I’m behind on my feedback. Sorry for that.
Title – The Tara Maclay Affair
Author – JustSkipIt
Pairing – T/W
Feedback – Yes, please
Spoilers – Tara and Willow exist. They’re gay. Art exists. We have airplanes and fire and pizza. 1992 happened. The president is a buffoon.
Rating – R
Disclaimer – Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy own Willow and Tara and the Buffyverse. MGM owns
The Thomas Crowne Affair. No copyright infringement is intended.
Spoilers – None that I can think of.
Note – I found the names of the paintings on IMDB’s trivia site.
Note 2 – I condensed some things and took some liberties. Scene changes are indicated by “—“.
Thanks – To Rachel and Asher. My world. To Car for this challenge. For the RKTers for friendship and support.
More Thanks – Thanks to Watty for another great Ashvatar. Thanks to Sally for help on the Sig.
Tara looked out the window at the traffic and then at her watch. “Jimmy, I’m going to walk.” She opened the door of the limousine and stepped between the other stopped vehicles.
“Do you want me to take the briefcase to the office, Ms. Maclay?” Jimmy asked.
Tara shook her head and stepped across another lane of traffic toward the sidewalk. A few minutes later she entered the museum and made her way to the impressionist wing, settling on a bench in front of her favorite painting to eat a croissant.
“Good morning, Ms. Maclay. Back to your
haystacks I see?”
Tara swallowed her bite and smiled at the proctor. “Good morning, Bobby.”
“You know, everyone else goes for the
Monet,” Bobby commented. “But not you. You go straight for that one.”
“What can I say? I’m a little off.” Tara tilted her head and smiled. She’d heard the docent’s standard speech many times on the Monet. It was a seminal work. The first impressionist work ever. Worth over a hundred million dollars.
--
Tara's psychiatrist sized her up before broaching an important topic. "I want to talk to you about women." When Tara didn't speak Anya addressed her again. "Ms. Maclay?"
Tara smiled to herself. "I'm sorry?"
Anya smiled right back. "Women. You get to talk about women."
Tara held her hands in front of her chest, forming a steeplechase like structure with her fingertips. "I enjoy women."
"Enjoyment isn't intimacy."
Tara smiled again. "And intimacy isn't necessarily enjoyment."
The psychiatrist leaned forward. For the money Tara was paying her she certainly had an obligation to confront the woman about her issues. "How would you know? Has it occurred to you that you have a problem with trust?"
Tara feigned a hurt expression and placed her hand over her heart. "I trust myself implicitly."
"But can other people trust you?"
Tara sat forward a little. "You mean society at large?"
Anya looked disgusted at Tara's games. "I mean women, Ms. Maclay."
Tara thought about it for a moment. "Yes, a woman could trust me."
Anya shot back: "Good. Under what extraordinary circumstances would you allow that to happen?"
Tara answered carefully. "A woman could trust me as long as her interests didn't run too contrary to my own."
Anya allowed herself to smirk. "And society? If its interests should run counter to your own?"
--
Someone was going to pay for this screw-up. That was just it. The delivery was supposed to be a Sarcophagus. Instead, it was a large horse sculpture. Oh yes. Someone was going to pay. A few phone calls and this horse was going back. Of course, with it being Friday afternoon, it would probably be Monday morning before the chief of receiving could really make heads roll.
--
Tara enjoyed her walk to the building. So far it had been a very good morning in spite of the rude young man blocking the entrance to the express elevator. She found that it was best to ignore such contact and smiled to herself as she heard his companion telling him, “She really does own the building,” as he pulled him away from the elevator bank.
She greeted and was greeted by her employees quite enthusiastically. She’d always taken it upon herself to know the names and interests of those around her and being a loyal and effective employee of Maclay Acquisitions paid well enough to keep most people happy and productive.
“I see you’ve forgotten your briefcase again.” Her secretary shook her head as Tara shrugged her shoulders and entered her office. Her day was going to be busy as her secretary confirmed when she came in with a copy of the day’s schedule.
The morning found Tara and three of her executives in a meeting with a rival company. She considered and reconsidered the paper before her before finally signing her name in the spaces indicated. The executives from the other company let out a classless whoop. “Finally. A Maclay company forced to sell out! Resistance is futile.”
Her expression didn’t change as she put the cap on the pen. “As is gloating. Have you figured out what you’re going to tell your board when they find out you paid thirty million dollars more then this company was worth?” Neither she nor her lieutenants waited for an answer as they stood and left the room.
--
The noise of the saw was quiet in the storeroom as was the soft crack when the two doors opened and the four men in dark clothes with air tanks lowered themselves from the hollow belly of the horse. Their leader ordered communication in English only and they all began their tasks.
--
Tara’s afternoon was as busy as the morning, finalizing a merger between her corporation and a competitor. The other company was third generation and she knew that the remaining original owner, a man of 82 years, took the takeover hard. But that was business. And he had gotten a more than fair deal from her.
--
The security officer watched the monitor as the temperature in the impressionist wing spiked above what was expected. Then he called two other officers and asked them to go check it out. Although the two officers complained, they acknowledged that they had to follow the procedures in their book. It would have to be the hottest day of the year wouldn’t it? And the entire A/C system was down in that part of the building.
--
Three of the four thieves who had come from the horse now wore the distinctive maroon jackets of the museum proctors. The leader, possibly chosen as such because he spoke the best English, approached the proctor in the main impressionist gallery and informed him that he was wanted upstairs. He confirmed it and left the gallery in their capable hands. As soon as he was gone from the room, they began shooing out the tourists, telling them that it was time for cleaning the exhibit.
