Sister Spy Read online

  “So it's settled, then,” Sydney said, relieved. “AKX, here we come.”

  She started to head for the shower.

  “It's not that easy, Syd. First they have to let us in.”

  “Yeah.” Sydney stopped and turned back to face her friend. “What's the deal with that, anyway? Do you know how we join?”

  “Well, rush is in the fall. Everyone who wants to—”

  “No. How do we join today?”

  Francie rocked back, surprised. “I don't think we can.”

  “There has to be a way.” Sydney gestured to the computer. “If you see what you can find out there, as soon as I get out of the shower I'll—”

  A loud rap on their door cut Sydney off in mid-sentence.

  “Who's that?” Sydney asked.

  “You're closer,” Francie said, not moving.

  Sydney walked to the door and pulled it open, expecting to find one of the other girls on their floor. Instead, Burke Wells stood in the hallway, a sweet, expectant smile on his face and a cellophane-wrapped bunch of daisies in one hand.

  “Burke!” she exclaimed, slamming the door. Blood rushed to her cheeks as Francie's amused laughter rang out behind her.

  “This isn't funny!” she hissed at her friend, frantically rewrapping her towel in an attempt to get more coverage.

  “Au contraire,” Francie said, laughing. “What's he doing here?”

  Sydney reopened the door slightly and peered out through the crack. Burke's expectant expression was gone, but his smile was even broader.

  “You don't look ready,” he observed. “Although, to tell the truth, that towel thing is working for me.” He shrugged, his shaggy red hair brushing his shoulders. “What the heck? I'm ready to set a new trend if you are.”

  “It's just that I worked later than expected. Then I started talking to my roommate and I . . . I totally lost track of time.”

  She didn't have the heart to tell him that she'd also completely forgotten they were supposed to go out that night.

  “I'm so sorry, Burke. But I really have to shower. If you could maybe wait . . . or go do something else and come back . . .”

  She wouldn't have blamed him for being mad, but Burke just handed her the daisies.

  “Here,” he said with an easy grin. “Put these in water too.”

  “So, where are we going?” Sydney asked as she and Burke stepped out of her dorm into the soft, warm air of a late-spring evening. She had dried and dressed so quickly that evaporation still prickled behind her ears, and her damp ponytail switched coolly between her bare shoulders.

  “Me? I'm in charge now?” he asked, surprised. “You're the one who asked me out for pizza.”

  “Right. I did.”

  And she had chosen her venue carefully. Pizza was the ultimate date with training wheels, a chance for her and Burke to get to know each other without the raised expectations of a more romantic setting. If she'd been choosing a restaurant to eat at with Noah, on the other hand . . .

  Don't think about Noah Hicks, she ordered herself automatically. If Noah weren't such a cold, noncommittal jerk, you'd have never called Burke in the first place.

  Not that Noah cares.

  The thought made her glance guiltily at her date. Burke was so nice, so laid back, so . . . normal. She hated even to think she might be using him to get back at Noah.

  “What do you like on your pizza?” she asked, impulsively grabbing Burke's hand. “I have this whole theory about divining people's personalities through their favorite pizza toppings.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but I like just about everything.”

  “That doesn't disappoint me. In fact, it practically proves I'm on to something.”

  “It does, huh?” He pulled her closer, his shoulder rubbing against hers. “Do you think I'm easy now?”

  Her pulse raced, as much from the sudden contact as from the question. She could smell the spice coming off his skin—cologne, maybe, or some exotic soap from one of those all-natural stores he frequented. The perpetual stubble on his chin ruled out aftershave. His gorgeous hazel eyes gazed into hers, so clear, so direct, so open. . . .

  “I don't know what to think about you,” she teased, trying to break the intensity of the moment. “Judging by your politics, there's a pretty good chance you're crazy, but I'll try to keep an open mind.”

  “I'm going to convert you. Wait and see. Once you sink your teeth into your first good conspiracy, you never go back.”

  “I'll have to take your word for that.”

