Cloud Dust: RD-1 (R-D #1)(38)

Fucker.

"Corinne, the President is removing Dalton as Rafe's handler. I'm taking over for him until another handler can be found, if it proves necessary. I figure Safer is handing him his walking papers now. We don't need a handler spying on somebody else's ward with the intention to harm, and we certainly don't need a Program Director who wants a member of the Program dead."

"What does the President intend to do?" Rafe asked, a chill in his voice.

"Cutter will be asked—discreetly of course—to step aside and retire permanently."

"When will that happen?"

"Next week, after the funeral. We don't need more than one thing at a time cluttering up the media."

"Who's in line to take his place?" I asked. While the word witch and the threat that followed sent a chill through me, the fact that Cutter would be asked to step aside sent a bigger chill down my spine. This wasn't a man who'd happily accept a request to step aside and retire. Trouble would come of it—I just wasn't sure what form it would take. Cutter was more than dangerous—to all of us.

"I don't have an answer," August replied. "I think the President intends to be much more careful choosing the next Director. She wanted to throw Cutter a bone, since he has so much support throughout the country."

"And perhaps turn Cutter aside from running against her in the next election?" Rafe asked.

"It has happened before," August agreed. "If he'd stopped at naming him Secretary of Defense, then we wouldn't be having this conversation. Since Hugh, his predecessor, was also Director of the Program, the President thought it made sense. It didn't, and most people involved in the Program understood that. We need someone a little more open-minded than Paul Cutter."

"Auggie, you know there'll be trouble to come of this," I said.

"I'm afraid of that, too, but we can't let him keep the job. Not with that attitude. The President was really pissed when she heard this conversation, and it took place right after the two of you saved the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State. Dalton contacted Cutter to spill everything he knew about that rescue, and Cutter responded to your act of heroism by calling you an offensive name and making implied threats."

"He's not getting a Christmas card," I muttered. "I think Dalton was only following orders," I added.

"Dalton took an oath when he came aboard, to protect the Program and all involved. He didn't do that. He knew what Cutter's response would be. He'll be reassigned, so stop worrying about his sorry ass." August shook his head at me, as if he couldn't believe I'd stoop to defend Dalton Parrish.

"I think he meant well; he just got caught up with the wrong person," I said.

"Corinne, stop giving that bastard any sympathy," Rafe muttered.

"There's something else," August said.

"What?"

"I'm leaving the bugs and cameras inside your suite—including the kitchen—turned off, Cori. They'll be active outside your windows and the outside door, but you'll have privacy inside your suite. I know that having no privacy bothers you, so the President ordered it done. From now on, you'll have to contact James through traditional means to tell him the cookies are ready."

"Are you kidding?" I stared at August in disbelief.

"Not kidding. The President appreciates what you've done for the country, and this is her way of rewarding you."

"Then please tell her thank you for me," I whispered.

*

I felt numb as Rafe and I walked out of Auggie's office. No bugs inside my suite? I didn't know how to react. That meant, perhaps, that Rafe and I could have a private conversation.

First, though, I needed a drink.

"Want wine or the hard stuff?" I asked the moment we walked inside our kitchen and shut the door.

"Scotch?" he lifted an eyebrow.

"I have some Macallan here somewhere," I said, scooting my step stool toward the fridge. I always kept the good stuff in the cabinet over the refrigerator. "Here." I handed the bottle down to him. "Twenty-five year. I love Macallan. It's hard to find Macallan Amber, though. I like it, too."

"Someday, we'll go to Scotland and get all we want," Rafe grinned as he pulled two glasses from the cabinet. "Plain or rocks?"

"I want ginger ale with mine, and a couple of ice cubes."

"Wimp."

"I keep telling you that. You never listen." I hopped off the stool and went in search of a bottle of ginger ale in the fridge.

He poured Scotch; I added ginger ale and ice to my glass. "Here's to private conversations," he held his up in a toast. I clinked my glass against his. He leaned in to kiss me.

I forgot to breathe.

I'll never forget our night. He didn't push me, or even attempt to convince me to get naked with him. He was content to wait for that. Instead, he herded me toward my sitting room, settled me onto the sofa and wrapped an arm about me, pulling me close.

"Tell me," he whispered against my ear, his breath warm and flavored with expensive Scotch. His accent had gone straight from American to Ukrainian, and I was sorry I couldn't understand his native language at that point—I figured his words would be delicious and something to savor.