The horizon was just beginning to lighten with touches of the pink and gold of sunrise as Scott came out of the villa. He paused at the top of the curved stairway, steaming cup of coffee in hand, gazing out to sea. He never got tired of how beautiful dawn was here.
This morning, though, he gradually became aware that something was out of place. He scanned the deep shadows down at the poolside, and then a frown creased the skin between his eyebrows. Virgil up before daybreak was about as common as snow on Tracy Island.
He came down the steps quietly and approached his brother, studying his profile thoughtfully. Years of caring for all his brothers in sickness and health had taught him the skills of quick assessment, and he knew Virgil better than any of them. He looked like hell. Scott wondered if he'd slept at all.
"So," he said lightly. "You've decided this is going to be the new look for you, huh?"
Virgil jumped, startled. He saw Scott and grunted something, looking back out over the water.
Scott took the chair beside him. They watched the sunrise for a moment in silence. Then Scott said, "Virgil, what's going on? And don't give me that crap about how you can't tell me."
"Virgil!"
They both turned to see Jeff descending the steps toward the pool. Virgil groaned quietly, running a hand through his hair in an effort to not look quite so much like he hadn't slept in two days. It didn't help a whole lot.
"Morning, Dad." Scott turned to greet his father, automatically running interference. "You're up early."
"Morning, Scott. Virgil, it's your turn to go to New York, isn't it?" Jeff said, coming around the table to sit with them. Scott saw him take brief stock of Virgil's unkempt appearance, but he didn't comment on it.
Virgil flicked Scott a stricken glance. "Ah, yes…but…"
Jeff shook his head. "No 'buts,' son. Look, I know you boys don't like to deal with the mundane stuff of running this business." He raised a hand quickly to stem their automatic denials. "I live here too, you know – I see the annual reports in the trash the day after they come in. But remember, one day you'll have to take over from me, and when that happens, I think it might be a good idea of you had set foot inside the Tracy Corporation enough times that our employees actually recognize you."
Never at his best this early in the morning, Virgil's overtired state made it even harder for him to find words. "That's not it, dad, honest, it's just that…"
"I'll go," Scott said quietly.
"Now, Virgil, I understand, really I do, but… what?" Jeff belatedly reacted to Scott's interjection.
Scott took a sip of coffee, his eyes enigmatic. "I said, I'll go. I could use some time off the Island."
Virgil looked at him in frank surprise. "But you hate Tracy Corp work."
"Uh-huh." Scott couldn't help a grin at his brother's blunt way of calling things as he saw them. "But I'll go anyway."
Jeff sat back, appraising him. "If this is your way of apologizing for yesterday, son…"
Scott smiled thinly. "It's not, father. Trust me."
Jeff met his eldest son's unyielding gaze for a moment, mindful of his talk with Penelope the night before. Scott was right, he thought. He did need some time away from the Island. "All right, then, it's settled. I need you to drop Penny and Parker in London on the way."
Scott nodded. "No problem. It'll be nice to have the company. It's a long flight."
Jeff got up. "Penny's packing now. She'd like to leave right after breakfast."
He started back toward the steps to the villa. "And don't think you're getting away with it, Virgil," he said. "You'll go for sure the next time."
"Yes, father," Virgil murmured. As soon as Jeff was out of earshot he shot a grateful look at Scott. "Thanks."
"You're in no condition to fly all that way," Scott said. "He would have figured that out eventually. Did you get any sleep last night?"
Virgil gazed at the ground, avoiding his eyes. Scott looked at him for a moment. Then: "We're going to have this talk, Virg. And you're gonna come clean with me. Okay?"
Virgil looked up, but not at his brother. He stared out over the dawn-gilded ocean. "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours," he said softly.
Scott paused, an ironic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I knew you'd say that."
Virgil turned toward him, the expression in his burnt-honey eyes hidden in shadow. Scott sighed. "Okay," he said. "We'll do this when I get back."
Virgil nodded, shoulders sagging wearily. "Hey," Scott said. "Whatever it is, we'll find a way to fix it, Virg. I promise."
The reminder of so many childhood conversations made Virgil's chest suddenly ache. He wished fervently that Scott was right. But this wasn't like the problems Scott had so often helped him solve when they'd been younger. This one, he doubted even his big brother could fix.
But he nodded again anyway, knowing it was the response Scott expected. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Scott got up, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. Then he turned and headed for the stairs.
Halfway up, he couldn't contain it any more – he started to whistle. Opportunity had presented itself, and he'd grabbed it in both fists. He was going to New York.
And Tally Somerville.
Tally was late, as usual.
It had been the pattern all day. She had worked very late on her research the night before, finally quitting at three a.m. when she could no longer see straight, crawling into bed over piles of folders and envelopes anddata cds. She'd dragged herself out of bed again at seven, reset the alarm and dived back under the covers for another precious half hour. That left her with no time to do anything but take a fast shower and pile her thick blonde hair up at the back of her head, fastening it with a clip. She was never going to make that eight-thirty meeting… Searching her closet for something that was clean and didn't need ironing, she threw on a pair of khakis, a white shirt and a jade green sweater, grabbed her makeup and her laptop and ran out of the apartment. She was still late for the meeting.