Tara found herself confronted by a large proctor with an Eastern European accent when she attempted to visit her favorite painting once again. She set her briefcase down and looked at her watch but he was unwavering that the gallery was closed. She turned and exited the area, spotting Bobby in the exhibit. “Bobby, I’ve been kicked out.”
Bobby scrunched up his eyebrows. “What?”
“The exhibit hall,” Tara explained. Bobby nodded and asked another proctor to come with him as Tara stepped past him and took a seat on a bench outside the gallery to read the newspaper.
Bobby and the other proctor approached the three men in the now-empty gallery and asked what they were doing. “Closing the gallery to clean for some big shots.” Bobby looked skeptical but it did seem consistent with behavior from “upstairs.” He turned to leave but noticed the shadow of the helicopter’s blades passing over the bench and instead extended his small baton, turning back toward the three larger men.
Tara didn’t budge when she heard the shouting and footsteps coming from the gallery. She did manage to smoothly trip the third would-be-thief by extending her leg as he ran past. The sounds of his shouts were effectively drowned out as Bobby broke the glass and pulled the alarm lever just outside the entrance to the impressionist gallery.
She stood up and looked both ways before walking calmly against the flow of shouting and running museum goers. The metal gate dropped as she reached the doorway and smoothly fell to the floor, rolling under it. She quickly ran through the outer room, pulling on a thin glove as she went, and into the inner area, grabbing the Monet off the wall. In one swift move, she hit the painting on the floor to crack the frame and leave it lying on the floor. She lifted the briefcase from under the bench, opened it and fitted the nearly priceless painting into it. The case closed with a firm snap and she ran back toward the gate, stopped a foot from the floor. Once she rolled under the gate, it was easy to blend in with the crowd exiting the museum and catch a cab home.
Her man, Paul, met her at the door as always and let her know that he had opened a bottle of wine. She handed him the briefcase and asked him to put it in the study. A few minutes later with her glass of wine, she was able to truly appreciate her work as she placed the painting in the hidden compartment behind another of her favorite paintings.
--
Detective Buffy Summers fumbled her coffee only slightly as she greeted her partner, Xander Harris, and the museum’s director. As they walked through the museum, she got the brief rundown on the attempted robbery: four men in custody although the accomplices in the helicopter had gotten away. The four men were foreign – Eastern European – none spoke English and they weren’t speaking anyway. Summers looked around the gallery noting the broken frame on the ground and the gate still lowered in the doorway. She was assured that security was working to open the gate.
Taking it all in, she came up with a theory. “Ok. So the four guys come in somehow. A horse?” She laughed. “Very classy. Sense of humor. They plan a smash and grab. Blow the skylight and take what they can carry.”
A strange voice interrupted Buffy’s conclusion. “You figure that’s it?”
Buffy turned to the stranger. The woman was small, although not as small as Buffy herself, her red hair and black dress setting her apart from all the cops in the room. “You are?”
“Willow Bannon.” The redhead offered no other explanation as she began to deconstruct the detective’s theory. “You figure these four men were going to load roughly 800 pounds of men and 600 pounds of paintings into a helicopter with …” She turned to ask Xander the model of the helicopter. “… a 400 pound usable payload?”
Buffy bristled slightly at this Willow’s bravado. She seemed to carry herself with her sexual energy out in front as if she were used to using it every moment of the day. Even considering herself impervious to such efforts, Buffy could feel the attempt and from the look on Xander’s face, he was certainly feeling it. Or maybe it wasn’t so much that he was sexually attracted to the newcomer as much as that he looked like he would have gladly handed her his liver if she’d asked for it.
“I’m a little fuzzy on who you work for.”
Willow smiled at the detective. “Zurich Underwriters.”
“Of course you’re from the insurance company.” Buffy nodded her head. She would have to work with this woman until the case was over but at least she could assume Willow would be motivated. “What’s your take?”
“Five percent.” Buffy did a quick mental calculation. Indeed, Willow would be quite motivated to get the painting back.
“Hey look at this.” The detective and investigator turned and watched with interest as one of the officers showed them a briefcase found lodged under the gate. He reported that the briefcase, its internal structure showing, would have had to withstand 15-20 tons of force.
--
Tara lifted the club head and smoothly lifted her ball from the sand and onto the green, smiling at the accomplishment.
“A thousand bucks says you can’t do that again.” Her playing partner offered.
“Ten to one,” Tara agreed as she took a second ball from her caddie and quickly knocked it into the trees. She asked for another ball and dropped it in the growing spot in the sand.
“Tare,” Faith shouted, “that’s $100,000 on this swing!”
Tara looked up at her friend and counselor. “What else do we have to do on a beautiful Saturday morning?”
--
Xander caught Buffy up as they waited for their new helper to arrive at the museum’s security office. “So it wasn’t always Bannon. She was Willow Rosenberg. Her dad was Bumper Rosenberg. They called him that because of his habit of bringing home bail jumpers tied to his bumper. Four older brothers.” Buffy shook her head as the Willow entered the room.
“You look like shit.”
Willow popped the top on a bottle of thick green liquid and began drinking it. “I’m jet lagged.”
“Is that stuff good?” Buffy nodded at both the bottle in Willow’s hand and the grimace on her face.
“No but it helps.” Willow turned to the camera operator. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
The security officer started the tape he’d previously queued up. “What’s that?” Buffy asked as she pointed at the solid white screen.
