The Good Mistress: A BWWM Billionaire Romance (6 page)

“Oh baby, I know you miss Warren.” Her mother said all the wrong words in an attempt to soothe her soul.

Mr. Ali was a good father; While Yasmin always helped in the kitchen and followed their mother around, Lido did her own thing.

Mila, on the other hand, was once Mr. Ali's shadow. She'd been daddy's little girl.

“I might visit… the… country soon.” Mila said after about ten minutes of feel-good conversation. They'd just talked about food, so the wrong part of her brain had sparked the mindless notion.

“
Laga Yabee
—Perhaps...” Ma paused for a second. Mila’s breathing hitched. Would her mother invite her home? “Well, I will talk with you later, my beautiful daughter.”

“All right, ma.” After they hung up, Mila she dialed Lido.
I'll eat later...

“Hello,” Veronica answered the phone with her French accent. A drop dead gorgeous blonde, the two were fucking glorious together. They'd been hair and skin models for commercials, lithe body parts entwined in many haute couture magazines. All tangled up, tall, graceful limbs, and strikingly beautiful facial futures. It was no wonder the two had fallen... Just like Mila for snubbing the arranged marriage, Lido too was ostracized from their heritage. All because she noshed on photogenic pussy. 

“Hey, Veronica.” Mila smiled, leaning her elbows on the counter. Though not the person she’d called, Veronica would do just fine.

“Oh Mila… baby, how are ya?” Veronica had this way of making every word sound orgasmic.

“I’m hanging in there. How are you?” They chatted for a while since Veronica and Lido were the only family that she had. She could hear pots banging in the background.

“The next time you call, please make sure I'm alive.”

In the background, Lido went off. People fell head over heels for Lido Ali, who resembled Iman and rivaled the current beloved Somali, Fatima Siad, but she couldn’t compel a blind person to eat her food. The back and forth bickering between the two supermodels was all fun and games, since the girl really couldn't cook.

“I'll do just that, Veronica.” Mila joked. “But let’s not wait on little ol’ me. You have to place a baggy in one of those crystal vases, Veronica. Sneak that crap into the bag. Save yourself.” Mila almost brought herself to tears for laughing, and not in a good way. Usually, she would joke along with them, but today any real laughter was followed by guilt. The guilt of coming so far to be independent, then ending up in the same predicament that she initially clung too. Like the Somalian woman and child, Mila didn't want to be alone.

“All right, Mila. We have to get together soon.” Veronica had the ability to read Mila through the phone and know she still suffered from a broken heart. “Now here's the chef.”

“Oh so I'm the chef now? We shall see, Veronica,” Lido giggled. The phone static got louder as Lido put Mila on speaker, saying “
Walaashay yar
—little sister—I'm cooking this dish that Ma use to make.”

“Ma...” This call to her
walaashay weyn
—big sister—should have served as a Band-Aid, to temporarily mend her broken heart. Lido rarely, if ever, mentioned their parents. The father? Never. The mother? Well, this still shocked her. She confessed, “I just spoke with Ma.”

“Why?” Lido said, and Mila could just imagine she was throwing daggers through the cell phone. “Look Ma can cook her ass off but, they left us to the wayside—”

“Lido stuff it,” Veronica snapped in the background.

“But there are no cocks in this house to stuff this mouth with. So how should I stuff it?” Lido quipped, never one to allow her opponent to end the argument, even if she were the only one arguing. “Look, Mila. I wouldn't be surprised if Ma wanted you back into the fold.”

Courage stacked the muscles in Mila’s back. Come. Back. Home?

“No. Ma doesn't even let father know when I've spoken with her.”

“Yup, the dutiful wife keeps mum.” Lidos flamboyant accent had notes of a British tone, since the models had just returned from London. “Mark my words,
walaashay yar
, father knows that Warren is...” Lido’s inflection softened for Mila’s benefit “...has passed away. Father knows exactly where you are, what you’re doing, and how to mend your broken heart. But he’s just too damn smart to learn how to have a heart.”

“Okay, Lido.” Mila walked over to the dining room and blew out the tapered candles.

“Fuck it, Mila. I know you more than you know yourself.  Every once in a while, you want a fairy tale romance. Hell, even when you were working 24/7 for those fucking ‘suits’.” Lido always referred to the head honchos at Hewitt Corp as suits. “You had a little bit of fun every now and then. So somewhere deep within that big, smart head of yours, you want fireworks. With Warren, you got to be that sweet little girl everyone loved and knew. You were no longer the analytical, business woman, Mila. You quit Hewitt, then went back to talking about that helping
poor
people crap. So right now, Ma might be feeling sorry for you–”

“Lido, I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me.”