It wasn't until halfway through the morning that she paused in the middle of her third cup of strong coffee and realized that she had promised to meet her mother for lunch at a very upscale new restaurant before a meeting about her latest art gallery opening. She looked down at what she was wearing and groaned. Maybe she'd get enough time to dash past her apartment on the way and…
Yeah, right. The next time she looked up, she realized the press of work had gotten the better of her once more, and she'd left it until the very last second. Again. She was standing up, grabbing her bag, figuring she just had time to get to her destination if midtown traffic wasn't too bad, when of course the phone rang. And of course, against her better judgement, she answered it. And of course, on the other end was a person who actually wanted to talk about International Rescue. At great length. In slow, very broken English.
She put on her makeup in the cab, couldn't do anything about her hair. Damn, she thought bitterly, why did these things always conspire to make her mother look right about her life?
Charlene Somerville was holding court in the restaurant when she arrived, her art gallery meeting already in progress. Tally paused in the doorway, watching her beautiful, elegant Southern Belle mother work the table full of potential art investors, easily holding the attention of every man in the surrounding area. She did it so subtly, so effortlessly, and when she turned on the charm every woman for five tables around suddenly felt invisible. Tally knew that feeling well.
She caught her reflection in the window as she went in, her mouth twisting as she took in her outfit, which was more suitable to an afternoon at the yacht club than this very chic new bistro. She groaned, realizing that she was even wearing tennis shoes. Why did life always make quite sure that she had to fight these battles completely unarmed? She put on a brave smile, feeling it falter as her mother saw her and instantly registered a faint frown of disappointment. Shit. This wasn't going to go well.
Mired in the complete inadequacy her mother's presence always produced in her, she didn't even notice the appreciative glances from the businessmen having lunch at the tables she passed as she entered the restaurant. Her mother had done it again, and she was an awkward sixteen year old with braces once more.
She took the peripheral chair her mother gestured toward and waited for the meeting to be over. At last Charlene had air kissed the last over-preserved society matron goodbye and flirted with the last Wall Street stockbroker. She turned to her daughter and gave a tiny sigh. "Darlin', would it have killed you to wear a dress? You look like you're going to barbecue night at the country club."
"Mother…"
Charlene was examining her daughter's hastily done hairdo, reaching as if to fix it. Tally batted her hand away. "I think it's time for those highlights we were talking about," her mother continued, oblivious to her protests. "Do you the world of good. Let me call Willie for you…"
"Mother…" Tally squirmed, glancing uncomfortably around at the nearby restaurant patrons. "Can we please sit down?"
Her mother gave her a look of mild surprise. "Well, of course, darlin'."
They took their seats opposite one another at the table. The bus boy began to clear the plates left by the guests who had just departed. Charlene leaned over, smiling conspiratorially, "Let's go shopping this afternoon. Just you and me. Come on, it'll be fun, and we can buy you some new clothes."
Tally braced herself. Here it came, the swift reduction of her entire life and achievements to the sum of the contents of her wardrobe. "I have to work, Mother."
"Oh, come on, Tally darlin', they won't miss you for one afternoon. I saw a gorgeous little silk number at Bergdorff's that has your name written all over it."
"Mother, I can't. Really. And I have plenty of clothes."
Her mother's arched eyebrow was all the answer she needed to make to that statement. "Tally, honey, you're a pretty girl, but you could make so much more of yourself. Now come on, if we hurry we could be at Bergdorff's by…"
"Mother," Tally said, an edge creeping into her voice, "I don't have the kind of job where I wear…"
"Sweetie," Charlene rolled over her smoothly. "How do you expect to find a man if you insist on dressing and behaving like one of them?"
Tally instantly thought of Mason and his unwelcome advances. "Mother, for God's sake, what do you want me to do – show up at the WNN newsroom in a little black dress and pumps? There are other things in the world more important than whether I manage to get myself into another disastrous relationship!"
Charlene looked at her. "Now, Tally, we need to work on that attitude of yours," she said with mild reproach. "Positive thinking gets positive results, remember?"
Tally stared at her. As usual, no matter what she said, nothing ever seemed to reach her mother. Sticks and stones… She remembered the endless battles when she had been a teenager – her mother smiling that serene Teflon-coated smile, Tally's protesting words rolling off her effortlessly, all the while relentlessly pursing her goal of whatever major personality or lifestyle change she wanted her daughter to make. Charlene would push and push like an expert in Chinese water torture, and Tally would resist until she finally could take no more, erupting at her mother in fury to please, please leave her alone. And then Charlene would shake her head in bewilderment, making some platitude about how she understood how tough it was to be a teenager, all the pressure and everything, and they'd talk about this later – as if the outburst had been caused by Tally's teenage hormones instead of her mother's refusal to stop trying to change her into someone she didn't want to be.
