Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

“Who makes this shit up?” I mutter.

Actually, I know the answer to that question. The team does. Behind every good spy is an equally strong support team. Researchers, weapon specialists, logistics, finance, etc. They call them Housekeeping. They have prepared my backstory, my travel documents, packed my bags for the trip, will have a residence acquired at our destination, and have vetted my credentials.

I keep reading.

I’m taking a break from school to see the world with my brother, Aristotle “Ari” Bradford-Von Allister. We are going to Montrovia to spend time together after our billionaire father, the reclusive Ares Von Allister, passed away.

I study the guy sitting next to me. He’s about six feet tall, solidly built but still lean. If I had to guess, he’s got nice muscles under the heavy flannel shirt he’s wearing. His hair is about the same color as mine, a dirty blonde—heavy on the dirty. His eyes are a similar hazel with a strong Roman nose and long face. His hair is cut short on the sides and long on the top in the trend newly favored by hipsters across the world. Whoever cast us as brother and sister did a good job. We actually look a lot alike.

“Are you Ari?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to have to loosen up if you want anyone to believe you’re a billionaire playboy.”

“Finish reading,” he says, his eyes looking equal parts lethal and sexy.

“Well, this is interesting. We just met at the reading of our father’s will. The father neither of us had ever met. In order to inherit his billions, we have to spend the next six months getting to know each other.”

He nods. “It’s a good cover. And Ares did just pass. So the timing is perfect.”

I take a moment to study my new brother. His stiff posture suggests some kind of military training, but he also has the air of someone raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. This contradiction intrigues me, and I want to know where and how he trained. He’s twenty-two and I’m twenty-one. Since that is my real age, I’m assuming it’s his too.

We’ve leased a villa overlooking the Mediterranean in the glitzy Montrovian city, Cap de Playa Antilles. Better known as Cap. It’s a playground for the ultra-rich, boasting a harbor large enough to handle the priciest of yachts, an elegant casino complex, luxurious hotels, world-class restaurants, exclusive designer shops, an ornate opera house, and streets littered with exotic cars. The town is a magnet for glitzy and glittering events, home to an elite polo team, tennis championships, and a Formula One race, which happens to be taking place next weekend.

Our chauffeur and butler, Ellis, will be traveling with us. He’s about sixty, and when I look at him in the rear view mirror, he gives me a discreet wink.

Then he speaks. “Are you through reading your dossier? Have you committed the details to memory?”

The details he’s referring to are things like my name, birthdate, and social security number. Of more importance, the phone number that will connect me directly to Black X and a series of authentication code words. Child’s play.

“Yes,” I say, confidently.

“Good, because we have some shopping to do.”

Ari groans, so I smack him.

But instead of shopping at a store, it seems the store has come to us. Upon arrival at our three-bedroom suite in a posh D.C. hotel, we are greeted by racks of clothing and two women both named Kate.

Kate Number One says, “You can call me Dr. Kate.”

“What are you a doctor of?” I ask politely.

“I have my undergrad in luxury marketing from NYU and a doctorate in Anthropology. It’s my job to make sure you look the part. I’m on your Housekeeping team along with my colleague, Kate.”

Kate Number Two says, “If you call the private concierge number that is in your phone, you’ll be speaking directly with me. I’ll arrange anything you need on site. As you were told, we’ve leased a beautiful villa that comes with a full staff. We’ve shipped over all sorts of goodies for you. Once you step foot in Montrovia, you will be Penny and Ari.”

“Um, Huntley.”

She studies me. “You’re right. I can’t picture you as a Penny. Anyway, other than Ellis, you are on your own. Any information you come across will be relayed to us through him. Although, you each have emergency protocol.”

“Let’s get you into the wardrobes we’ve selected to make sure everything fits. We have a tailor on standby and then you both have appointments at the spa downstairs. Hairstylists and makeup will be brought in to prep you for the event tonight.”

“There was no mention of an event in my packet,” Ari states.

“Rule follower,” I say under my breath.

Kate One says, “You’re going to the Smithsonian gala. We’ve got you seated with Peter Prescott and his model of the week. Peter is—”