“Yeah, whatever. Play up the sympathy card, Mila. See if Ma opens her damn mouth to defy him; and he gives in. Lord knows you want to be daddy’s little girl again. Our dearest mother will work in your favor then it will be me, the middle child at my lonesome
again
. You'll move to Ethiopia, or at the very least near
Yasmin
,” Lido seethed, spitting out their sibling’s name. They're eldest sister lived in a proximate neighborhood that had most Africans. “Either way, you'll have them all. That’s a fairytale ending for you, huh?”

Mila doubted it. But Lido was molded by God to redirect any tragedy and gear it toward herself. “You know I'd never leave you,
walaashay weyn
.  It's you that travel to these fashion events around the world, Lido. You leave me every season.” Mila sighed. Damn, she'd called for a shoulder to lean on, but ever the middle sister, Lido made it seem like she was the one suffering.

“Listen ladies.” Veronica became the glue that held the sisters together. “We all made mistakes. Granted, I'm considered Lido’s worst mistake. Pretty little Mila, you've done things that won't get you back to your birthplace. But here, the three of us will not judge each other. We’ll stick together. Okay, girlfriends?”

The sisters agreed in unison. Not fully placated, but feeling that the call had brought her closer to home than the discussion with her own mother, Mila hung up. The mother and child who fled Somalia on foot flooded Mila’s mind again. She owed it to them, being able to climb the corporate ladder so swiftly… even if she would have lost her soul by making associate at Hewitt.

Every time Mila thought about the blood, blisters, and mud on that young mother’s feet, she wondered where the two had ended up. Mila went back to the microwave to warm up her food, and consider what to make for dinner when her sister and Veronica came over. Thank heavens the two would bring the wine. The really good shit.

Chapter 9

Blake

A BLANK CANVAS
. Those three words moved him. A blank canvas—the quintessence of the luscious Mila Ali. He stepped into the high-end lingerie store in Paris. It hadn't exactly been on the way from an invigorating climb of The Matterhorn in Switzerland, with a few of his adrenaline junkie buddies. But three weeks ago had been the last time Blake laid eyes on the woman who’d driven him mad.

An upbeat French song fused through hidden speakers in the airy store. Blake deciphered the language, and the melodic underscore was delightful. He reached over to caress the abdomen of a human mannequin. Though there were more mannequins dressed in every cut and style of corset, lingerie or panty set in the haute couture store, this particular one beckoned him with her resemblance of the one and only Miss Ali. Skin the color of unblemished coffee, ample hips and lips. As he palmed the fake breast, Blake perceived a shudder ripple through her body. Though the elite boutique made dreams come true, this one was not his dream. Just a replica of
her.
Mila Ali, the one whom saw through his bullshit.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Baldwin,” Elle purred his name. She, the owner of the store, held power at the tip of her manicured fingertips. Not an inch over five feet, Elle’s golden hair grazed the angle of her cheekbone in a blunt cut. The black leather corset made the milk of her silky skin touchable. However, unlike her fleet of flesh, nobody touched Elle. She licked her berry-matte lips. “It's been a while. Same sizes?”

“Non, Belle.” He rubbed the silk hairs of his chin and took a gander of all the statuesque beauties gracing the display areas.

“Viviana's breast size, Elise's ass size, no—maybe a tad larger.”

“Oh, very curvaceous. Let's see what goodies we can find for you.” He'd always enjoyed returning here, and watching their asses as they moved around and did his bidding. Elle’s slender hips swayed as she mentioned what she had in store for him

She stopped at one of the treasure trunks of unique pieces, digging through different silky or satiny material, and handed him a red lace number that was so fucking erotic. Blake’s dick instantly rose as he imagined Mila in it. Ruffles in the panties were for those hardcore moments, where he gripped her bra strap, and fucked her ass up.

Though licking his lips, Blake said, “Have that gift wrapped. But it’s not
the
one
.
”

“All right, I’ll satisfy you, yet. I remember the first time you came in here, Mr. Baldwin.” She paused, turned, and leaned into him with a teasing smile. Those sweet dimples were the reason he allowed her to delay his goal. Elle's glossy talons rubbed up and down the lapel of his Italian suit. “You were buying something for your wife. You said nothing in here would rival, only enhance.” 

Exhibiting no emotion, Blake allowed the woman to dawdle over dreams of long ago. He recalled it, too. This place had been way out of his league back then. A rich man had told him that he'd bring every whore in here for goodies. Blake, on the other hand, came here to buy something for his
wife
. He’d been the anomaly, madly in love with the woman he’d vowed his life to. To make matters worse, it was his first business trip, and Blake could hardly afford a fucking
thong
, forget the matching bra.