Tally's jaw set like stone at the memory. Just for once she'd like to see her mother really lose her temper, but she knew Charlene was too smart for that. Because that would mean something had gotten to her, and she would never allow Tally – or anyone else for that matter – the satisfaction.
She determinedly changed the subject. "How's the opening going?"
"Splendidly," Charlene smiled, for all the world as if their previous conversation hadn't happened. "We've pre-sold fifteen pieces already."
"That's great," Tally said, glad to be on neutral ground again. Her relief was short-lived, however, and she gritted her teeth at her mother's next question.
"Can I count on you to be at our opening on Friday?"
Tally nodded, swallowing her reluctance. "Yes, of course. I'll even wear a dress."
Predictably, Charlene didn't react to the underlying sarcasm. "Honey, at least check out the one I saw at Bergdorff's, will you? I'll have Sharon put it on hold for you."
Tally acquiesced. "Okay."
"So," her mother said with studied casualness, looking at the menu. "Will you be bringing anyone?"
The sudden, vivid image of Scott surprised Tally. She looked down quickly to hide the expression she knew must have come into her eyes. "No," she said. "I've been busy, working on a big story."
"Ah hah, I knew it," Charlene's expression was delighted. "You've met someone!"
"No. Well, maybe," Tally murmured, picking up the menu. "I don't know. Can we order? I'm starving."
"Of course, dear." Her mother summoned the waiter. "Just remember what I told you. If you spend your life working, he's going to lose interest. Men won't wait around an empty apartment."
Tally sighed. "I don't think this guy spends much time waiting around empty apartments," she said. "But I'll try to remember that."
Thankfully, the waiter arrived at that moment. Grateful for the reprieve, Tally sat back in her chair, thinking again of Scott. Her mother would have heartily approved of him. She found herself wishing fervently that he'd been someone else, anyone else...and that they'd met under different, better circumstances…
The story of my life, she thought, a trace bitterly, as she looked up to order her lunch.
Rosemary O'Sullivan arrived for work at the Tracy Corporation promptly at 8 a.m. that day, as she had done every day for the last twenty three years – no matter where that work had been located. And the Tracy Corp. headquarters had moved several times over the years before finding its current home, a sleek, black granite building with gold-tinted windows in the heart of mid-town Manhattan.
An attractive woman in her mid-fifties with auburn hair, sparkling hazel eyes and a firm but friendly demeanor, she had been Jeff Tracy's right hand since the beginning. She would often recall those early days fondly, when the company had been called Tracy Aerospace and had just consisted of the two of them, Jeff's unshakable determination to pursue a dream, and a great deal of takeout meals. Over the years they had seen amazing growth and expansion, and now the aerospace division was just one of many beneath the vast Tracy Corp. umbrella. But Rosemary would never forget the old days.
Her first husband, Major Sean O'Sullivan, had been a test pilot under Jeff's command. Sean had crashed and died during a test flight at Rogers Dry Lake in California, leaving Rosemary to raise three young children on her own. Jeff, then an air force colonel who was ironically to find himself in a similar situation only a short while later, went out of his way to make sure she and the kids were all right. His own wife, Lucille, hadn't come to the dry lake test facility, since she was having a difficult pregnancy with her fourth child and Jeff didn't want to bring her to this hot, barren place – preferring to leave her with his parents at their farm in Kansas. Jeff would visit Sean and Rosemary often before Sean's accident, obviously missing his family, and Rosemary would make home cooked meals while they traded stories about their children. Jeff was excessively proud of his three – Scott, an extremely handsome seven year old with vivid blue eyes, who was obsessed with becoming a pilot and was already devastating the girls in his second grade class; intense, four year old Virgil, an adorable chestnut-haired child who from the pictures Jeff showed them seemed to spend a vast amount of time working on advanced vehicle design with the help of his lego set; and two year old John, an angelic looking blond boy who had fallen in love with the view through his father's old telescope and wouldn't rest until Jeff relocated it to his room.
It was during those visits that Jeff first mentioned his dream of owning his own aerospace company, to design and build jets that pilots would be glad to fly, jets that wouldn't crash and kill so often because they were dreamed up by men who had never set foot in a cockpit and held a control stick in their hand. He talked about the thrill of walking on the moon, and about how one day a mission would go to Mars, and how he wanted to be a part of it – helping to provide ships that could safely make the distance across the hostile cold of space. She remembered how Sean's eyes would always light up when Jeff talked about Mars.
After the accident, when they buried Sean and Rosemary was left a grief stricken widow, Jeff made sure she kept her base housing until she had made arrangements to take what was left of her family back to her native New York. In the meantime, he maintained their friendship, coming over to the house regularly to check on her. He made sure nothing needed fixing around the house, and they fell easily into the same routine, her cooking, him talking about the moon and Mars and building his dream.
Two years later, Lucille Tracy was dead, and Jeff was raising five sons alone. He called Rosemary, who had returned to her native New York, and asked her to come and work with him. She parked the kids with her mother and flew to Cape Canaveral to meet with him. Tracy Aerospace was born that day.