“That’s the impressionist wing,” he explained as he looked with puzzlement at the other monitors.
“So the security cameras didn’t work?” Willow asked.
“No. Just those. They’re even the new thermal imagery cameras. They sense body heat so even if the lights are off, they will pick up the picture.” He hit a few keys on his keyboard.
Willow was suspicious. “What’s the differential?”
“Ten degrees.”
“So the temperature in the room has to be 10 degrees under body temperature or the camera can’t distinguish between people and walls?”
“But these ones work.” Buffy pointed at the other monitors.
The security officer reported that the temperature in the other rooms had only reached 81 in spite of the broken air-conditioning while in the gallery in question, it had reached 90.7.
Buffy found herself watching Willow as the redhead scanned the room. She couldn’t tell if the woman had found something or not. It was a little eerie actually—like watching a computer work. Willow’s eyes alighted on the bench and minutes later the two temporary partners were in front of the bank of monitors. When the tape from that morning showed three legs rather than the two she had seen on the bench in the room, her question was answered: someone had placed something under the bench which had raised the temperature in the room.
--
Ms. Maclay waited as each of the six suspects stepped forward and repeated that the gallery was now closed. “Number four,” she confidently stated. Buffy handed her a clipboard to attest to her identification and then walked her out of the room. Before letting the blonde leave, Buffy felt that she had to warn her of the danger of testifying but Tara didn’t seem afraid at all. She left looking just as impassive as she had upon arriving.
Buffy watched the multi-millionaire leave with a shake of her head. The woman ran a Fortune 500 empire but she took the time to come down to the station and ID a common criminal? Ok, not a common criminal, but still Buffy was impressed. What didn’t impress her was the lack of progress they had made with the identified thieves. The department was having trouble getting a translator over to the station and she felt like she was banging her head against a wall.
“Let me try,” Willow offered. “I’ll take the quiet one.” She motioned toward one of the men. Once inside the room, she “worked it.” The perp was very obviously scared and didn’t know what to do. And his reaction to her… Some of her primary assets appeared to be having their intended effect on him. She tried French, Russian, Romanian, and then German, noting his smile when she made a joke.
Four minutes later Willow joined Buffy announcing triumphantly. “They were a package deal. All Russian. Given everything, transport, plans, everything.”
Buffy screwed up her face at the information from Willow. This was a well financed operation which meant that there was no way they would be able to trace it back to the source. “So we wait for the thief to sell the painting?”
“Oh he’s not going to sell,” Willow disagreed.
“Bullshit.”
“He didn’t do this for the money. This was daring. An act by an art lover. He’s not going to sell.” She sat down at a computer terminal and began typing.
“And what are you doing?”
Willow didn’t stop typing as she explained. “I want to see who’s been bidding on Monets.” Minutes later she showed the list to Buffy. “See any familiar names on here.”
Detective Summers laughed. “Maclay? You think she did this? She’s not a thief; she’s a finance geek. A big day for her is untying her shoes.”
“Her shoes were pumps. Low heels. Very reasonable.” Willow said pointedly. “Let’s find out what Ms. Maclay is like.”
--
The NYPD cutter stayed far enough away from the two D-Type catamarans to be out of their way, but Willow could see the action on the boats clearly through her binoculars. She was no expert on sailing but it was clear that Tara was not playing around. She was active running across the deck to raise the sails when necessary and seemed to be the most active sailor, out over the side of the boat, holding tight to the tension rope. As the redhead watched, she saw the boat go over and laughed: it hadn’t crashed from incompetence but bravado and daring.
Back at the station she still was trying to convince Buffy that Maclay should be a suspect. “She crashed a $100,000 boat to see the splash!”
--
Tara looked slightly uncomfortable as the museum director dropped the curtain from in front of her painting. “And we’d like to thank Ms. Tara Maclay who not only loaned us this
Pissarro to replace the missing Monet, but aided in the apprehension of one of the suspects.
Following the light applause, Tara stepped forward. “I’m glad to help and honestly, I just did what William here does at fundraisers: I closed my eyes and put out my hands.” The crowd laughed and clapped and she stepped down from the platform and entered the crowd.
Willow was waiting for the blonde when she stepped down. “Very impressive,” she said without making eye contact.
“Do I know you?” Tara’s gaze lingered on Willow’s face, her hair over her head, the very low-cut tight dress, and certainly everything under the dress.
“It was the least you could do?” the redhead teased with a vague motion toward the loaned artwork. Before Tara could answer Willow made her way to the bar. “I’ll have a gin and tonic and she’ll have a scotch and water.” She smiled at the blonde to let her know that her custom drink order was not the result of a lucky guess. When she handed her the glass, their fingertips brushed together. “Willow Bannon.”
“Tara Maclay.” Tara sipped the quality scotch. “You’re in art?’
“Yes.”
“An investor?” Willow shook her head. “Gallery owner?” Again the shake as Willow now took a sip.
“Closer to insurance.” Willow looked intently at the blonde.
“I’m covered.”
Willow smiled in spite of herself at the blonde’s confidence. “Not for this, you’re not.”
She knew she’d hit her mark when Tara followed her into the hall. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”
“You thought my company would just write a check for $100 million?”
Tara finally smiled at the redhead. She hadn’t made any efforts to hide the extent to which she was checking out the other woman but this was the first almost friendly gesture. “You seem to be leaving. Can I give you a ride?”
“I have a car here.”
Tara opened the door of Willow’s limousine. “Dinner tomorrow night?” Willow nodded ever-so-slightly. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00.”