Blake made that statement. It had been true. Diane had been beautiful. 

He took the glass of champagne Miu handed over. The Asian swished back into the darkness until she was called again. Useless memories of a perfect past were dashed. Even Elle's faraway wishful look of lust disappeared. She already knew that he'd bought for hundreds of women after Diane. Why would she bring that up now?

The crisp taste of champagne went smoothly down Blake's throat. He followed Elle past another treasure chest and chose a few pieces, but none that would bedeck Mila the first time he had a taste.

Perhaps she smelled the earthiness of his return from the Swiss Alps, because those lusty blue eyes roamed over him. “Or shall I put something together for you?” Elle’s two fingers walked across the muscles playing peek-a-boo in Blake’s chest. The minx wanted to play, what a rarity.

A silence ensued, leaving them with the seductive track of another French songstress. Blake relied on the pulse of Elle’s swan neck as his large hand clasped around the small of her back. He pulled her closer and leaned down. Though six inch heels had lengthened Elle’s legs, she in return, rose to the occasion. Their lips met. The first touch of femininity that he’d taste in all of three weeks. His tongue dipped into a luscious mouth, but his mind was oceans away. Delving into the syrupy pond between Mila’s thighs. He kissed the breath out of Elle’s mouth. Elle in return began to tug at his belt.

His hand engulfed her tiny, cool ones. After three weeks, he’d wait one more for Mila. So there’d be no going there with Elle. Blake’s mind conjured up exactly what Mila would wear. He whispered in Elle’s ear, “I’ll need it complete by the end of the week.”

Chapter 10

Mila

A WEEK AFTER
Blake left, Mila attempted to forward the funds back into his bank account, but nobody in all of CHASE could determine how the money had gotten into her account. After Lido loaned the cash, Mila had gotten a money order and scrawled Baldwin’s name before transforming into one of those weak women who decided to keep it. The man had oodles of money.

It’s the principle, Mila, dang,
she inwardly fought with herself while calling Todd and asking him to meet her outside of his job.

The good guy stood on the curb, shuddering in the cold air as Mila’s Honda pulled up. Todd hopped off the sidewalk and jogged around to her door.

“Can you make sure Bl… Mr. Baldwin gets this.” Mila kept a firm grip on the envelope.

Todd reached for it with a nod of his head. As he tried to take it, Mila mentally prayed for sanity.
But this is chump change to Blake…

“And don’t tell anyone about this, namely Clarissa.”