Hearing a commotion in the corridor outside, Rosemary left her bagel and coffee and went to the double glass outer doors. She smiled as she saw Jeff's eldest son, now in his early thirties and considerably more devastating than he had been as a seven year old, turning the female assistants' heads as he strode down the corridor toward her. His eyes lit up as he came through the glass doors into the outer office. "Rosemary," he smiled, sweeping her into a hug. "It's good to see you."
"Hello, Scott…good flight?" Rosemary asked. "Your father told me you came through London and didn't stop over."
"Naah…I wanted to get here as soon as I could. No sense fooling around on the way to my execution." Scott grinned at her expression and shrugged out of his coat, sitting on the edge of her desk in a manner that always reminded her of Jeff. Of all his sons, Scott was the most like him – they were both men of action who hated to sit still for too long, they both had the same easy smile, the same warmth, quick wit and enigmatic way of deflecting attention away from themselves. And they would both go to the ends of the earth to help someone in trouble. But there was one big difference – Scott, despite his intelligence, superb piloting skills and considerable success at designing and developing new aircraft for the corporation, hadn't a scrap of interest in the business side of things, or the empire building instincts his father had always possessed so strongly. No, she thought, that particular gene had carried through to another of his sons, although Jeff had yet to realize it.
"I stopped by New Jersey to take a look at the Dragonfly," Scott was saying, his eyes shining as he mentioned his favorite aeronautical project, a new jet he had designed from the ground up. "Have you seen the new prototype? She's looking really great. I brought the new test specs…Chris Rogers was saying you were waiting for them."
He fished a minidisk envelope out of his pocket and handed it over. She traded it for a cup of coffee – black, no sugar, the way he liked it. "Thanks," he smiled. "How are things? Still an O'Sullivan?"
It was their private joke. Rosemary was on her third husband – and by some weird coincidence, all of the men she had married had been named O'Sullivan. The second had been a New York City policeman, a short-lived mistake of a marriage that she had thankfully escaped by going to work in Florida with Jeff Tracy. The third, which had proven the old adage that three times was a charm, was blissfully happy. Her current spouse, Jack O'Sullivan, was ironically the second cousin of her second husband – a deputy fire chief she had met at a family reunion five years ago.
"Yes," she retorted good-naturedly. "And you're still single, I hear."
Normally that just got her a grin and some remark about taking his time narrowing the field, but this time she was surprised to see something flicker in his eyes. "Yeah," he nodded, covering smoothly. His voice took on a teasing tone. "Do me a favor and spread it around, okay? I've only got a few days and that kind of news is always good for a couple of mercy dates."
"Sure, Scott, I'll do that," she said, shaking her head at him – thinking of the reaction his remark would have gotten from the mesmerized women on the executive floor of Tracy Corp. Scott Tracy and his four brothers redefined the term 'eligible bachelor.'
Stalling any further inquiry into his personal life, Scott was up off her desk and heading into his father's office. "So," he said, "Break it to me gently. What's on the agenda?"
"You know," Mike said, "You mustn't let Mom get to you like this."
Tally sighed, turning from the window in her brother's hospital room. "I'm sorry. Is it that obvious?"
Mike smiled. "You've got that look. You could crack a walnut with that jaw."
Tally came back to sit beside him on the edge of his bed. "It's just it's always the same. Five minutes in her company and I feel like I have pimples and braces and the back of my dress is stuck in my pantyhose."
Mike burst out laughing. "Does that really happen?"
Tally nodded knowingly. "Oh, yes. You think dragging half the toilet roll out of the bathroom on your shoe is bad? I've got news for you."
"You know it's you, not her, don't you?" Mike said. "You let her intimidate you."
"Oh, like you'd know anything about it," Tally said bleakly. "She never treated you like that. It was always Mike this, Mike that, Mike's so perfect, he never does anything wrong."
"Marsha, Marsha, Marsha," Mike grinned, reminding her of the old classic television show they had watched on vid-disk as children. "I did plenty of things wrong, sis. I just never let either Mom or Dad tell me what I should do with my life. You should try it sometime."
"I'm fine with what I'm doing with my life," Tally retorted, catching the look he was giving her.
"Are you?" he said gently. "You don't look happy to me."
Tally scowled, frustrated. "Things are getting better. I've got a big story now. They won't be able to keep me down this time."
Mike sighed. "It shouldn't always have to be such a battle, Tally. Do you want to spend your whole life struggling like this, letting those people screw you over?"
"You don't understand the business I'm in," she said. "You've got to put in the time, you've got to be tough, or…"
"Or what? The sharks will get you? Sounds like all kinds of fun to me."
"We can't all spend our lives having fun," she snapped. "Some of us have to work for a living."
Mike raised his eyebrows. "Yes, dad," he said softly.
She stared at him. "I'm sorry," she said, after a moment.
"It's okay," he smiled. "I know, he's said a million times that sailing yachts isn't a 'real job.' But answer me this…why does a 'real job' have to be something that makes you angry and frustrated? Why can't it be something you like to do?"
She didn't answer him, looking at her feet.
