Operation: Temptation (Cupid City Security Romance #4)

Chapter One

Charlie

The dessert cart was my best friend tonight.

I crouched behind a tower of chocolate-dipped strawberries, camera pressed to my eye, and watched Gregory Walsh work the room like he hadn't been publicly disgraced six months ago.

Black tux, silver hair slicked back, that politician's smile that never quite reached his eyes.

He was schmoozing with Ray Stuckey, a developer with a reputation shadier than week-old sushi, and I wanted every second of it on film.

Chocolate Row was lit up like Christmas had crash-landed into Valentine's Day.

String lights crisscrossed the cobblestone street outside, reflecting off the old warehouse windows.

Inside this "private donor event," crystal chandeliers dripped light onto Cupid City's elite while they pretended Walsh's kickback scandal had never happened.

Short memories. Deep pockets. My favorite combination.

I adjusted my blonde wig—the cheap one that itched like hell—and smoothed the black catering vest I'd "borrowed" from a supply closet. The key to blending in wasn't looking expensive. It was looking invisible. Servers were furniture. Nobody noticed furniture.

Walsh leaned closer to Stuckey, gesturing toward a set of architectural plans spread across a high-top table.

I zoomed in. Got the handshake. Got Walsh's hand on Stuckey's shoulder—that overly familiar power move politicians loved.

Got Stuckey passing Walsh what looked like a business card but could've been anything.

My finger flew across the shutter button. Click. Click. Click.

This wasn't the smoking gun that would bring Walsh down again. He'd already been brought down. This was reconnaissance. Insurance. Building a file for the inevitable moment when Cupid City's golden boy tried another comeback and I'd be ready with receipts showing he'd never really left the game.

"Excuse me."

I froze.

A security guard—barrel-chested, buzz cut, the kind who took his job way too seriously—stood three feet away, eyes narrowed. "Staff aren't supposed to be in this section."

My heart kicked into overdrive, but my face stayed bored. I'd learned that trick early. Panic got you caught. Indifference got you ignored.

"Sorry." I straightened up, lowering my camera so it hung casually at my side like every server carried a professional camera. "Guest asked me to grab her dessert from back here. Said the strawberries up front looked picked over."

He wasn't buying it. His eyes narrowed more with every word out of my mouth.

"Let me see your credentials."

Shit.

"Sure, yeah, they're in my—" I patted my vest pockets, stalling. "Must've left them in the break room. I'll go grab them right now."

I turned toward the kitchen, walking with the kind of confidence that said I absolutely belong here and you're wasting my time, but his hand caught my elbow.

"Wait here."

Double shit.

My brain ran calculations. He had sixty pounds on me, but I had the element of surprise and zero shame. Also, four years of knowing every exit in every venue in this city.

I yanked my arm free, pivoted hard, and bolted.

"Hey!"

His shout triggered exactly what I needed: chaos. Heads turned. Servers froze. A woman gasped. I ducked under a waiter's tray, weaved around a cluster of men in expensive suits, and hit the kitchen doors at full speed.

The kitchen was a hurricane of heat and noise. Chefs barking orders, pans clanging, ovens roaring. I didn't slow down. Kept moving. Through the line cooks, past the dishwashing station, straight for the delivery entrance I'd scouted two hours ago.

Cold February air slapped my face as I burst into the alley. I ripped off the wig, shoved it in my bag, and kept running. Footsteps pounded behind me—security was faster than he looked—but I knew these streets. Chocolate Row's alleys connected like a maze, and I'd mapped every shortcut.

Left at the dumpster. Right at the loading dock. Through the gap between buildings that barely fit my frame.

By the time I hit the main street, I'd lost him.

I slowed to a walk, breathing hard, grinning like an idiot.

Adrenaline sang through my veins. This. This was why I did this job.

Not for Morty's money—though the money was good.

Not for the byline I'd never get under my real name.

For this. The rush. The win. The proof that I could outsmart anyone who thought they were untouchable.

I checked my camera. Thirty-seven shots. Walsh's face, clear and sharp, in half of them.

Perfect.

MY APARTMENT BUILDING looked worse in the dark.

The converted warehouse sat on the edge of downtown, where "historic charm" meant "the landlord hasn't fixed anything since 1987." Exposed brick. High ceilings. Unreliable heat. Rent I could almost afford.

I climbed the three flights of stairs—elevator had been busted for two months—and stopped outside my door.

