Disclaimer: I don't own 'Thunderbirds' or any of the show's characters....I just play with them now and again. :p

A/N: Despite the presence of an OC in the first chapter, this fic is going to be solely about the Tracy brothers and the rest of the IR characters. I'm fairly new to the TB fandom (haven't seen the series since I was a kid) but in reading some of the fics here, I was surprised to see how many people saw Scott as the womaniser of the family. It's a characterisation that hadn't occurred to me before, but I liked it and decided to run with it. This fic was the result.

The gentle hum of subdued conversation. The smell of coffee and cigarettes.

The café was an elegant tribute to its European forbearers of the 1900's. The tall windows were draped in swathes of burgundy velvet, and a chandelier of glittering crystal hung suspended from the high ceiling. The room was designed to comfortably seat a hundred, but Scott was amongst only twenty or so present at that time. The customers who had dined earlier in the evening were currently taking coffee downstairs, and the theatregoers who routinely dropped in for a nightcap had not yet arrived. Those present, however, provided a unique cross-section of the New York social scene. On one table, a Hollywood actress, on another, a respected politician. There was even a Texan oil-baron – a living cliché with his cigar and cowboy hat – standing at the bar, taking long draughts from a glass of whisky and laughing loudly at his own jokes.

Nevertheless, in spite of such affluent competition, it was Scott Tracy who was the object of most people's furtive interest.

As eldest son of the famous Jeff Tracy and heir to his father's multi-billion dollar company, Scott was used to attracting the attention of those around him. The Tracy Building – an immense glass skyscraper at the heart of the family's business empire – had been built in the centre of the Manhattan financial district, and had become something of a feature on the city's towered horizon. Consequently, the Tracy men were well known within the New York social elite, despite their long and frequent absences.

Sitting alone at one of the sofas by the window, Scott looked down at his wristwatch and frowned. Eight-forty. That meant that Mr Hosokawa was almost half an hour late – an almost unforgivably rude amount of time in business circles. Perhaps as a result of military career, or more likely as a result of his father's strict upbringing, Scott was very particular about punctuality. In fact, if Mr Hosokawa wasn't such a prominent client of Tracy Industries, he would have simply given up the wait and retired to his hotel suite.

But Hosokawa was a prominent client, and that meant that Scott was forced to make certain allowances. Sighing internally, he motioned at a nearby waiter to bring him another glass of bourbon. Just one more drink, he promised himself, just one more drink, and if the pompous old bastard hasn't turned up after that, then I'll leave.

Bored, impatient, and itching to leave, Scott drummed his fingertips against the table and glanced around the café, ignoring the headache that was throbbing faintly at the back of his skull. A small collection of the evening's newspapers had been set on a silver rack close by, positioned so that the headlines could be viewed at a distance. One particular edition caught his eye immediately. It was the business section of the New York Times, thoughtfully separated from the rest of the broadsheet for the convenience of the businessmen that frequented the café at this time of night. The headline was brief and to the point: 'Tracy Industries closes billion dollar deal with Nansei Electronics'.

Scott took the paper from the rack and scanned the contents of the article, eyes narrowed as he read. He already knew most of the details of the report, of course, given that he had overseen much of the deal personally. With so much of Jeff's time occupied by International Rescue matters, it had been up to his eldest son to supervise the final stages of the Nansei contract, securing both a healthy profit for Tracy Industries and access to technology that could be adapted to suit IR. Despite the weeks of deadlocked talks, a deal had been drawn up that was mutually beneficial to both parties, and his planned meeting with Mr Hosokawa – the CEO of Nansei Electronics – was supposed to be in celebration of that fact. Now, however, it was beginning to look like Mr Hosokawa had decided not to show up, and that left Scott at something of a loose end...