  So far Burke had failed to convince her that the Challenger space shuttle disaster had been the result of sabotage, or that splinter militias within the military were plotting to overthrow the U.S. government, or even that the school commons was controlling student behavior through an unhealthy, hormone-laced diet. He was cute when he got worked up, though.

  She gave him another sideways glance.

  Adorable, she decided.

  The pizza restaurant on the edge of campus was jammed to its low, dark rafters. They had to wait for a table, then wait even longer for the vegetarian pizza that eventually arrived. Sydney braced herself for that awkward pause in conversation, the one where they suddenly realized they had run out of things to say to each other, but it never arrived.

  She was starting to suspect that Burke never ran out of things to say.

  “So, tell me about your job at the bank,” he directed, helping himself to a second slice. The melted cheese stretched into threads that caught in the stubble on his chin. He wiped his face with his hand, completely unself-conscious.

  “There isn't much to tell,” she replied. “It's just a job. You know.”

  “But what do you do there? Typing? Filing?” He winked conspiratorially. “Or do they send you down to the vault and make you count all the money?”

  “Yeah. That's it,” she said, smiling. “Actually, they have me down there spinning straw into gold.”

  “I've heard that about those foreign banks,” he said with a wise nod. “They're all stockpiling gold in order to undermine our currency and throw America into chaos.”

  Sydney snorted with laughter. “Okay, I've decided. You are definitely crazy.”

  “In a good way, I hope.” He winked again, his changeable eyes almost green in the candlelight. His face was already so familiar she felt like they'd been friends forever.

  “For a lunatic, you're all right.”

  “You'll come visit me in the asylum then?”

  “I'll try to work it in.”

  They went for ice cream after dinner. The campus grounds were nearly deserted by the time Burke walked her back to her dorm.

  “You don't have to come up,” Sydney said, stopping outside her ground-floor lobby. “Save yourself some stairs.”

  “I don't mind.”

  “Francie will be asleep. I'd rather say good-bye here.”

  “You're not just trying to get out of kissing me?”

  Her jaw dropped. Burke's relentless honesty was completely outside her experience. On top of that, he was right.

  “No. It's just—I mean—we don't know each other that well,” she stammered awkwardly. “I like you, but—”

  “Good enough,” he interrupted, wrapping his arms around her. “No tongue. I promise.”

  The next moment his lips were on hers, soft and warm and easy. She relaxed against him, relieved. It was a strangely friendly first kiss, unhurried . . . comfortable. No sparks, maybe, but no pressure, either.

  Not like that time I kissed Noah in Paris.

  The memory made her break away. She met Burke's puzzled look with an embarrassed shrug.

  “I had a great time,” she said. “But I really have to go up now.”

  “Will I see you again?” he asked anxiously.

  “Of course! Definitely.”

  But all the way upstairs, she could only think about Noah. SD-6 Agent Hicks was every bad thing Burke wasn't: impatient, arrogant, hot-tempered.


  Older, ambitious, intense. Secretive.

  Mysterious.

  Sydney's heart had backflipped the first time she'd seen him, and even though they'd bickered through most of their Paris mission, the connection between them had been so obvious it seemed pointless to deny it.

  Meanwhile, that's obviously his plan.

  Ever since they'd returned from France, Noah had been a different person. She hadn't expected him to run into her arms—not at work, anyway—but she hadn't expected him to act like he barely knew her either. Worse, he had tried to talk Wilson out of sending her to Scotland, implying she couldn't handle that mission on her own. Just remembering his unsupportive maneuvering made her blood pressure climb a notch. His behavior had been nearly as infuriating as his self-righteous expression.

  I'd like to kiss that smug look right off his face.

  She could do it too. Assuming she still wanted to.

  Who am I kidding? she thought, sighing as she let herself into her darkened dorm room. I'd kiss Noah again in a heartbeat.

  That was the most annoying thing of all.

  Francie was asleep, her body a long lump under the blankets. Quietly closing the door, Sydney switched on her tiny desk lamp, angling it away from her friend. The beam spilled across her bed, illuminating half a ream of paper strewn about on her bedspread. She picked up the nearest sheet.

