Forbidden Sister by V.C. Andrews Page A

is coming, the Vincents. Mark Vincent works with my father in the mayor’s office. He’s okay, but his wife, Millicent, outdoes my mother when it comes to snobbery.”
    The elevator door opened right to their apartment entryway. When I commented, Evan told me that every apartment in the building was that way. I thought the place was more difficult for a burglar to break into than Fort Knox. The Styleses’ apartment looked twice as large as ours. It was on the twelfth floor. I could see that the living-room windows and the dining-room windows faced the East River and provided magnificent views.
    Evan’s father was the first to greet us. It was easy to see that Evan got some of his handsome features from him. He wore a black sports jacket and a black tie and looked to be about six feet one. He had a tan face and was slim and athletic-looking.
    “You did pretty well for yourself, Evan,” he said when he saw me. “Welcome, Emmie, or should I say bonsoir ?”
    “Whatever you wish, Mr. Styles,” I replied, and he laughed.
    Evan’s mother then appeared. She looked as if she had just walked off a photo shoot for Vogue . A more elegant and beautifully put-together woman I had never seen. She wore a black dress, too, and a wide diamond bracelet and diamond teardrop earrings. Evan had her beautiful eyes, I thought.
    “Mother, this is Emmie Wilcox,” Evan said.
    “Welcome, Emmie. You look very nice,” she said. I saw the way she had been inspecting me from the moment she saw me.
    “Thank you.”
    “You must have done something special to impress my son,” she continued. “He rarely, if ever, asks to invite any of his friends, especially a young lady, to one of our dinners. Adults are too boring.”
    “It’s easy to see what she did to him,” Evan’s father said.
    “Yes, whatever,” his mother said. She sounded as if she had expected a real answer and was disappointed. “The Vincents are here.”
    “Already?” Evan said, glancing at me.
    “You could sound a little happier about it, Evan. We’ll have dinner in fifteen minutes. You can introduce her to the Vincents and then show her the apartment, if you like. I have a few other things to tell Martha before she begins to serve.”
    “Will do, Mom,” Evan said, and either for my benefit or just as a joke, he saluted. He glanced at me, and I shook my head.
    Evan’s father led us into the beautiful living room. There was a black-and-white marble bar with cushionseats. The Vincents were sitting there having cocktails.
    “Hi, Evan,” Mr. Vincent said quickly.
    His wife just smiled. Her eyes were all over me. I thought she wore twice as much makeup as Evan’s mother. Whoever had done the work on her nose and lips was probably in hiding. Her features had that exaggerated look that worked as a flashing billboard announcing, I had plastic surgery.
    “Hi. This is Emmie Wilcox,” Evan said. “Mr. and Mrs. Vincent.”
    “Hello,” I said.
    “We heard you speak French,” Mr. Vincent said. “Were you born there?”
    “No, but my mother is French and was brought up there,” I said.
    “Do you get there often?” Mrs. Vincent asked. “Paris, perhaps?”
    “Not for a long time,” I said. “We might go again soon.”
    I didn’t know why I said that. It just seemed like something Mrs. Vincent expected to hear. My mother often talked about another trip to France, but Papa still hadn’t committed to any.
    “I love shopping on the Champs-Èlysées,” Mrs. Vincent said.
    “You love shopping anywhere,” Evan’s father told her, and Mr. Vincent laughed.
    “Well, that’s what people do, especially in Paris. When in Rome, do as the Romans,” she said. “That’s a very pretty dress,” she told me. “Where did you get it?”
    “Don’t tell her,” Mr. Vincent said quickly. “She’ll be there tomorrow.”
    “Saks,” I replied.
    She looked disappointed. “Oh. Well, they do have some nice things from time to time, but next time you look for something new,