--
Buffy was none to happy about Willow’s unauthorized contact with the art collector. “You really have some balls on you don’t you?”
“Detective, I’m a woman. You’re a woman. Why don’t you get a more appropriate turn of phrase?”
“Whatever. You’ve completely jeopardized this investigation.”
“Jeopardized my ass.” She didn’t’ see the smirk that crossed Detective Harris’s face at that particular wording. “You were going to spend weeks dancing with her. I found out in 3 minutes that she’s guilty as sin.”
“And you have a date with her in…” Buffy looked at her watch, “… eight hours?”
Willow smiled smugly. “That’s just a fun little bonus.”
--
Anya looked at Tara with disbelief. "You've met someone?"
"Possibly."
"A woman."
Tara rolled her eyes. "Of course a woman."
Anya smiled. "Oh. A worthy adversary perhaps."
--
Buffy got to personally hand the warrant to Paul when he opened the door and give him the standard “this is a warrant from the “ blah blah blah speech. She directed numerous detectives and officers left and right through the Maclay house as Tara emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
“May I help you?”
“This is a warrant to search the premises,” Buffy said as she waved it toward the other woman. “Your lawyer can explain it to you.”
“Faith!” Tara handed the warrant to the dark-haired woman who had followed her from the kitchen. “This is my lawyer.”
--
“Well that was a rousing success wasn’t it?” Willow teased the returning detectives. “You did make it into the foyer right? I mean was the painting sitting on a side table?
--
Xander smiled as he spoke to Buffy on the walkie-talkie. “You’re not going to believe where she’s taking her.”
Once he told her, Buffy laughed. “That’s kind of cute.”
--
“Scene of the crime?” Willow said as Tara led her toward the impressionist gallery.
“I thought it fitting,” Tara responded.
“I shouldn’t have checked my coat,” Willow said as she shivered. She wore a long white cashmere dress which left her arms bare. As any gentlewoman would, Tara pulled off her tailored suit jacket and wrapped it around the redhead’s shoulders. “Thank you.” Willow’s hand closed around the keys in the pocket of the jacket as she spoke. “I don’t think I would have taken the Monet.”
“Oh no? Which?” Tara stood a few steps behind the redhead, attempting to reason out the girl’s game—besides the obvious.
Willow spun slowly before pointing out a seascape. “That one.”
Tara nodded but didn’t answer immediately. “We should probably go if we want to make our reservations.” She placed her hand gently on the redhead’s back and guided her toward the door.
As they approached the doorway, Willow took the opportunity to make a jab. “Oh look. Did you model for
this?”
Tara laughed at the woman’s attempt to tease her. “I actually own a copy of that.” She had not noticed as Willow set the keys on a stand by a sculpture nor did she see the man who swiftly picked them up.
Later, Tara motioned with her menu. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Willow deferred.
Tara casually ordered the lamb for herself and chicken for the redhead as well as a scotch for herself. “And the lady actually likes Champaign.”
“You’ve done a little homework?”
“Oh,” Tara told her. “I’m sure that your files are thicker than mine.”
“You know what I’m most impressed with?” Willow accepted the stem from the waiter and took a sip. “Going from Glasgow to Oxford on a Field Hockey scholarship.”
Tara chuckled. “That was easy. Rich kids are terrible athletes. Especially the girls. The hardest part was learning the accent.” She took a sip of her scotch. “But you? A countess? A professional tennis player? The ambassador’s daughter?”
“It is 1992 after all,” Willow parried.
“Time for us all to learn to be more open?”
Willow laughed lightly. “Do you really think I’m going to sleep with a woman I’m investigating?”
The waiter arrived with their orders and Tara ordered two soufflés for desert as well as asking that he take a bottle of wine to the two men at the table across the restaurant. “At least these ones look respectable. The ones yesterday looked like flashers.”
Willow laughed. This woman. This woman who she felt sure had stolen a $100 million dollar painting was funny. And sexy. And intelligent. And as smooth as anything Willow had ever encountered. “Please excuse me.” She stood and went toward the restroom, relieved to see her man waiting with the keys.
At the front door to Willow’s apartment, Tara leaned close. “I’d ask to come in but…” she motioned at the car behind them, “…the world is watching.” She placed a soft kiss on Willow’s cheek. The redhead enjoyed the feeling of Tara’s lips on her but not as much as she enjoyed dropping the keys into the blonde’s pocket.
--
The work van pulled up in front of the Maclay house and four men stepped out to follow Willow who had emerged from her car. She wore a very no-nonsense black-leather miniskirt with knee-high leather boots and looked like someone you wouldn’t mess with. After letting herself and the others into the house, she waited as the technician used his machine to break the alarm code. When she razzed him he snapped back that Maclay had a 10-digit security code.
As the others searched the rest of the house, she found herself in the study. On the wall was the Son of Man painting she’d teased her about in the gallery. She approached it slowly, raising a knife and flicking open the blade before taking another look around the room. Moving back to the desk, she ran her fingertips along the underside of the desk.
--
“We’ve got it!”
Buffy sat forward as Willow came in triumphantly carrying the painting covered by a sheet. “Are the laws of the United States completely foreign to you?”
“I’m not a police officer,” Willow argued. She lay down the painting on the desk.
“It’s got to be verified,” Buffy explained to her as she handed her a coffee cup. By the time the expert had arrived, much of the day had passed. First the expert reported that this painting was on top of another to which Willow responded that Monet was well known to reuse his canvases.