  RUSH KAPPA KAPPA MU! it proclaimed in fancy letters, followed by more details than Sydney cared to know. She dropped it onto the floor, picking up a stapled stack in its place—an exhaustive history of Sigma Omega.

  Something tells me Francie isn't totally on board with AKX after all.

  Sydney sighed as she pushed the rest of the papers onto the floor. Switching out the light, she crawled between her sheets and pulled the blanket up over her head.

  Sororities! Dealing with a nuclear bomb will be the easy part.

  2

  “I can't believe we're really here,” Francie whispered excitedly to Sydney. “It's all happening so fast!”

  “Fast is good.” Sydney tried to sound confident as she stared up the winding brick walkway at the front of the huge Alpha Kappa Chi sorority house, but she felt like a small-town girl crashing a celebrity party. The historic two-story looked more like a Spanish mission than a residence, with rounded stucco columns fronting a deep veranda across its white façade, and wisteria-covered trellises raining lavender petals down on the lush lawn. Sydney flicked some lint off her strapless black dress and checked her nylons for runs. “I'm ready if you are.”

  “As ready as I'll ever be,” Francie murmured weakly.

  Sydney raised her chin and led the way.

  In the three days since Wilson had revealed her new task, she'd done her research on sororities. Rush happened only in the fall at UCLA, but something called continuous open bidding went on at various times all year. At these smaller events a sorority might pick up a couple of pledges. And it just so happened—or had Wilson timed it?—that Alpha Kappa Chi was having its last open event of the year that Monday evening.

  The house's massive front doors stood open, framing the vaulted, candlelit entry with its floor of octagonal terra-cotta tiles. An intricate black iron railing wrapped the curving wooden staircase to the right, while through the huge picture windows ahead Sydney could see the elaborate pool and surrounding backyard, landscaped and lit like a shot on a magazine cover.

  “Whoa.” The exclamation slipped out despite her previous decision to present a cool, slightly bored exterior.

  “You're not kidding,” breathed Francie.

  “Listen, Francie,” Sydney whispered. “The key here is to look like we're already in. We don't need these girls—we are these girls. So if I say something a little . . . fictional, just play along, okay? It's all part of my entrance strategy.”

  “Your what?” Francie asked, laughing nervously.

  Before Sydney could elaborate, a gorgeous redhead appeared at the top of the stairs, her thick, wavy hair falling to the waistband of her faded hip-hugger jeans. A short pink T-shirt exposed a long, lean expanse of pale midriff and emphasized the sky blue jewel hovering above her pierced navel. Her toenails were painted blue too, Sydney noticed, feeling absurdly overdressed as the girl padded down to meet them.

  “Hi, I'm Roxy,” the redhead offered as her bare feet hit the tiles. She extended a slender hand with silver rings on every finger. “Welcome to Alpha Kappa Chi.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Sydney got out, stunned, but determined not to lose such a golden opportunity. The names of the AKX officers were posted on their Web site—and Roxy Sinclair was president.

  “I'm Sydney,” she added quickly, pumping the hand Roxy offered. “And this is my friend Francie.”

  Roxy shook Francie's hand while Sydney tried to collect her wits. Her research had confirmed everything Francie had said about AKX's snooty reputation, and the invitation for the continuous open bidding party that night had specified cocktail attire. The last thing Sydney had expected was that the leader of these infamous snobs would turn up wearing jeans and a navel ring.

  She kind of liked her for that.

  “It's the clothes, right?” Roxy asked her, reading her mind. She smiled, a slight shake of her head setting her thick hair in motion. “I know, I know. If we're going to make you guys dress up, we ought to do the same. But the truth is, cocktail attire isn't my idea of a good time. Especially when the strongest cocktail we're serving tonight is cranberry juice and club soda.”

  “I guess you won't have any trouble separating the wannabes from the actives,” Francie said uneasily, glancing down at her slinky red halter dress and matching heels.

  “Don't worry about sticking out,” Roxy reassured her quickly. “Most of the other sisters will dress up.” She arched a perfect auburn brow. “Some of them will dress up plenty.”