He was silent for a moment. When she looked up again, he was resting his head against the pillows, tiring now. "Tally," he said, "At least admit to yourself that you're doing this for him."
"I'm not," she protested. "I like what I'm doing."
He reached for her hand, squeezing it affectionately. "No, sis. I like what I'm doing. You're trying to make a name for yourself to prove something to him."
Tally's shoulders sagged. She shook her head. "It's so frustrating, Mike. I try so hard, and all I do is hit brick walls. Dad doesn't understand how tough it is… He doesn't realize all I do is work, twenty-four-seven, and it still isn't ever enough. He just wants to know why he doesn't see me on screen all the time, like when I was at the Providence affiliate. And Mother…"
"Mom's pulling you in the opposite direction," Mike nodded, understanding. "Dad wants to know why you haven't 'made it' yet, and Mom wants you to spend less time at work and more time catching some poor eligible bastard to turn into a husband."
Tally's eyes stung. "I thought I'd done that," she said, suddenly weary. "She thinks Richard started cheating because I was always gone."
"She's probably right," Mike said. "That doesn't excuse what he did, though – or how he did it."
"Men suck," Tally sighed. "I'm thinking of having it put on a pillow."
Mike smiled. "C'mere."
She leaned over so he could put his arm around her shoulders. "You know, you don't have to take on the burden of trying to make them happy just because I refused it," he said after a minute.
Tally sighed. "It's not that easy."
"Yes, it is," he said. "It really, really is. You'll never make them happy, Tally. It's never going to happen, because they're never going to be satisfied, no matter what you do. I figured that out a long time ago."
"Thanks," she said, mouth twisting. "You don't know how much hope that gives me."
He paused for a long moment. "I remember going down to the beach every day with you as a kid, and I'd want to go sailing, and all you wanted to do was sit on a rock and write in your journals. Mom and Dad couldn't get you to put the pen down even at dinner."
"God, that was a long time ago," she said. "It feels like I was someone else back then."
"Tally," he said, "When was the last time you wrote something just for you?"
Tally opened her mouth to reply…and realized she didn't remember.
For the hundredth time that afternoon, Scott glanced up from the endless piles of paperwork and stared at the vidphone, thinking about Tally. He'd already been in town three days, and was scheduled to leave again the day after tomorrow. He had come all this way intending to see her, but over and over he'd found himself hesitating, unsure of how to go about it. If only it wasn't so complicated. She knew he was International Rescue, so hiding that part of his identity was out of the question. But that meant he couldn't tell her who he really was, either, without a major breach of the security his father was so insistent on maintaining.
There was a good reason for the way his father felt, Scott knew. International Rescue possessed technology that in the wrong hands could be put to frighteningly effective use. As Jeff had said frequently, imagine a gang of international terrorists who couldn't be caught because their ships were too fast, couldn't be located because they were completely cloaked from all known tracking devices, and could break into anything, anywhere, with the devices and machines they had at their disposal. There was also the equally important fact that the only way International Rescue could operate the way they did was because they had no interference from governments or outside parties of any kind. They saved countless lives because they didn't have to wait for approvals and cut through miles of red tape…they just took off and flew to the danger zone and got it done. That would all change if their identities and location became known and the authorities started to try to rule and regulate them, as it was inevitable they would.
Rosemary came into the office at that moment, breaking his train of thought. Scott flexed his shoulders wearily, groaning as he saw the new stack of folders she was carrying, pages bristling with stickers for him to read and initial. "Aw, no, not more. You hate me, don't you?"
She grinned at him. "Your father's right. It does you boys good to see the other side of things for a while."
"This is a conspiracy," he said accusingly. "I know what you're doing. You're sitting out there making up piles of this stuff just because you want to make me suffer." He flipped open the top folder from the stack she handed him. "See…this is what I mean. Nexoplastique. What the hell is that, anyway?"
"There's a full brief attached, Scott," she said firmly. "Tell you what. Tomorrow we'll break up the monotony with a nice round of board meetings."
"Ugh," Scott made a face. "Let's not, and say we did."
"Bet you'll never complain about a three day earthquake rescue again," Rosemary said. She was one of a bare handful of people across the Tracy organizations who knew of the family's role in International Rescue, and the only one who had known about it since before its inception.
"You got one?" he said hopefully. "I could leave right now."
She laughed at him. "It's five o'clock. Want me to make dinner reservations?"
He shook his head. "Naah, I'm just gonna go up and crash tonight – I'm beat. But…"
She looked at him, hearing the hesitation. "Yes?"
"Make me some for tomorrow night, would you?" he asked. "Somewhere nice."
"Date nice?" she asked, unable to keep from smiling.
"Yes, 'date nice,'" he shook his head at her expression.
"How important?" she asked. "Casual and fun nice, or impress the hell out of her nice?"
She was surprised when instead of the usual flippant response, he looked at her with a suddenly serious expression in his cobalt eyes. He considered his response for a moment, then: "Impress the hell out of her nice. Someplace nobody can get reservations. I'll leave the rest up to you."
"Well, okay," she said. "Coming right up. Anything else I can do for you?"