Buffy started laughing before moving to the side. “Oh yes. Here’s Monet’s lost masterpiece: Dogs at Cards.” Willow took a look before silently leaving the station, her face both angry and intrigued.
--
Tara wore a black Armani suit. She’d considered a tuxedo but she was always one to buck convention. Her date wore a white silk gown that reached the floor and she was a spectacular dancer. At first, Tara’s dates, her preference seemed to raise a few eyebrows. But after years of respectable, beautiful, and discreet women and very large checks to charity, no one blinked an eye.
Willow tapped the tall brunette on the shoulder and the young woman turned and studied her intently. At a motion from Tara, the girl seemed to disappear into thin air.
Tara smirked as she took in the sight in front of her. Willow wore a black evening gown which was nearly translucent. The shimmering material caught the light but a close look displayed every curve and detail of the redhead’s body. Over shoulders was a red silk wrap. Tara reached out her hand as she commented, “It’s a black and white ball, you know.”
Willow laughed as she shrugged the wrap from her shoulders. “Since I wasn’t invited, that’s ok.” She took Tara’s hand and was pulled against the blonde’s body.
“Do you
want to dance or do you want to
dance?” Tara asked as she began to lead the redhead through a very sensual dance.
The answer to that question appeared to be both. The women moved together in increasingly erotic movements. Willow’s back against Tara’s front, Tara’s hands roaming over Willow’s body. Her hips, thighs, sides, arms. It seemed as if every part that her hands could and should reach in public were open game. And when she turned toward Tara, the intimate dance continued in mirror.
Their transition from dance floor to the tiled floor of Tara’s townhouse seemed instantaneous as their passion took them from the foyer floor, a chair in Tara’s study, her desk, the couch, the stairs and finally the bed where their repeated climaxes finally brought both women exhaustion and slumber.
--
Tara and Willow sat in matching exquisite, white, fluffy robes, reading the paper on the sun balcony. As Paul approached, Tara greeted him warmly. “Good morning, Paul.”
“Good morning.” He transferred their breakfast plates in front of the women and then set a tall glass containing Willow’s kelp power drink, adorned with a strawberry on the edge of the glass, in front of her.
“I don’t suppose you just ran out for that?” Willow smiled.
Tara pursed her lips. “No.”
Willow chuckled. “Damn. I hate to be a foregone conclusion.”
--
Willow arrived at the office looking quite chipper. Chipper enough in fact for Xander to shoot her a look that said either “you’re being taken” or “way to go.” She wasn’t sure which. Buffy wasn’t so approving. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I’m investigating the theft of a $100 million painting.”
Buffy couldn’t believe Willow’s attitude. “You don’t care what that makes you?”
--
“Don’t be afraid,” Tara said leaning forward to whisper in Willow’s ear.
“I’m not.” Willow wasn’t kidding either. She had her fears certainly. Frogs, horses, and commitment being chief on the list but this wasn’t scary. It was amazing and exhilarating and beautiful. When the larger plane had released them she felt just a moment of trepidation but now she felt like she herself was flying rather than that she was riding in the glider. Tara’s handling of the plane was awe inspiring. Or that was Willow’s last thought before Tara executed a roll making the redhead’s stomach fall down into her ears which were temporarily at her lowest point. As they came out of the roll, she screamed, not in terror but in excitement. She heard Tara scream along with her and then laugh.
“Ok, I want you to take the stick,” Tara said, leaning forward to indicate the control.
Willow couldn’t resist the opportunity. “Oh, I don’t drive stick anymore.”
Tara chuckled. “Never?”
“Well, maybe on special occasions.”
Tara sat back and watched Willow. “You’re doing great. Hold a little tighter and pull back just a little.” Willow nodded and did as Tara instructed. “You can see the control panel with the altimeter and compass. Keep us on this bearing.”
“This is amazing,” Willow enthused.
“Now we’re coming up toward that mountain. You want to glide low over it and we’ll catch the draft for more lift.” Later she instructed Willow but allowed the redhead to land the glider in a field.
Willow’s face was rosy when Tara helped her from the cockpit to slide to the ground. “That was amazing.” She looked around. “And now we’re about four states from where you parked your car.”
Tara smiled and pulled a cell phone and hand-held instrument from her hand. After allowing the GPS to locate a satellite, she quickly dialed and gave their location.
--
Willow looked from the window of the plane to see an island in the middle of a beautiful blue sea. “That island is not Manhattan.”
Tara leaned over next to her, casually caressing her lower back. “No. It’s not.”
Willow turned to look at the blonde. “I have appointments.”
“Want to keep them?”
A short while later. Willow watched from the runway while four locals in white linen slacks and shirts unloaded the plane into a jeep. Her eyes bugged out slightly and she smiled as she saw one of the men carrying a wooden crate, obviously holding a work of art. “No way,” she muttered.
Tara reached the convertible mustang and handed Willow a bottle of water before sitting in the driver’s seat. When she saw the redhead attempt to open the door she explained. “It’s w-welded shut. Throw your leg over.”
“Throw my leg over?” Willow shook her head and climbed into the car, swiveling around to see the following vehicle.
They drove higher and higher through a beautiful isolated area. “This must go over big.”
“What?” Tara asked.
“This house,” Willow explained as she pointed at the property they’d just arrived at.
“With who?”
“Whoever you bring.”
Tara held Willow’s hand to help her climb from the car and began to lead her to the house. “I never bring anyone here.” She showed her around the cottage and opened the closet in one of the rooms waving her hand over the array of appropriate clothing available. “I’m going to go prepare some dinner.”
