeral. She didn’t even know if they planned to make an appearance at her pending nuptials. Mila’s Somalian family had spurned her western ways, just as she had refused the arranged marriage she was expected to honor.

As Mila turned around to continue ushering, her best friend, Clarissa, walked in. The beauty outshone her geeky counterpart, Todd, who dressed in a simple Armani suit. Clarissa’s red hair had been brushed back into a chignon. She wore a flowing black number that, on anyone else, wouldn’t seem appropriate for a funeral. But Clarissa being Clarissa, she evoked the somberness of the moment as she held out her slender hands.

“Hey, Mila. Why are you working so hard?” Clarissa pulled her into an embrace before Mila could answer, which sent tears burning into her almond eyes once more.

“Just keeping busy.”

“Hello, Mila. How are you hanging in there?” Todd peered through his Clark Kent glasses.

“Alright, thank you. And you?” Todd had been one of Warren’s closest friends and cohorts. She’d introduced him to Clarissa a few months ago.

Suddenly Clarissa gasped. “Mila, look over there...”

Mila’s eyes landed on her friend’s target as Clarissa said, “Everyone said he’d be too busy to come. I’m surprised.” 

“He?” Mila continued surveying the room, unsure who Clarissa spoke of. Though most of the non-family members flocked toward the back of the large cathedral, the room was filled with powerhouses. Warren, with his sharp wit and analytical capabilities, had helped build many empires. 

“Blake.
Blake
Baldwin...
”

Mila shrugged. The name was familiar because she heard Warren thank his boss on numerous occasions for those grand vacation packages that Mr. Baldwin provided each year. Mila only needed a quick trip to Vegas or a weekend in Napa Valley to clear her mind.

There would be no more closed-eyed, serendipitously pointing to a new destination on the globe with Warren. There is no more Warren…

“The one that is so unnecessarily hot. I’m creaming in my panties. Oh, his wife is hot as hell too.”

Mila glanced through the sea of affluent men, and there amongst the muck stood a dominating force. His face was sculpted by the gods, with a sharp nose, chiseled jaw, and a brow bridge that appeared to take ages to construct. Unshaven, with a dash of stubble that had many women wanting to touch the soft bristles, even in the church. A tailored suit molded his broad shoulders and brawny biceps, with every sinew carved to perfection.  Only Mila could see none of it through her blur of tears.

“I'll take you to meet Blake.” Clarissa licked her lips. Even wearing prescription eyeglasses, Todd didn't seem to notice or care. He straggled along behind the two since Clarissa’s eyes were for his boss, Blake Baldwin.

“Diane, you're looking gorgeous.” Clarissa commenced the ass kissing while also kissing each side of his wife’s cheeks. “Blake...”

“Ms. Ali.” Blake hugged Mila before
hello
could cross her lips. “As Warren’s employer, I feel at fault.”

Mila’s throat constricted as she held a slender hand to her neck, shaking her head. “No, no...”

Clarissa came to Mila’s rescue to make Blake feel less guilty. She began to paw at his lapel. Diana cut her eyes over. Todd, as usual, disregarded the flirtatious gesture. Mila was too numb to notice any of it.

Mila shook her head. Had he read her?
Yes, this was his fault!
“No. It... It’s not...” The words clogged in Mila’s throat. Warren died in a small jet crash. One of Baldwin’s jets. Doing one of Baldwin’s jobs. So, yes, Baldwin was at fault. But the reality of this fault, as Mila saw it, she had yet to utter. She could not even speak the words that her fiancé had died. As she’d helped Warren’s mother prepare for the funeral, Mila could not fathom how she actually had never spoke of it.

Mila lifted her index finger, needing a moment. Diane rolled her eyes, causing Mila to turn and scurry toward the front of the church to greet the one family member who bothered to show up and support her. 

Mila approached her sister Lido, the middle child. Mila was the baby. They were the black sheep of the three Ali girls.

“You okay?” Lido’s cat eyes cut toward the back of the church. Be it the catwalk or the church, the international supermodel had no qualms about cussing someone out to protect her baby sister. 

Mila nodded. It wasn't the right answer; hell, it wasn't an answer at all. She wasn’t all right. She had estranged herself from family when Mila chose to attend UCLA. After obtaining an MBA, Mila was to return home to make good on an arranged marriage to a prominent Ethiopian. But Mila had been scouted by an elite, ruthless conglomerate. She’d lost herself climbing the corporate latter.

Mila sighed, remembering how Warren breathed life back into her soul. There was nothing like proving yourself in a man’s world.

Mila would miss Warren for a lifetime. She most certainly wasn’t all right. She might never be.