“All right, Mila,” Todd assured, his bifocals foggy around the edges.

~~~

“I've lost my son, the least this woman can do is pick up her things and go!” The words jarred Mila, making her shoulders jump as she started up the stairs with her umpteenth load of laundry. The voice could be none other than Warren’s mother. Unbelievably, she’d had the motivation to separate the colors from the whites and physically begin to wash. Now, the clean clothes were thrown onto the guest beds in three different rooms. But Mila was proud of this little attempt.

She dropped the laundry basket at the top step and ambled back down.

“
Mary
,” Mr. Jameson gave a testy tone to his tightly wound wife. 

Biting her lip, Mila considered if she should just run and hide somewhere, but the two hadn’t even rang the doorbell yet.

“I bet the entire house smells now! What if she did some sort of African mumbo—”

Mila whipped the door open so quickly that Mrs. Jameson choked on invisible dust. As shaky as her smile of greeting was, Mila was impressed she greeted Warren’s mother cordially. “Hello Mrs. Jameson, hello Mr. Jameson.”

“Oh you're... you’re home…” Mrs. Jameson’s hand zoomed behind her fat hip. 

“Do you have a key to my house?” Mila blurted as soon as the thought popped into her head. Not intending to be rude, just surprised since Warren had never mentioned giving his parents the key. 

“The key to
your
house, Mila, look around you. Girl, if it weren't for my son, you'd be somewhere hoofing it. Or … let me give you the benefit of the doubt, somewhere warm and cozy
in a hut
.” 

Mary Jameson didn’t always hate Mila. Warren’s mother regarded Mila as all of the other pretty young thangs, flocked around one of her sons.
Keith.

The Jamesons’ were neighbors of her uncle’s family who not only fled Somalia, but didn’t stop until they came to the states. At fifteen, Mila and her family came for vacation, and Keith had been her first kiss. She’d prayed long and hard after doing something so foolish. As a sophomore at UCLA, Mila and Keith crossed paths once again. Keith had this funny way of lifting her spirits, and going out with their group of friends after acing finals kept her sane. He flirted, but they never shared anything more than that one childhood fling.

Mila gulped back the lump in her throat.

“Mary...” The old man shuffled in his orthopedic loafers. The two wore t-shirts from The Grand Canyon, from which Mila guessed they had just returned. They had a Mercedes RV van, and Mrs. Jameson would always complain under her breath that she’d be traveling the entire US-of-A to find a woman worthy of her oldest son.

As his wife opened her mouth, wrath targeted on her husband, he launched himself toward Mila for a hug. 

Awkward. 

“How are things, Mila?”

“All right.” Her heart percolated as if returning to life with the fatherly hug. For the moment, his evil wife disappeared. Mr. Jameson reminded Mila of Warren. All around good, nerdy, sweet, with a dash of awkwardness. 

“How about the two of you?”

“We're all—”

“I was worried that you needed help, Mila,” Mrs. Jameson said, voice devoid of malice… It had to be a trick.  

Mila’s eyebrow arched. 

The big woman pulled an envelope from her designer purse. “We came to see if we can help take this house off your hands.”

“Mary, we’re still standing at the front door.” Mr. Jameson gestured for her to take a break with the guerrilla antics. 

“Oh come in...” Mila stepped back and allowed them entrance.

“This is a rather large home.” Mr. Jameson seemed to be winging it. He diluted the venom his wife exuded with his calming body language. 

Mr. Jameson excused himself as his cell phone rang in the pocket of his cargo shorts.

Mrs. Jameson shrugged. “Yes, so big. After Warren furnished it, and y’all prepared for the wedding. Well, the house… and the mortgage I'm sure is expensive...”

Mila glared at her. The woman had never tried to be affable before, so this had gone too far. Mostly Mila avoided her soon-to-be mother-in-law, but Warren wasn’t there for buffer. “I'm sure it is too much for me, in your opinion. And the home? It's too big for me, since where I'm from, a mud shack will do.” 

“Mud shack,
your
words. Not mine.” Mrs. Jameson held up her hands, palms out, all innocent.

“Mrs. Jameson, your name is not on the mortgage, nor is it on the deed. My apologies that you had to be inconvenienced by opening this bit of mail.” 

“You know what, this tone of yours is atrocious. We’re only trying to help you. That's the thing with you girls these days, running after a man with nothing to fall back on.”

Keeping her mind trained on one goal, Mila reiterated, “My mortgage is paid, Mrs. Jameson.”
Oh no, please don’t bring on Keith. I’m not in the right mind frame to prove that I haven’t fucked both brothers. When you’re the one who always pimps them out, asking for this or that.

The woman sucked her teeth. “Hmmm. Well, from the bottom of my heart, I hope all goes well with you here. I pray to God I never have to see your face again, Mila Ali. You know exactly what I mean.” 

Mila’s body stiffened. As if Mrs. Jameson hadn’t been taking shots before. This was a low blow, indicating Mila would now run after Keith, the beloved son. Mr. Jameson stepped back into the room, his ignorance cutting the tension, as he mumbled, “Well that was one of my old golfing buddies, who just found out I was back in town....”

“Let's go,” Mrs. Jameson ordered.

Mr. Jameson said his farewells while his wife stepped out of the house. He promised that if she’d need anything he was a phone call away. Then he too left.

Mila sunk to the bottom step of the stairs. Knees pulled to her chest, hair draping over her body, she willed herself not to cry. Her back hurt like hell. Clarissa had offered a spa treatment, and to pay for it since they often took turns in the past