“I suppose those are my size?” Willow asked, not sure whether she should feel that Tara was making a great effort or that she was being taken for granted.
“I think so,” Tara said, stopping to kiss her on the way out the door.
When Willow came out a few minutes later, she saw Tara standing at the butcher block, chopping vegetables. She gasped as she noted that rather than her usual business drag, the blonde wore a blue sarong and precious little from the waist up. Her perfect back showed evidence of her time spent sunning and swimming. The redhead approached and embraced Tara from behind. “I didn’t know you wore skirts or dresses. I thought it was just, you know, business suits and drag. Not that you don’t look … ok amazing… but I didn’t know that you had this side.” Her hands cupped the other woman’s hips through the sarong.
Tara set down the knife and turned in Willow’s embrace. “I think this is a little more me.” She began kissing the redhead’s neck. “I guess I’m just kind of required to be all large with the butch out in that world.” She stroked Willow’s cheek. “I like this world too though.” She handed the redhead a glass of wine and stepped back. “Dinner will be ready in a little while.”
--
The two women sat on the deck eating the vegetables and lobster Tara had prepared. Willow shouldn’t have been surprised at the financier’s skill at cooking. There hadn’t been anything else that the woman didn’t do well. Very well.
Tara took a sip of wine and nodded toward the crate leaning against the wall just behind Willow. “Do you want to see it?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to see it?” Tara egged her on.
“You think I believe you’d leave your hard-stolen painting lying around a Caribbean hut?” Willow made a face.
“So you don’t want to see it?”
Willow set down her glass and walked over to the crate. She carried it with her across the deck and to the fire, tossing it in and patting her hands as if brushing them free of dirt, then returned to her chair and picked up her wine glass again. When Tara didn’t have any visible reaction Willow became more curious. “What was it?”
“Hmmm?”
“The painting. What was it?”
“Oh. A little Renoir.”
Willow took another sip and attempted to not sound panicked. “A little Renoir. A copy? A little copy?”
“We’ll never know,” Tara answered smoothly.
Willow picked up her napkin and waved it around. “Oh! Ok. You win. You win.” She leaned across and playfully hit the blonde with her napkin.
--
Willow woke in the morning, feeling the breeze through the cottage as it blew the sheets over her body. She could hear very quiet voices and pulled on a robe as she crossed to the balcony. On the lower balcony, Tara was speaking with two men in suits. The redhead took a few steps backwards to avoid being seen.
--
Tara walked closer to the shoreline, angling toward Willow’s reclined position until she had passed her to stand at the edge of the water.
The redhead’s voice cut through the silence although she continued turning pages in the magazine. “You flatter me.”
“How so?”
“They were bankers,” Willow said without looking up. “You’re moving assets.” She looked at Tara, noting the way the woman seemed to be letting her guard down. She knew that she couldn’t trust her though. “I’m closing in and you know it. You’re scared and you’re ready to run.”
“What if I was? What if I offered you more?”
Willow laughed out loud. “More to not find the painting?”
“Yes. What if I offered you $10 m-million?”
“How would I hide it?” Willow tilted her head at the blonde. Was she really that worried that she would be caught?
Tara approached her and kneeled down by the chair, taking her hand between her own. “I could teach you.” She placed a gentle kiss on Willow’s palm.
“Do you really think there is a happily-ever-after for people like us?” Willow said as she pushed a stray hair behind Tara’s ears.
--
Willow was practically bouncing as she entered the police station. “Good morning.”
“Nice tan,” Buffy said. Willow just smiled. “You’re still on this case right?”
“Of course I am.” Willow was starting to feel a little irritated but nothing could really bring her down.
“Two days in the Caribbean on the job. Very nice.” Buffy sat down next to Willow’s temporary desk and glanced at the redhead’s computer screen. “Do you want to know where she was the night before your trip or last night after you got home? After she dropped you off at your apartment?” She held up a 9x12 envelope.
Willow shook her head. “No.”
“Ok.” Buffy got up and started from the small room.
“Buffy.” Willow held out her hand and Buffy placed the envelope in it without comment.
Willow opened the envelope and quickly flipped through the photographs. Images of Tara and a dark-haired woman--practically a girl--as they danced, talked, ate. One of Tara kissing the younger woman on the forehead. Without a doubt, it was the same woman who had been dancing with Tara when Willow cut in. “She’s striking,” was all Willow had to say before handing the envelope back to the detective and leaving the room.
--
Willow entered the station looking determined and handed Buffy a small envelope. “What’s this?” the blonde wanted to know.
“Those are the photos of the borders on the Monet.” When Buffy just gave her a blank stare she explained. “Before my company insures a work of art, they take photos of the part of the work covered by the borders. That portion is never seen in public.”
Buffy completed the explanation. “So if the forgery is too good. If the borders match…”
“Then the forger was in the presence of the original painting.” She looked up. “And we nail her.”
“How long have you had these?” Buffy couldn’t help asking.
“Five days.”
--
Willow tried to keep from gaping at the necklace. Sapphires and diamonds in platinum. It must have cost a fortune. She reached out and ran her fingertips over the stones. Let the weight fall over the back of her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Tara watched Willow’s expression. “You’re not going to say ‘I just couldn’t’ or something?”
“No. I wouldn’t say anything that mundane,” Willow assured her. Tara watched her trying to understand what the redhead was thinking.
Later, in the limo Tara still watched her. “Have I done something to offend y-you? Said something?”
Willow couldn’t keep the hurt and anger from her voice. “What would make you think that?”