  Sydney caught the sarcasm and found herself returning Roxy's smile. The sorority's president was aware of its reputation, then. And not all of the girls in the house were snobs.

  “Let me introduce you to a few people,” Roxy offered. “Everyone's in back.”

  She led the way through a formal white living room dominated by a massive fireplace, cut through a cafeteria-sized kitchen, and entered a recreation room packed with plush furniture in the official sorority colors of lavender and pink. Three sets of French doors were open to the backyard, and in front of them stood an assortment of girls in their best dresses. Sydney picked out the would-be pledges easily; they were the ones holding fizzy pink drinks in clear plastic cups and trying unsuccessfully not to look stiff and nervous. Her attention immediately wandered from them to the actives, assessing each one as she tried to guess who might know something about Jen Williams's death.

  “This is Keisha,” Roxy said, gravitating toward a striking girl with short black hair and large dark eyes. “She's one of the good ones,” she stage-whispered to Sydney. “Keisha, this is Sydney and . . . I'm sorry. What's your name again?”

  “Francie,” Francie supplied, her smile a tiny bit strained.

  “Right. Francie.” Roxy gave a cute, apologetic shrug, wrinkling her perfect nose. For a redhead, her complexion was surprisingly free of freckles.

  “How's it going?” Keisha asked in a bored voice, not looking directly at them. “Roxy, what's the deal with the food tonight? I thought Ashley was in charge of catering, and she's not even here.”

  Roxy glanced around the room, then smiled mischievously. “I could always call for pizza.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Keisha, perking up. “Would that ever frost her! Can you imagine? A dozen Mega Meat Busters scattered around in greasy cardboard boxes? I'd whip out my credit card for that.”

  “You'd have to get in line.” Roxy glanced at a large wall clock. “Give her fifteen more minutes, and then I'll start worrying.”

  “Who's your caterer?” Sydney asked, trying to break out of the background.

  Keisha's eyes rested on a point above Sydney's forehead. “We
use different people. Ashley's obsessed with French—she probably called Le Petit Gourmet.”

  “I use Marcel's for French.” Sydney turned her back toward Francie, the better to ignore her friend's amazed expression. “Of course, I haven't been planning many dinners since my father remarried—again. Evil stepmother. You know the drill.”

  Keisha's smile dawned slowly, catching her face by surprise. “I do know the drill,” she said, her gaze finally connecting with Sydney's.

  “We'll all have to sit down and swap trophy-wife stories someday.” Roxy rolled her blue eyes. “I bet I'll win.”

  A sudden commotion at the entrance to the kitchen caught everyone's attention. A tall, lanky blonde in pink silk preceded two tuxedo-clad waiters into the rec room, motioning frantically for them to begin serving appetizers from the trays balanced on their arms.

  “Oh, look,” said Roxy. “Here's Ashley and the food. I'd better go make sure there aren't any problems.”

  Roxy left to talk to Ashley, and when Sydney turned back to Keisha, she discovered that the other girl had slipped off too.

  “What was that?” Francie demanded. “Your dad remarried? Again? What made you say such a thing?”

  Sydney shrugged. She knew the role she wanted to play for these girls, but Francie knew the truth: Mr. Bristow had never remarried after his wife died in an accident when Sydney was only six. Sydney rarely spoke of her mother's death; it still hurt too much, for one thing, and the way her businessman father had neglected her since was almost as hard to accept. Besides, she was looking for common ground with these girls, not sympathy. If she had to bend the truth a bit to fit in, it was all part of the job. It was almost scary, really, how quickly she'd learned to accept that. The stories she made up for work barely even seemed like lies to her anymore. They were a cover, a strategy, a plan. . . .

  Having Francie hanging around was definitely going to cramp her style.

  “I mean, I know the guy has his faults,” Francie continued. “But—”

  “I'm trying to blend in. Okay?” Sydney cut her off in a low voice. “Do you want them to like us or not?”

  “I just don't understand why you'd lie.”