Cameras flashed all around the throng of people, temporarily blinding me and leaving white dots in front of my eyes. The crowd was made up mostly of journalists, all biting at the bit to be the first one to have a story. I blended in with the crowd, dressed in a simple cocktail dress  like so many of the other female reporters around me. The guys were mostly dressed in clean cut button down shirts and slacks, most of us trying to hide the fact that we were skint broke.
With another flash of the expensive cameras the double doors of the Ritz swung open and the rich delegation of the evening swept in. The charity “ball” as the papers had put it was hosted and funded by Prince William, heir to the throne in London. The Prince led the entourage, dressed in a suit that undoubtedly cost more than my yearly salary.

William was undeniably handsome, with dark brown hair and sparkling blue eyes; he was every girl’s fantasy. There was a prudish looking twig of a thing hanging onto the Prince’s arm who sneered down at the world. All of those poor girls’ fantasies crushed by one snobby Astock heiress. The main focus was of course on the Prince but I noticed the rest of the group following him. There were several handsome and rich men who were prominent figures in London, as well as quite a few women who were quite wealthy. But there was one person in particular who caught my eye; Lord Charles Hewitt, Duke of Hewitt Manor in Wales and one of the Prince’s closest friends.

 I had never seen very many pictures of Lord Hewitt, as he tended to stay out of the limelight. The man certainly rivaled Prince William in looks, having sandy brown hair, green eyes that gave new meaning to the term emerald, and a little smile that exuded confidence. Now I’m not the type of girl who typically swooned over men, but surrounded by so many it was hard to ignore them. The entourage moved past the reporters and into the large ball room; Lord Hewitt followed the Prince and in one brief moment those dazzling eyes found mine and didn’t move. I blinked my eyes wide as if I had become a deer caught in headlights.

When those eyes did not leave mine, I forced myself to look away, mortified to find my cheeks heating up. The group moved past and I was able to look up again, knowing I had probably just imagined that stare. A hotel official appeared out of nowhere and after clearing his throat he announced, “VIPs, please come this way.” I glanced down at my badge, still rather confused as to how it had managed to say VIP. When I had called my boss about it he had decided it was simply a mistake and to “roll with it.” After firmly making sure I was what they called a “Very Important Person” I followed the few other reporters into the enormous conference room.
The room was decorated to the nines and caterers were strategically placed all over the room. One area was roped off for the VIPs and the Prince and Lord Hewitt were already there, sipping at their champagne while the thin woman drank what looked like a strawberry margarita. I inched over to a small huddle of journalists, who were taking advantage of the free food and drinks. I really didn’t want anything to drink but I grabbed a glass of champagne anyway in order to have something to do with my hands. I sipped at it as I watched the rich and famous of London prattle on, talking about everything from cricket to the latest fashions.

I went to take another sip from the wine glass when I felt something knock into me, sending my drink sloshing all over my dress. I gasped, turning around to glare at whoever had run into me. A man hidden behind a large camera stood behind me, looking properly chagrined.

“Are you alright? I’m sorry; I can’t see a blasted thing behind this.” The flustered camera man swung his camera to the side, revealing a young, pink face that was creased with worry. “I’m really sorry; can I get you another drink?” I was tempted to be rude, but I really couldn’t bear to make that youthful face any more pathetic and instead smiled, shaking my head.

“No, that’s alright. Thank you, but I’m fine.” The photographer seemed to relax at that, smiling a bit and leaning on a table.

“So, you’re a reporter, huh?”I nodded, smiling crookedly at his understanding expression. His grin widened as he continued, “You don’t fit in very well, do you?” I could have taken offense, but I know that was all too true.

“No…I’m not very good at these types of events.” I admitted, setting my now empty cup on the table beside the photographer.

“Nah, me either.” We watched the group of wealthy socialites for a moment; Prince William was talking animatedly to his little girlfriend and the photographer’s face curled into a sneer. “Ugh, just look at him. Such a lady killer…wanker.” I turned to him, raising an eyebrow, not expecting such a derisive comment. I had thought William was well respected in London.