Placing the newspaper back on the rack, his gaze was suddenly drawn to another headline. 'International Rescue save workers in train-wreck inferno'. The blurred photograph accompanying the story featured a distant shot of Thunderbird 1 soaring through a smoke-filled sky, and Scott – with an attention to detail honed from years of flight experience – noticed that Alan had failed to properly compensate for the up draught, leaving the aircraft's left wing tilting upward at a drunken angle. He frowned accusingly down at the picture, feeling childish and petty. It hardly seemed fair that his brother's were out doing what they loved while he had been stuck in shareholder meetings and business lunches. Scott couldn't wait to leave Manhattan. More to the point, he couldn't wait to get back to International Rescue. Looking at the photograph made him realise just how far away from home he was.

"It sure makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

He blinked and turned at the unexpected voice, startled to find a woman standing close beside his elbow. A decade in the military had left his senses acutely tuned, and he was faintly surprised by the fact that she had managed to approach without his noticing. What was even more surprising, however, was the fact that she was tall, blonde, and attractive, and that was exactly the kind of woman that he usually took particular notice of.

Scott frowned and tilted his head. "Excuse me?"

She gestured towards the newspaper rack, obviously having noted his interest. "About International Rescue, I mean. Why would anybody put themselves on the line like that?"

Scott shrugged. In truth, it was a question that he had asked himself many times in the past, and he had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer, even in his own mind. Why did he and his brothers risk their lives for the safety of strangers? Loyalty towards their father and his dream? An unspoken feeling of dept towards their long-dead mother? Or, perhaps more simply, because it was the right thing to do?

"Why not?" he replied, shrugging with practiced nonchalance. "Somebody has too."

She seemed surprised by his answer, but openly impressed, and he took the opportunity to study her more closely. She was, he noted, beautiful in the European manner, with milky-cream skin, high cheekbones, and silver-blonde hair swept back into an elaborate French twist. In her early twenties, she was a little younger than he usually went for, but she had curves in all the right places, and that was what really mattered.

He continued to watch her for a short moment – just long enough to make his interest clear – then turned away, nodding politely towards the waiter as he brought a fresh glass of bourbon to him. When he looked back towards the woman, she had taken the newspaper from the rack and was sitting on the opposite sofa, legs crossed, skirt riding up over her thighs. Scott looked, as he knew he was supposed too. He'd played this game before, and he knew exactly how to get the results he wanted. All it required was patience and the famous Tracy charm.

By this point, Mr Hosokawa was all but forgotten.

He made a point of studying the selection of papers, selected one and began to read, taking small sips from his bourbon. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the woman glancing up over the top of her newspaper, lips curved into a coquettish smile. He pretended not to notice. Rule number one of seduction: always let her make the first move.

After a further minute spent trying to get Scott's attention, the woman finally put her paper to one side and addressed him directly.

"I'm Sophia Lambert, by the way."

Sophia Lambert. The name struck a bell. If Scott was recognisable as the heir of the Tracy fortune, then Sophia Lambert was universally understood to be the darling of the New York social scene. He dimly recalled noticing her in passing during a charity ball last Christmas, but the two had never been formally introduced.

He smiled courteously, all creased eyes and dimples. He knew he had a winning smile. He'd used it many times to his advantage in the past. "Nice to meet you, Sophia."

"And you are?"

"Scott."

"Just Scott?"

There was a momentary pause, a pretence of modesty, and then: "Tracy, actually. Scott Tracy"

Her eyes widened a fraction, and Scott instantly recognised the calculating glint of ambition as she surveyed him more openly. "Of Tracy Industries?"

"The very same."

The disclosure prompted a knowing smirk from the young woman, and Sophia made a point of readjusting her skirt, exposing another inch or so of skin in the process. "How interesting. Well then, Mr Tracy, what brings you to Manhattan...business or pleasure?"

Scott gave another winning smile, this time accompanied by the upward quirk of an eyebrow. "A little of both, I hope."

Sophia laughed, and Scott knew that he'd hit the jackpot.

In general terms, the romantic sensibilities of the Tracy sons differed as greatly as their diverse personalities. Alan perused his love-interests with a single-minded determination, but seemed to have settled down prematurely for the charms of the beautiful Miss Kyrano. Gordon's flings were brief, but intense, and he had an inexplicable gift for making his women love him as much at the end of the affair as they had at the beginning. To the ever-cautious John, women were a largely unfamiliar species, and a number of bad experiences in his teenage years had left him wary as far as relationships were concerned. And Virgil...Virgil was, at heart, a romantic who could never bring himself to make love unless he was actually in love. Consequently, he had spent most of his adult life alone.