He sat back in his chair, knowing she was wanting more information, but not yet willing or able to share it. "Well, you could have the Mercedes brought up."
"Will do." She left the office, barely able to contain her pleased smile. The look on his face had been unmistakable. Well, what do you know, she thought. Some girl's finally hooked Scott Tracy.
She knew Jeff Tracy's policy on strangers on Tracy Island, and she knew how fiercely loyal all his sons were to him and to International Rescue. But for Scott's sake, she couldn't help hoping this time, maybe they could work things out. After all, it was hardly fair to force all those fine, handsome young men to keep their personal lives on hold like this while life passed them by. They deserved wives and families of their own, too.
She sighed to herself as she sat back down behind her own desk. Maybe she could talk to him, if it came to that. Somebody certainly ought to, she thought, reaching to pick up the phone to make the reservations.
Tally glanced up at the towering granite wall of the Tracy Corporation building as she entered through the revolving doors the next afternoon. She scanned the lobby, heading over toward the horseshoe-shaped guard desk. "Hi," she said, "I've got a four-thirty appointment with human resources…how do I get to the 35th floor?"
"The elevators over by the back wall," the guard pointed. "The middle two go to 35."
"Thanks." Tally crossed the lobby, taking in the simple elegance of the lobby's decorations. No self-serving pictures of the company's achievements, she noted, and no snappy company sayings. Good for them.
Her research had turned up that the original backing for Alan Tracy's stellar but short-lived racing career had come from his father, billionaire ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy. She quickly realized that the corporate address in New York the nurse in Sydney had mentioned being on Alan's chart was probably that of the Tracy Corp. headquarters. Since the only other lead to Alan's whereabouts was an address of a farm near Kansas City, now leased to a family who had never met the Tracys, Tally had opted to check out Tracy Corp. A contact she had done a favor for in the past had secured her a job interview at the company, which was as good a way as any to get in through the door.
She had heard from her London investigator that morning, but he had no good news for her. He had managed to find out that the letters that came to the correspondence service for International Rescue were indeed, as she had surmised, read by the staff of the company, who determined which ones were worthy of sending on. At that point the letters were scanned into the computer and transmitted electronically to another relay point outside London, after which the trail vanished. Try as they might, he couldn't discover where the signal went after that. Their tracks were covered too well. He did, however, seem impressed by the firm's roster of clients, who included rock stars, well-known actors, and prominent members of British society. He had even mentioned seeing Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward leaving the offices as he arrived. Lady Penelope's name and reputation were familiar to Tally through the many social obligations she had been forced to fulfill at the request of her mother – although she had trouble recalling the face. Blonde, she thought she remembered. Beautifully dressed, which made sense considering the woman's impressive background.
She was distracted by her arrival at Human Resources, greeted by a smiling young man who handed her a palmpad to fill out her application. Tally sat absently making things up about herself on the form as she took in her surroundings. Finished, she handed the palm pad back to the young man. "Excuse me, where's the nearest bathroom?"
"Turn left outside the door," he said. "It's three doors down." He turned and called over his shoulder, "Caroline, what's the visitor code for the women's restroom?"
"231," the woman he addressed called back.
The young man turned back to Tally. "Key in 231 on the door."
"Thanks," she smiled. "I'll be right back."
Outside in the corridor, she decided to visit the restroom anyway, in case there were cameras operating in the hallways. While washing her hands, she smiled at the two other women who came in, laughing and chattering. As they all stood at the mirror, repairing makeup and reapplying lipstick, she said, "Do either one of you know where the executive offices are? Mr. Tracy gave me a recommend for a job and I want to thank him before I leave."
"Which Mr. Tracy?" one of the women asked.
"Yeah," the other chimed in. "There are six of them, if you count all the brothers."
"Six?" Tally asked, surprised. "I didn't know that… I'm talking about Alan."
The first woman grinned. "We haven't seen Alan Tracy around here in months. The boys don't come here a lot."
"Oh," Tally said. "Why not?"
The second woman shrugged, picking up her purse to leave. "This company belongs to their father," she said. "Would you sit in an office on the executive floor and shuffle papers when you're as rich and good-looking as they are?"
"Hell no," the first woman grinned. "I'd be on a yacht in the south of France."
"Drinking champagne and ordering caviar on toast," the second one giggled.
Tally smiled. "I guess you're right."
The two women turned to leave. The first one turned as she went through the door. "Oh, the executive offices are on the 64th floor," she said. "You can leave a message for Alan with Rosemary O'Sullivan…she's Jeff Tracy's executive assistant. Pretty much runs the company."
"Thank you," Tally said. "I'll do that."
As soon as the women were gone, Tally gathered up her purse and headed for the door. She checked the numbers above the elevators, finding only one that went to the 64th floor. It came swiftly and she stepped inside, pressing the button that would take her all the way to the top of the building.
It seemed like only a second or two before the elevator signal dinged and the doors whispered open again. Tally exited the car and headed down the corridor, projecting all the casual self-assurance she could – mindful of what Graham Hamilton had taught her a long time ago, act like you own the place, and everyone will think you do.