“Who, William?” The camera man laughed, shaking his head in amusement.
“No, not him. William doesn’t know how to wank.” Before I could let that rather crude statement sink in, the man said, “Lord Hewitt. See him, the bloke beside the Prince.” Oh yes, I certainly saw him. I had been trying to avoid looking at him. “Seems like a charmer, right?” I couldn’t help nodding; Charles Hewitt did seem to be a charmer. The photographer smirked, picking up his camera again. “Watch out for him.” 

He walked away and I stared after him, wondering what on earth he meant. I grabbed another glass of champagne from a caterer to replace the one that was now covering my dress. Taking a long swig of it this time, I turned around and nearly covered myself in the sticky alcohol a second time. Lord Hewitt, the very man I had just heard been called a wanker, was standing in front of me, that smile still playing on his lips.

“I apologize, miss. Did I scare you?” I had to resist the urge to say yes, though the better term would probably have been surprised. Instead I tried to smile nonchantly and shook my head.

“Oh, no, Lord Hewitt. Not at all.” Those stunning green eyes sparkled as he smiled charismatically when I said his name.

“Ah, so you do know who I am. I see there’s no escaping fame.” He glanced over my shoulder then to stare at the photographer who was now engrossed in a conversation with another reporter. “But it seems not everyone is a fan. Do you think I’m a wanker?” I had just gone to take another sip of champagne and nearly choked at this, hastily covering a cough with my hand.
“I-Of course not, Lord Hewitt.” Luckily he didn’t seem bothered by her reaction, instead waving a hand airily.  

“Please, call me Charles. I’m hardly worthy of my title. And what is your name? I’m afraid we’ve never met.” No, I didn’t tend to hang out with one of the richest men in London…
“Sophie. Sophie Jordan…I’m a reporter.”
“An American reporter too!” At his tone I frowned slightly. But then I realized he was smiling; he was teasing me!
 “Not going to write any unpleasant rubbish about me, are you?” I shook my head, smiling. The truth was I didn’t know enough about him to write anything, unpleasant or otherwise.
“Of course not, Lord- …Charles.  I’m here to write about the charity ball and Prince William.  No one mentioned anything about you.”
Charles frowned, as if this fact bothered him in the slightest. “I’m wounded. Perhaps you just have to know me better. Would you care to dance?”
 I had to literally keep my jaw from dropping at this question.  Lord Charles Hewitt, best friend to the Prince, was asking me to dance? Me, a lowly, slightly chubby reporter? I forced myself to nod, trying to keep my wits about me. I took his hand, praying I didn’t appear overly eager. Charles smirked at my reaction, smoothly leading me out onto the dance floor. I could practically feel the other people’s eyes on us, murmurs and whispers spreading throughout the room like wildfire. Charles placed a hand around my waist, the gesture receiving many raised eyebrows.  I couldn’t help but smile a little myself as Charles pulled me flush against his body.  Ignoring the stares we received, we danced for nearly an hour, while nearly everyone else simply watched. The band began to play yet another song and Charles shifted me in his arms, just enough for me to suddenly feel a rather prominent erection.

“Charles-.”I began to whisper, not quite sure what to do. My handsome dance partner shook his head to silence me, a roguish look in those sparkling green eyes.
He leaned in to whisper, “Do you have a room here, Sophie?” I nodded slowly, hardly able to comprehend what was happening.  Charles grinned mischievously.
“Come on.” He led me across the dance floor and out of the room, ignoring the whispering around us. The moments after we left and the elevator ride up to my room were a complete blur. I still could hardly believe this was happening as Charles gently pushed me down upon the king sized bed, kissing me while he did so. His fingers skimmed along my skin, deftly finding the zipper to my dress and pulling it down. In turn I reached up and began to undo the buttons on his shirt, hoping my fingers weren’t trembling. Charles kissed my neck as he undid my bra, it joining my dress and his shirt on the floor. As Charles' hands skimmed down farther, I pulled the string of the lamp, the light vanishing along with the underwear.

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