For Scott, however, women were nothing more than a pleasant distraction from an increasingly stressful workload. As far as he was concerned, there were two kinds of girls – the ones you screwed, and ones you married – and Sophia Lambert, for all her obvious good-breeding and teasing sensuality, was not marriage material. But she was pretty and he was lonely, and sex, even the worthless, insincere sex of strangers, was better that nothing.

Within twenty minutes, Scott was standing in front of Sophia's apartment, deftly untying the back of her dress as she unlocked the front door to allow him in.

There were times when Scott Tracy wished that he could have been a better man...the kind of son that would have made his mother proud. In the years following Lucille's death, he had always imagined her as a distant but benevolent presence in his life. He had envisioned her pride when he graduated university, her happiness when made it to Top Gun, her approval at his decision to join International Rescue. With every successful rescue he took part in, he saw himself as quietly honouring his mother's legacy, but, similarly, his failures were viewed as injury to her memory.

As far as his personal life went, Scott recognised that he had failed his mother.

There had been opportunities in the past for all the things that she would have wanted for him - marriage, children, stability - but for one reason or another, he had never chosen to take them. There was always something in the way, be it his studies, his career, or his sense of duty towards his family. Now he was thirty years old, no longer a young man, and increasingly aware of his impending middle age.

He wasn't afraid to admit that he had his regrets.

The truth was that Scott had no trouble in meeting women. He was rich, articulate, and had the even, darkly handsome features of a Hollywood icon; he knew that he could get any girl that he wanted with very little effort required on his part. But sex was one thing, love was another, and Scott had always been painfully aware of the difference between the two. The ever-present ghost of his parent's blissfully happy marriage didn't help, and he had long since been forced to accept that he would never find that illusive connection that his father and mother had shared. Nowadays, his love life was fragmented into a lengthy succession of one-night stands, a system that was both temporarily satisfying and professionally convenient.

Sophia Lambert was just the latest entry into an already-extensive black book.

Afterwards, when it was all over, Scott found himself sitting half-dressed on the edge of an unfamiliar bed, watching as Sophia reapplied her makeup in front of the vanity-table mirror. Her hair was unpinned now, flowing freely down over her shoulders and breasts, and what he had first taken to be a head-full of natural ice-blonde was revealed to be the result of heavy bleaching. Similarly, the ample curves that he had so readily admired back in the café could – he suspected – be attributed to the surgeon's knife. Scott was mildly disappointed, but in no way surprised. Finding a natural beauty amongst the debutantes of the Manhattan upper class was like finding a snowflake in the middle of July: very rare indeed.

"I had a really good time, Scott," she said suddenly, as though aware pf his attention.

Internally, Scott sighed, mentally preparing himself for the usual post-sex discussion. Why women felt the undeniable need to talk afterwards was completely beyond him. After all, what was there to talk about? They'd met, they'd drank together, they'd screwed...all he wanted to do now was go back to his hotel room and take a long hot shower. He briefly wondered how long he would have to stay before he could make a polite exit.

Still, he smiled – well mannered, reassuring and teasingly flirtatious. "Mm, I got that impression."

Sophia giggled, lining her lips with a fresh coating of scarlet lipstick. It was surprising how often she giggled. At first he had found it charming, but, gradually, the sound had lost its appeal. Now he just found it irritating.

"As much as I'd love to deflate that ego of yours," she replied archly, "I've got to admit – you certainly knew what you were doing. I can see where you get your reputation from."

Reputation? Scott frowned, momentarily disquieted. He'd always gone to great lengths to maintain a certain amount of discretion with the women he slept with – as much to protect his father's business and the famous Tracy name as to preserve his own social standing – and he was more than a little unsettled at the thought of his private life being the subject of idle gossip.

Sophia saw his dismayed expression and rolled her eyes. "Relax, relax...it was just something a girlfriend of mine mentioned, that's all."

"Girlfriend? Which one?"

