Free At His Whim by Erika Masten Page B

through the hushed and polished corridors of the resort.  Tile inlays, sink-down carpets, dark wood, and oversized bouquets of orchids dressed the interior and drew approving mutters from our little party.  There was the spa and Roman baths, the theater and casino night club, the tennis courts and six swimming pools each with waterfalls built in replica of the much larger natural versions that graced the twenty thousand acres of the island, one of the largest holdings ever allowed to pass into private—let alone foreign—hands.  Strangely, Knight seemed most proud when pointing out the views, spending more time talking about the varieties of orchids and birds on the island than the imported stone, the Evian water bath, or the wine cellar bigger than most people’s homes.
    I wondered again, what was it about him?
    We ended the tour on an expansive balcony, stair-stepped above two larger balconies, looking out over the ocean as it lapped against the powdery-fine strand of golden sand.  Adrian Knight still hadn’t released my arm.  In fact, his free hand rested over my fingers, trapping me next to him as he directed everyone’s attention to the half-dozen overlong buffet tables spread with a lunchtime selection of classic luxury dishes and more traditional (though upscale) local fare.  The breeze toyed with us sidelong from the opposite direction, so instead of getting a good whiff of steamed lobster or tropical fruit, I smelled the faintest trace of lemon and champagne mixed with the light spice of warm skin.  Adrian Knight smelled…delicious.
    When Knight finally turned us loose to enjoy our three days and two nights of pampered indulgence, and several guests surged forward to ask him questions, I slid my hand from him and claimed a half-step of space.  But still, I lingered there awkwardly beside him, thinking I should wander away but worried about how forlorn that would look—and feel.  Resisting the strangest urge to slide a fingertip into my mouth, to taste the faint sheen of moisture from his skin, I shook my head and marched myself to the dessert table.
    Honey cake in chocolate sauce.  Some kind of baked banana confection dusted in cinnamon.  Sweet rolls glazed in guava.  This was heaven, like the kitchen on Sunday mornings when I helped my mother bake.  I hovered over the selection and tried to pretend to myself that I wasn’t still bothered by the gorgeous Mr. Knight and being treated like the maiden aunt who needed the pity attention.
    Straightening there for a moment, I actually wondered.  Was it really so obvious that the poise and wardrobe were a poor girl’s version of dress-up?  I had the walk and the talk and the perfect posture, but that essential something—the mindset—of the elite that only came from being born to the ultra-wealthy would always be lacking.  Was I fooling myself thinking I fit in?
    When I was the acknowledged girlfriend of Penn Ellison, blue-eyed blond-haired scion of the East Coast Ellisons, I’d gotten pretty good at blending in.  Or Penn wouldn’t have had me, I was sure.  He’d said as much when he’d gotten caught cheating on me, the photos of him with three half-naked college girls at a party splashed all over the gossip blogs that specialized in keeping tabs on the decadent behavior of the city’s beautiful people.
    “Come on, Chloe,” he’d said as I stood in front of him with my fists clenched and tears rolling down my cheeks against my will.  “You know I could never be serious about that kind of woman.”
    “Women,” I had corrected him.
    His pale blue eyes had turned puppy dog innocent, confused, even concerned.  He really didn’t understand, I realized then, how I could get upset with him for having sex with other women if they were girls from the wrong background, the wrong families.  Girls like me, but without the college education behind them.  Without the years spent passively studying the mannerisms and diction of the prep school