“This is about Dawn?” Tara watched and saw from Willow’s expression that she had guessed right. The redhead began quietly crying. “I let them photograph u-us. Do you know why?”
“Jimmy!” Willow called. “Stop the car. I’m getting out.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Tara attempted to override Willow’s request. “Jimmy keep driving.” She turned to Willow. “Do you want to know why I let them photograph us? Do you?” Willow opened the door of the stopped car and started walking through the park, followed by Tara. “Please listen to me. Please, baby.” Tara grabbed the redhead by the shoulders and turned her to face her.
“I don’t want to listen to you.” Willow struggled to speak clearly through her tears.
“Don’t you understand? I had to do it? You were s-supposed to see the pictures. How else could I know? H-how else…”
--
Buffy was waiting when Willow got to the station in the morning. “Come on.” She started out the door of the room.
Willow followed quickly. “Where are we going?”
Buffy actually smiled. “The borders matched. We’re going to see some forgers.”
The first visit was partially successful. The forger claimed to be on the up and up and not to do impressionists but he did give them a lead to check on another artist: Heinrich Knutzhorn. They found him in prison where he was quite willing to listen and answer their questions but laughed outright at the thought that he had done the painting, given the difficulty he would have had copying a masterpiece in a day while in prison. Before they left, Willow thought he saw something in his eye as he looked at the forgery but he would say no more.
Back at the station Willow put her extensive computer skills to immediate use finding multiple connections between Maclay and Knutzhorn. They had owned two galleries together in the past ten years—one in Munich and one in Paris.
“And look at this.” Buffy held out the page. “The one man-show in Geneva: Knutzhorn.”
Willow took back the paper. “Knutzhorn. But not Heinrich. This was a Tyrol Knutzhorn. Son of a Bitch.”
“What?”
“That was what I saw. It was fatherly pride.” She smiled at the discovery. “See if a Tyrol Knutzhorn has been to visit his father.”
--
Buffy was out of the room a short while later as Willow watched the doorway carefully before dialing the phone. “Billy. It’s me. I want to know, if I wanted to get gone and I mean seriously gone. How much could I take with me?” “Don’t lecture me.” “Yes, I know I’ll take a loss. I’m asking…” “Ok.” She hung up just as Buffy came back in the door.
“Hey. No Knutzhorn but there was a Knudsen who’s been out there three times this month. You think that could be something?”
Willow shook her head and brushed past the detective. Buffy found her a short time later in a bar downstairs drinking scotch. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Willow answered without looking up from her glass.
“You’re fine?” Buffy looked doubtful. “I was fine once too. My boyfriend turned into a real creep. Really. But I was fine. I stabbed him through the heart with a sword.” When Willow looked at her with disbelief she knew she had the redhead’s attention. “Not really. But I kicked him out and I was fine. I went to bed with four guys in 2 days but I was fine. I drove my car into an off-ramp, beat a suspect half-to-death and got suspended but I was fine.”
Willow batted her eyes at the detective. “How does that relate to me?”
“Fine. You want to do this alone, go ahead,” Buffy said as she dropped from the barstool and left.
--
Willow knocked on the door practically bouncing on her feet. “Hello, Paul.” She pushed past the butler gently, noticing the two suitcases at the bottom of the stairs.
“She’s in a meeting right now and can’t be disturbed. Perhaps you could wait…” Willow was past him and up the stairs as he called her to come back.
She got to Tara’s room to see the dark-haired woman on the bed. She was surrounded by open suitcases. “Dawn,” Tara called as she emerged from the bathroom, “have you seen the adapter. I’ll nee…”
“You asshole.” Willow looked back and forth between Tara and Dawn who took her cue and stood up to walk past the redhead without saying a word.
Tara dropped the shirts she was holding on the bed and crossed the room. “Darling….”
“You shit. You absolute shit of a shit.” Willow couldn’t staunch the flow of tears. “You’re leaving with her.”
“No,” Tara argued. “I’m leaving with you.”
“Bullshit!”
“I am. Dawn works for me. She was here because I wanted to pay her the m-money I owed her but I am leaving with you.” Willow was trying to leave but Tara held her arms.
“And you just want me to trust you? To have Faith in you?”
“Yes. I want you to trust me. Like I trust you. Listen to me, Willow.” Willow took a slight breath and Tara plunged in. “Tomorrow I’m going to return the painting. And then we’ll be free. It will be like it n-n-never happened.”
Willow scoffed. “You’re going to return the painting? What to the wall of the museum? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Tara attempted to reassure her. “Tomorrow afternoon. And then you meet me at the Wallstreet Heliport at 4:00.”
“I don’t believe you,” Willow spat as she wretched her shoulders free of Tara’s grasp and ran from the room and down the stairs.
--
Willow walked and walked. It started to rain but she didn’t know if she cared. So much had happened and everything had changed but she didn’t know where to turn or who to trust. Hours had passed before she knocked on the door. “Can I come in?”
Buffy opened the door wider without saying a word.
--
Early the next afternoon, the museum was crowded with security officers and NYPD. Willow, Buffy, and Xander were in the security office where they could see virtually the entire museum from the monitors. Buffy answered the phone, instructing the officers on the other line to keep searching. “She’s gone? Ok. Stay there a little longer.”
Willow had to know what was important enough to interrupt this operation. “What was that?”
“The forger.” Buffy looked up. “You didn’t think we’d just drop that did you?” Willow didn’t answer so Buffy explained. “It wasn’t a son. It was a daughter. Tyrol Knudsen—Tyrol Dawn Knudsen. She’s a kid really. Maclay’s known her all her life. When her father went to jail, Tara became her legal guardian.”
