Dark Rider -- Part 6
by Martin H Slusser

Cindy VanTur was a beautiful woman and she knew it.

Mirrors never lie, do they?

She smiled to hide her distaste for Ryan and the town of Orange. He had to be one of the most ugly men she had ever seen. Briefly, she compared Ryan to her ex-husband. She smiled. Even Tom was more of a man than Ryan was now. But what the old devil had been in his youth . . . attracted her.

The Irish, didn’t they have certain powers, rather like her Amerindians? It would bear looking into. Unquestionably, the Irish were no where near as sullen when put to the yoke. It was unfortunate, but they were not Indians. Worse, the Irish were a powerful political entity in the U.S. and around the world. No, any taken would be missed.

Cindy uttered a delicate sigh.

She whispered into the mirror, “Benny, you naughty boy.” One hand stroked her taut and well defined stomach. It felt so . . . empty. Benny . . . and a flicker of warmth glowed there, beneath her hand. Her eyes misted. The thought of her time with him at the Manse brought a smile to the misty face.

Naughty boy. Mmm, yes.

Perhaps another child to fill the void left after the raid?

She had plenty of Benny’s donations. Still, the obstetrician said she should wait. His son had been very active both within and coming out. Rather like the sire. She smiled in soft remembrance.

Breaking into her musing, ‘The Spider’ Ryan ask in his sly way, “Cindy, luv, would not the Project pay . . . just a little more . . . .”

He took a quick gulp of his Scotch and clenched his hands to keep from crossing himself.

“T-To deal with the Melancowski woman can be less than healthful. Unless one be, shall we say, well endowed.”

Cindy touched her briefcase. She admired the portraits and paintings in his study.

“You have excellent tastes, Mr. Ryan,” she murmured. “Expensive tastes.” The piece near the window had to be a d'Angelo sculpture. Was it? If so, and not a reproduction, then it had to be the one missing from the Muse’ de Paris only last month.

With a delicate clearing of his throat, Ryan shrugged. Pretty baubles were not meant for the eyes of commoners. Money was power. Nothing more, surely.

The serene look returned to her face. The cold blood in his veins quickened and heated.

Greedy old pervert. Cindy offered him a warm smile to cover her feelings.

“You deal with Melancowski in your own way.” Leda Melancowski meant less to her than did Ryan’s chauffeur. Much less.

“She rules that valley through her people and her foul religion.”

 Ryan gulped the Scotch and dumped more into his glass. A puddle formed below his shaking hand.

Her fingers traced the delicate outline of the ornate table on which the briefcase sat. “And you,” she asked, her eyes thoughtful. “Does she rule you also?” She glanced at his reflection in the mirror, her eyes telling Ryan that if he feared one aging prostitute, then he was a fool.

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