"Amber Johnson...you know, of Johnson and Cooper ltd?"

Scott wracked his memory, desperately trying to recall any woman by that name. There had been an Amber – a pretty redhead he'd spent a night with while on vacation a few months previously – who he vaguely remembered her as being rather more adventurous than most. Despite himself, he blushed, wondering exactly how much Amber had disclosed to Sophia during their conversation.

Again, Sophia giggled, putting her lipstick aside and reaching for her hairbrush. "Don't worry, she was very complimentary. She said that you had a lot of...erm, stamina," she flashed him a sly grin in the mirror, kohl-lined eyes narrowed teasingly, "and after tonight, I can definitely vouch for that. It's a shame that you have to leave again so soon. We could have had a lot of fun."

Scott shrugged, trying his best to look suitably apologetic. "Business is business, I'm afraid, and I have an early flight tomorrow morning...you know how it is. I'm sorry."

And a part of him was genuinely sorry. He didn't love Sophia, certainly not, but his father's painfully awkward lectures about respecting women had been ingrained into his subconscious as a teenager, and he couldn't help but feel a squirm of self-reproach when he looked down at the rumpled bed-sheets. A deep sense of shame filled him suddenly; a kind of Catholic-guilt at betraying the Tracy name. After all, Tracy men didn't screw around – Tracy men did the honourable thing. How often had he heard that phrase during his adolescent years?

...But he hadn't hurt her in any way, hadn't forced her to do anything that she didn't want to, and there was nothing in her demeanour to suggest that she had any regrets. Besides, if the enthusiastic moaning had been any kind of indicator, she had certainly enjoyed herself, and Scott had always prided himself on being a gentleman in bed. And yet a familiar emptiness seemed to have settled in the pit of his stomach, leaving him hollow and strangely unfulfilled. He was suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that he was still half naked.

With Sophia absorbed with her own reflection, Scott took the opportunity to retrieve the last of his clothes from where they had been previously discarded. Finding them turned out to be something of a treasure hunt, with various articles of clothing scattered across the bedroom. He was just pulling his shirt on when he noticed the framed photograph of the nearby nightstand. He hesitated, eyebrows drawn into a deep scowl of consideration. The glossy picture showed Sophia with her arms wrapped around the neck of an auburn-haired young man, both of them smiling broadly at the unseen cameraman. His shirt hanging open, still unbuttoned, he picked the photo up and examined it more closely.

"Boyfriend?"

Sophia continued to brush her hair. "Sorry?"

Scott waved the picture at her, idly curious. "This guy in the picture...is he a boyfriend?"

There was a guilty pause from the woman at the vanity table, and even from across the room, Scott could see the muscles in her back go taut. Something in his stomach instinctively sank as she turned to look at him. "Husband, actually," she admitted after a moment, eyes lowered and briefly apologetic.

The confession was met with silence. Scott fell into a reflective quiet, expression clouded and impossible to read. Scott Tracy was a lot of things, but he wasn't a home-wrecker. Sex might have been little more than a game to him, but all games had rules, and Sophia had just broken the one he held most sacred. Family was everything to Scott...he'd never consciously do anything to put one in jeopardy.

He pressed his lips together into a thin line, eyes fixed on the smiling young man in the photograph. "You never said anything about a husband," he said softly.

Sophia fidgeted, a hint of a pout playing on her mouth. Scott was unsettlingly reminded of the expression Alan had worn whenever he had known he was in trouble as a child. "I know," she started, wrinkling her nose, "But you don't understand. It's-"

"-Complicated?" he offered, obviously unimpressed.

Sophia nodded. "Exactly."

Scott cleared his throat, uncomfortable, embarrassed, and suddenly painfully aware of how much older he was than her. Thirty years old and screwing around with a married woman...no, he corrected himself internally, not even a woman, but a mere girl. He felt used...used and stupid. It had never occurred to him that she might have been as much taking advantage of him as he was of her.

Sophia watched him silently for a moment, then sighed. "This doesn't have to change anything, you know."

Scott didn't reply, but began hunting for his shoes. There was a brief pause before Sophia continued.