The assistants she passed in their recessed outer offices nodded to her as she walked by. After what seemed like miles of the lushly carpeted corridor, she arrived at a set of tall glass doors. The outer office inside had two desks, one on either side of the room. Beyond them was a door with a brass nameplate she couldn't read, but she could guess that it probably bore Jeff Tracy's name.
There was a young blonde woman at one of the desks. Tally came in and smiled. "Excuse me, are you Rosemary?"
"Oh, no, I'm Kristin," the blonde said. "Rosemary is in a meeting. Can I take a message for her?"
"Oh, it's nothing important," Tally said. "I just wanted to ask her to pass on my thanks to Alan Tracy, for giving me a job recommend."
"You know Alan?" Kristin asked, looking interested.
"Not very well," Tally admitted. "We met in Australia recently. I gather he doesn't come here a whole lot."
"No," Kristin said, shaking her head. "We don't see much of the brothers, I'm afraid. Rosemary says Mr. Tracy – Jeff, that is, their father – is always sending them here to keep their hand in on the business side of things, but they're not too keen on it, from what I can tell."
"I see," Tally nodded. "Too bad for you guys…I haven't met them, but if they all look like Alan…"
"They don't, but they're all great-looking," Kristin grinned. "Especially his oldest brother… He's here right now. I'm telling you…" She mimed fanning herself.
Tally grinned back. "Rich and good looking. Where's the justice?"
Kristin laughed. Tally glanced around her. "So this is Jeff Tracy's office. Alan told me he's a former astronaut?"
"Oh, yes. The last man to walk on the moon," Kristin said, a touch of pride in her voice. "That's a painting of his Jupiter II rocket over there. He was mission commander, you know."
Tally went over and studied the painting, a particularly beautiful rendering of a slender white rocket lifting off from its launch pad while dawn rose over the nearby ocean. The plaque underneath read, "Artemis V Mission Launch at Cape Canaveral. Last Manned Flight to the Moon."
"This is really good," she noted. "Who painted this?"
Before Kristin could answer, the phone on her desk rang. She held up her hand in a 'one moment' signal and picked up the receiver. "Mr. Tracy's office, this is Kristin, may I help you?"
Tally bent over, trying to decipher the signature on the painting. The first name looked like it began with a "V," but she couldn't be sure. Victor? Vladimir?
There was movement in the hallway outside. Her reporter's instincts telling her that it was probably time to go before she pushed her luck too far, Tally waved at Kristin and swiftly exited the office. As she walked back down the corridor toward the elevators, the doors opened and a beautiful blonde woman got out, followed by a craggy-faced older man in a dark suit that looked almost like a uniform. The woman looked familiar to her, but Tally couldn't place her. Then, as she stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the lobby, she heard a voice call out, "Lady Penelope! What a pleasant surprise. Is Mr. Tracy expecting you?"
Tally hit the stop button and stuck her head out of the doorway. She watched an auburn-haired woman greet the blonde she had just seen exit the elevator. "Rosemary, how wonderful to see you," the blonde said in a rich, elegant upper class British accent. "Yes, he's expecting me. I said I'd stop by for a few minutes on the way to my business meeting."
The elevator alarm rang shrilly, forcing Tally to let go of the stop button and allow the doors to close. She recalled the woman now – Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. What were the odds, she thought, that she would see her here at the Tracy Corp. offices right after hearing about her being at International Rescue's correspondence service in London the day before…
She stopped dead. Downright astronomical, that's what the odds were. And even more so after the sudden, vivid memory that flashed into her mind – she was standing at a vidphone booth in the hospital in Australia, smiling at the three people who walked by, a very pretty Eurasian girl, a handsome man in his late fifties, and a lovely, elegant blonde woman with luminous blue eyes… Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward.
There was no chance this was a coincidence. Lady Penelope was involved with International Rescue somehow, that was obvious. But how much of this was known to the Tracy Corporation, or to Jeff Tracy himself? That she would have to find out.
She smiled to herself as the elevator rushed down toward the lobby. Piece by piece, the puzzle was coming together, and now she had a brand new lead to investigate.
Scott came in through the Tracy Corp. doors in a big hurry, brushing snowflakes off the shoulders of his coat. He glanced at his watch as he crossed toward the elevators. Five-thirty. Shit. He had to make a couple of quick vidphone calls and then get back out to do what he had been looking forward to for two days with a mixture of nerves, excitement and apprehension. He had tracked down Tally's apartment address and phone number with the help of a local IR agent, and had picked up the vidphone receiver several times, intending to leave her a message. But each time he hung up before her message ended, realizing that he had no idea what to say, and that it would kill him to have to wait for her response anyway. He had finally decided to go there and ask her to dinner in person. But it would be a moot point if he didn't reach her apartment before she made other plans for the evening.
"Mr. Tracy!" a man called to him just as he was about to hang a right towards the elevator bank. Scott turned to see one of the engineers from the civil engineering division approaching with an envelope. "I've been trying to catch you. Your father was asking for these specs on the Crest Valley bridge project…he wanted you to deliver them personally."