. But … there will be no more luxury treatments,
I’ll survive this.

About ten minutes later, crass shouting, carried by the sound of the wind, swept by. Grumbling at the thought of spending the night with a bottle of liquor store wine and another lean cuisine, Mila paused, assuming she'd left the television on. But the sounds carried loudly, tensely. 

Lido
!

Her sister and Veronica promised to come by for dinner. Though Mila had excuse after excuse for hanging out with Clarissa, these two had seen her at her worst. She clambered to her feet, grabbed both of the doorknobs, and swished the front double doors open.  

“Oh you think I'm some sort of voodoo priestess.” Lido shouted, conjuring up their natural dialect simply to fuck with Warren’s mother. 

As she rounded the large fountain, Lido popped into view, holding two fingers up, voodoo style. Mr. Jameson whispered in his wife’s ear, but the words were written all over his face. He sought peace. 

More crass and culturally insensitive words came from Mrs. Jameson. The type of words that normally rolled over Mila's shoulder. She regretted stooping to Mrs. Jameson’s level a short while ago. But Lido?

“Okay, my love,” Veronica tried to drag Lido toward the door. 

“Oh, no. But I must hex this bitch!”

“
Bitch
?” Mrs. Jameson spat. 

Mr. Jameson sighed. “C’mon, Miss Ali, let’s all be —”

Mila’s eyes widened as Lido began to bellow the hex. The gibberish brought Mrs. Jameson damn near tears.

Mila tightened her lips so as not to bust up laughing. “
Walaashay weyn, joogso!
Big sister, stop!” 

“But I'm almost done!”

“Mila,” Mrs. Jameson exploited a genial tone, similar to the one she used a while ago to get under Mila’s skin. “What is she doing?” 

Mila’s eyes widened in mock concern. “Can you move?” 

The dummy had been moving all around, rolling her neck, but now she demonstrated unquestionable obedience. Body stiff, she said, “I... I...

Mila gestured for her to run, and run she did. Mrs. Jameson hopped her fat ass into the driver side of their champagne S600.

Lido’s slender frame doubled over, and she laughed her ass off. 

Mr. Jameson, though not drinking the Koolaid, got into the passenger side right before she skidded back on the road.

“Hey, don't hit my Bentley!” Veronica shouted, baby blues almost popping out of their sockets as the car stopped inches away from the pearly white convertible. Then Mrs. Jameson shifted gears, the powerful car lurched forward as she made a U-turn. 

If it weren't from the shock of the moment, Mila would enjoy the sun rays caress of her bare shoulder. Her hobo dress swayed in the salted wind. 

“Oh Lido, you didn't have to do that.” Mila reprimanded.

“Humph.” Lido turned on pointed heels and stalked into the house, Veronica at her heels. By God, Mila ached for the back rub that Veronica gave to Lido in the grand entrance of her home. 

“Ladies, I have to apologize.” 

“No you don't!” Lido snapped. “You've held your tongue since we've met that bitch—”

“Babe, the language...” Veronica interjected, voice soothing. 

“
That fat ass
bitch
,” Lido enunciated every syllable, “better go stuff a Twinkie in that mouth. You, Mila, you're too fucking nice. That shit is for the birds, Mila. It's a new day, new age. Don't apologize for shit.” Still not off the soap box, Lido shied away from her girlfriend’s pawing, and stepped closer to her little sister. “Open that gorgeous mouth of yours and reign.” 

Head cocked to the side, Mila inquired, “Are you finished?”

“I could go on, I'm opinionated. I’m conceited, so doesn’t that imply everyone should kiss my motherfucking ass while providing all ears?” 

“Veronica is the only one that should kiss your ass, physically not literally.” Mila smiled. “Now that you’ve calmed down, Lido. I wasn't implying that I needed to apologize to Mrs. Jameson.” 

“And
Mrs
.,” Lido continued her rampage, “You still aren't on a first name basis with the bi—broad! Is
that
‘b’ word okay?”

Mila huffed at her sarcasm. 

“Listen, Pet, just listen,” Veronica implored. 

“As I've previously attempted to say, I wanted to apologize to the two of you. When the Jamesons arrived, I totally forgot about cooking. Honestly, today was a good day. I’ve washed clothes…” Mila shook her head, thinking about how she had even opened up Microsoft Word to reread her proposal for the government grant. “That’s beside the point. But honestly, I felt my heart beat this morning, then they came. So, my apologies, I didn’t prepare anything. And to make matters worse, hell, I can't even afford to buy the three of us Happy Meals from McDonald's.” 

As she simpered, the ebony and ivory models smiled.

“Well, before we were getting out of the car and that woman starting talking shit,” Veronica said, “We were going to grab the groceries from the trunk.” 

“Groceries?” Mila’s eyebrows rose.

“Yes, I can't cook.” Veronica placed a delicate hand to her tiny bosom.

“Don't say it,” Lido cut in still smiling. 

“We all know she can't.” Veronica laughed. 

“How do I deserve you two?” Mila asked following them outside. “First, you pay my three months of mortgage, now this.” 

“It's nothing. We cleanse every morning and eat out every night.” Lido shrugged as Veronica popped the trunk. 

“Think of it along the same dynamics as one of our guilty ‘You buy, We Fry’ place off Crenshaw, in L.A.” Veronica rubbed Mila’s shoulder. “Except you will eat most of it and we don't have to purge.” 

The skinny chicks grinned like Siamese twins. 

As Mila began to cook, her sister turned on the custom stereo in the living room. The eclectic sounds of what her sister and Veronica had informed her was musician Ghost Loft, marinated the air. The song ‘Be Easy’ had a soothing rhythm.