The new locks gleamed silver in the dim hallway light. I'd installed them ten days ago, right after someone had trashed my place. Smashed picture frames. Overturned furniture. Torn apart my files like they'd been searching for something specific.

I kept my photo archive in three places: encrypted cloud, an external drive at Morty's office, and a secondary cloud account under a fake name. Paranoid? Maybe. But five years in this job had taught me that people who wanted to silence you didn't stop at threats.

I unlocked both deadbolts and pushed inside.

The apartment still looked like a crime scene.

I'd cleaned up the broken glass and righted the furniture, but I hadn't replaced anything.

What was the point? The threats kept escalating.

Graffiti, then break-in, then the bridge, then bullets.

Whoever was behind this wasn't going to stop until I did—or until I couldn't.

The evidence was hard to ignore.

Three weeks ago: "I SEE YOU" spray-painted in red across the exposed brick wall above my bed. I'd hung a tapestry over it because repainting exposed brick was a nightmare, but I knew it was there. Felt it every time I tried to sleep.

Ten days ago: the break-in. They'd trashed the place—slashed my mattress, smashed my coffee maker, dumped every drawer. My computer had been accessed too. I'd found the logs. Whether they got what they wanted, I had no idea.

Five days ago: someone tried to run me off Lock & Key Bridge. I'd swerved just in time, ended up with my car half-mounted on the sidewalk, shaking so hard I couldn't drive for twenty minutes.

Two days ago: a bullet through my window. I'd paid the glass guy double to keep his mouth shut and not ask questions.

Going to the cops wasn't an option. Cupid City PD hated gossip sites—they'd threatened to investigate our methods more than once. Trespassing. Fake credentials. Unauthorized surveillance. If I walked into a precinct, I'd walk out in handcuffs. So I handled it the way I handled everything: alone.

I tossed my bag on the couch and grabbed my backup camera from the closet. The closet that also served as my disguise headquarters—wigs on the top shelf, fake credentials in a lockbox, a collection of uniforms and outfits that would make a theater department jealous.

My phone buzzed. Morty.

MORTY: Office. Now.

ME: It's 11pm.

MORTY: I don't pay you to sleep.

ME: You don't pay me enough NOT to sleep.

MORTY: Get your ass here or you're fired.

I stared at the screen. Morty threatened to fire me approximately three times a week, usually when I refused to chase a boring story or showed up late to the office. He'd never meant it. His site traffic tripled when I delivered a scoop.

But this text felt different. No emoji. No sarcasm. Just flat, direct urgency.

ME: On my way.

CUPID CONFIDENTIAL'S office sat above Giovanni's Pizza on a street that smelled like grease and regret. The neon sign in the window—a winking cartoon Cupid holding a camera—flickered like it was having a seizure.

I buzzed myself in and climbed the narrow staircase. Morty's voice boomed before I even opened the door.

"—don't care what it costs. She's my best shooter and I'm not writing her goddamn obituary."

I pushed through the door. The office was exactly as chaotic as always—pizza boxes stacked in the corner, monitors covering every surface, cords snaking across the floor like they were trying to strangle someone.

The air smelled like coffee, weed, and the vanilla vape juice Morty inhaled like oxygen.

Morty stood behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, pacing in the two feet of space his hoarding allowed.

Sixty-one years old, Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a Ramones T-shirt, reading glasses on a chain around his neck.

He looked like someone's retired uncle who'd gotten really into conspiracy theories.

He was also the smartest person I'd ever met.

He spotted me and jabbed a finger toward the chair. "She just walked in. I'll call you back." He hung up and turned to me, face red. "Sit."

"Who was that?"

"Your new babysitter."

I stayed standing. "Excuse me?"

"Don't start with me, Charlotte." He only used my full name when he was done with my shit. "You've got a target on your back the size of this city, and I'm not letting you get killed on my watch."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine! Someone shot at you!"

"Shot at me. Didn't hit me. Important distinction."

Morty slammed his hand on the desk, making three monitors jump. "This isn't a joke! The threats are escalating. First the graffiti, then the break-in, then the bridge, now bullets. What's next? A car bomb? A knife in a dark alley?"

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm being realistic." He grabbed his vape pen and took a long drag, blowing mango-scented clouds toward the ceiling. "You've pissed off half the city. Could be anyone you've ever pointed that camera at."

"I didn't ruin anyone's life. I reported facts. If their lives fell apart, that's on them for being corrupt assholes."