Behind him, the executive elevator doors opened and Tally came out, deep in thought about what she had just discovered. She walked out of the elevator area and into the main lobby.
"Thanks, Stan," Scott said, taking the envelope from the engineer. "I'll make sure he gets them."
He turned back toward the elevator bank, heading for the one that would take him to the executive floor. The doors were still open from Tally's exit seconds before.
Tally pushed through the doors into the cold street outside. It was dark and snowing lightly. She decided to go straight home and work on her research. Pizza and a large mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows sounded real good right about now, and she was anxious to investigate further into Lady Penelope's connection with International Rescue.
She had no idea how close she'd come to solving another large piece of the puzzle… But that piece was well on his way up to the executive floor by now.
The heat was on the blink again. Tally sighed as she entered her apartment and felt the chill in the air. She picked up the vidphone and left yet another message for her building supervisor, then changed out of her street clothes into a warm sweater and jeans. She headed for the kitchen to make herself that mug of hot chocolate, considering what toppings she wanted on her pizza tonight. As the milk was heating on the stove, the door buzzer sounded.
She headed to the wall unit and pressed the button. "Hello?"
"Tally? It's Scott. Can I come up?"
"Scott? Scott who? I don't…"
Then it hit her. Oh, my God.
She couldn't breathe. Her lungs simply refused to drag in air. All she could do was reach out and hit the button that would buzz him into the building.
It seemed like forever before she heard the knock at her door. She crossed what had suddenly become miles of carpet and took a deep breath before unlocking and opening the door.
He was standing there, looking unbelievably handsome in charcoal gray Armani, snowflakes melting on his coat and in his dark brown hair. She just stared.
"Hi," he said at last. She was just as beautiful as he had remembered, and all he could do for a long moment was look at her.
"Hello," she said weakly. "This is…I didn't expect…"
"I know," he said quickly, "It's very rude of me to just stop by like this. But you did say if I was ever in town…"
Tally found her voice in a rush. "Oh, God, yes, of course I did… I just never thought… Come in, please."
He smiled as she stood back to allow him in. "Thanks."
Tally closed the door, aware of how much her heart was racing. She willed herself to calm down – then her pulse quickened again as she remembered all her research papers, scattered around the apartment. If he saw them…
She scanned the room quickly…good, they were all still in her bedroom from the previous night. "So…" she said, "Do you come here often?"
Scott grinned at the continuation of their joke from the New Jersey rubble field. "Actually, no. But since I'm in town for a couple of days…" He trailed off, as if uncertain how to proceed.
"Yes?" she said, prompting him as she turned from her hasty visual check of the living room. Their eyes met, and time ground to a halt. The air in the apartment was suddenly too thin to breathe.
Then he wrinkled his nose, breaking the moment. "Is something burning?"
"Oh, God, the milk…I was making hot chocolate…" Tally rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the boiled-over milk pan off the stove. Conscious of Scott standing in the doorway watching her, she wiped up the mess and sighed. "I'm not much of a cook. Can't even boil milk without burning it at least once."
"Well, you don't have to cook tonight, if you don't want to," he said. He paused for a moment, then plunged ahead. "I thought maybe we could have dinner…"
She turned. "Dinner?"
"If you're free," he added hastily. "I know, I shouldn't have assumed… I mean, you probably have plans…"
"No…really," she said. "I mean, I did have plans…"
"Oh," he said, face falling.
"But I can cancel. I think the pizza delivery guy will get over it."
"Great," he said, grinning, clearly relieved. "If he gives you trouble, let me know."
She looked at him again and the expression in his eyes turned her insides to hot liquid. Her brain quit working. All she could do was just stand there and look at him.
For one tense, crazy moment, she was sure he was going to step forward and take her in his arms. She could literally see the thought running through his mind. Then he shook himself out of it with an effort. "Well," he said, clearing his throat a little. "Pick you up at eight?"
She nodded, feeling very light-headed. He was still gazing at her, and she had to put a hand out to steady herself against the stove. She searched her mind desperately for something to say, but his physical proximity was effectively robbing her of intelligent thought.
"I should get going…" he said at last, reluctantly. "You probably want to get ready…"
Following his eyes, she glanced down at her sweater and jeans. "Ah, yes. Kind of. Unless we're going out for pizza."
"I had something a little fancier in mind," he admitted.
"Oh, I get it. Some place with a dress code," she grinned.
"Yeah," he grinned back, "I made reservations, and everything."
"Oooh," she said, "I shall have to iron something in honor of the occasion."
He laughed. She followed him to the door. He opened it, turning to give her a last lingering glance before heading out into the corridor. "See you at eight," he said.
"Yes," she said.
He paused, and once again she could see how badly he wanted to kiss her. It was written all over his face. She held her breath.
But then he turned and was gone. Tally closed the door behind him, leaning back against it for support, her legs shaky. Wow, she thought. Wow.
Take that, mother, she smiled suddenly to herself. And I didn't even have to wear a dress.