"I meant it when I said that I'd had a good time, Scott," she murmured, gaze both pleading and wordlessly suggestive. "Alex...my husband...he works long hours. I was hoping that perhaps you and I could meet up the next time you're in town."

Scott glanced briefly towards the undressed figure, eyes clouded, mouth stern. He understood what she was offering, but also what she wanted in return, and the price was – in his opinion – far too high.

He finished buttoning his shirt and quickly moved to retrieve his suit-jacket, all the time keeping his back to Sophia. "I've got your number. I'll call you soon," he replied, distantly surprised at how easy the lie came. It was, however, all just words, and they both understood that.

Scott didn't hang about for much longer after that.

Sophia didn't try and persuade him to stay.

Whenever in New York, the Tracy men habitually stayed at the Plaza hotel – the luxurious stone building that towered over the city's historic fifth avenue. It was a little past midnight by the time that Scott made his way through the slowly revolving glass doors and into the lobby, his coat-collar upturned against the biting winter cold. Though the snow had stopped falling hours beforehand, the Manhattan streets were still covered in a fine sheet of glittering white, and he was left guiltily aware of the wet puddles his footsteps deposited on the otherwise pristine marble floor. The porter at the entrance looked disapprovingly down at him as he passed. Too tired to react, Scott simply pretended not to notice.

The evening had not, he mused, been a spectacular success. The incident with Sophia had been a severe dent on his sense of morality – as well as his pride – and the nagging sense of guilt had trailed him persistently all the way back to the hotel. All he wanted to do now was take a shower, go to bed, and forget about the whole sorry episode...

"Excuse me, Mr Tracy?"

Startled, he turned to see Carson Alexander – the hotel's prim, middle-aged manager – standing at the reception desk, motioning to him to approach.

He hesitated, shot a briefly longing glance towards the nearby elevator, then turned reluctantly to walk towards the desk, expression quickly slipping into one of well-practiced self-assurance.

"Is there something wrong, Carson?" he asked, eyebrows arched expectantly. "Only I've got an early start tomorrow and I was looking forward to some shut-eye..."

Mr Alexander, seemingly understanding that Scott was in no mood for chat, cut quickly to the point. "Mr Hosokawa called just after you left this evening," he informed him, subtly accented English curiously out of place amongst so many Americans. "He sends his most sincere apologies for being unable to attend the scheduled meeting, but there was an urgent family matter that required his immediate attention."

"Urgent family matter?"

Mr Alexander's mouth curved upwards in the barest hint of a smile. "I believe his eldest daughter went into labour unexpectedly."

A vague memory of Mr Hosokawa's heavily pregnant daughter flashed through Scott's mind. He sighed and raised a thumb and forefinger to rub at the bridge of his nose, feeling foolish for not having made the connection earlier. "Oh...I see." He frowned suddenly, dark eyes glancing briefly upwards. "Why didn't you call me?"

"I'm afraid you had your cell-phone set to voice mail only. I did try, Mr Tracy."

Scott shook his head and dismissed the statement with a rueful grimace of self-reproach. "I'm sure you did…sorry about that. It's just been a long night, that's all."

The balding manager politely raised an eyebrow, but offered no comment. "Indeed, sir. Would you care to have some coffee sent up to your suite?"

"Yes, that would be nice, thank you."

"And Mr Tracy?"

"Yes?"

"You received a visitor earlier, but, in your absence, I took the liberty of installing him within the Tracy suite." He withdrew a small square of card from his jacket pocket and held it towards Scott. "He asked me to give you this as soon as you arrived."

Scott scowled down at the note, mildly confused and in no mood for guessing games. He had not been expecting visitors, and the news that he had company waiting for him upstairs was not exactly welcome news. Still, he took the card from Mr Alexander and peered at it more closely, eyes narrowed and jaw firm. The message was brief to say the least, but the sight of the familiar neat handwriting prompted an unexpected smile from the dark-haired Tracy...the first genuine smile that he had made all evening.

'S.

Surprise!

V.'

Evidently, Virgil had stopped by for an unannounced visit and somehow, suddenly, the evening didn't seem like such a disaster after all.