“Shit,” Willow muttered. Before she could contemplate it further, someone shouted that Tara had entered the museum. The redhead stood to get a good look at the monitors. Tara had come in through the front door. She carried a light brown leather briefcase in her left hand and wore a long black overcoat with a red tie. Her hair was up in a tight bun on her head. Various calls of “there she is” and “look at that…” echoed in the security room. Rather than progressing into the museum. Tara held out her other hand, which held a black bowler hat. Willow watched with increasing horror and amusement as she made the connection between Tara’s appearance and the “faceless businessman” taunt from their first date at the museum. Slowly Tara began to turn in a complete circle. “What is she doing?” now rang through the room.
Buffy looked at Willow. “Did you tip her off?”
Willow shook her head. “No.”
“Then she knew you were going to betray her.” To the rest of the room she said, “Watch her.”
Tara completed her turn and popped the bowler hat on her head. “Let’s play ball,” she said as she started walking down the main corridor of the museum.
Buffy saw Tara going into the crowd and immediately ordered security to arrest her. Before they could move in, Tara stopped at a doorway and set down her briefcase. She picked up another that was sitting there and turned left as a second woman in black overcoat and bowler picked up her briefcase and continued walking.
“Hey, there’s another one!” shouted a security officer.
“And there’s one on the stairs,” shouted another. The men watching the monitor watched as women wearing black overcoats and hats seemed to multiply, walking through the museum and up and down every staircase, seeming to stop and trade briefcases at every intersection. “What do we do?”
“Start arresting people,” Buffy said. She, Willow, and Xander raced from security office together. As the officers reached the first woman and pulled the briefcase from her, Willow smiled when a pile of copies of the “faceless businessman” painting fell from the case.
Tara looked both directions as she stuffed her coat, hat, and tie into the trashcan outside the locked impressionist gallery. As she walked by the gate, she pulled three smoke bombs, about the shape and size of hockey pucks from her pocket and pulled the tabs on them. She tossed them through the gate and they rolled through the room, filling it with smoke. In another step, she pulled the fire alarm on the wing and kept walking as the metal barriers extended from the walls to cover the paintings before the sprinklers could start.
As soon as the fire alarm sounded, Willow and Buffy looked toward the impressionist wing. They ran through the museum and waited at the gate, as the room filled with smoke and water. “Open the gate,” Buffy yelled impatiently, even straining to lift the 30,000 pound barrier. Once the gate was lifted, the detectives and investigator rushed into the room to get to the inner gallery.
The curator rushed past the stunned group as they all stared at the paint dripping down the wall, revealing the stolen Monet under the painting Tara had loaned the museum. He touched the rivulets of paint and looked at them. “Watercolors.”
Xander approached and looked into the track to see the reason this section of barrier had not closed as intended. On either side of the painting, the track was blocked by a pencil reading “Maclay Acquisitions.” He smiled and shook his head. “So that means it’s been here since, what two days after the original theft? She returned it almost as soon as she stole it.”
Willow watched the entire thing with a smile on her face. Her joy was short lived as someone shouted, “Hey look at this.” She turned to watch as the barriers pulled away from the wall, revealing a blank frame where the seascape she had admired used to be. She was easing her way toward the doorway when Buffy interrupted her.
“So why do you think she stole that painting?”
Willow shrugged. “I don’t know but since my company doesn’t insure it, I don’t really need to know.” She smiled at the detective. “I’m sorry for you though.”
Buffy shrugged back.
“You don’t care?” Willow asked.
“Let me tell you,” Buffy said with a smile on her face, “the week before I met you I busted two crooked real estate agents and before that I stopped a guy who was beating his kids to death so if some Houdini wants to steal a few swirls of paint that are really only important to some really silly rich people. I don’t give a shit.”
Willow laughed out loud and took a step forward. “You’re a very good woman, Buffy Summers.” She gave the blonde a light kiss on the cheek and then backed toward the door.
“Tell her…” Buffy stopped and waved before turning around to face the gallery once more.
--
It didn’t seem that the taxi could move fast enough. Willow pounded on the screen. “Here’s another hundred.” But the driver couldn’t move faster through the gridlocked traffic no matter how motivated he might be. She looked at her watch—3:42. “I’m going to run,” she announced as she stepped onto the sidewalk and began running.
Reaching the heliport, she passed through two glass doors before anyone tried to stop her. She stepped out on the pad and saw a woman wearing a black overcoat and bowler hat, holding an art portfolio, and facing the river. She ran up but stopped as the woman turned around. “Willow?” she asked.
Willow nodded.
“She wanted you to have this.” The woman handed her the portfolio and walked away. Willow opened the portfolio to see the stolen work inside.
--
The redhead wore dark sunglasses to hide her eyes. They were red from crying and she could hardly speak to hand passport to the ticket agent. “I have reservations for Willow Banning.”
“No luggage?”
“No.” Willow swallowed and placed the portfolio on the counter. “Can you make sure that this gets to this woman.” She handed Buffy’s card and a bill across the counter. “This should cover it.”
“It may not get there until tomorrow morning,” the agent warned her.
“That’s ok.”
“Are you ok?” the agent wanted to know.
Willow started to speak but gave it up, just taking her ticket and walking toward international departures.
Once the plane had taken off, Willow’s tears flowed freely. She tried to take a drink to calm herself down but it wasn’t helping and she slumped to the side in her first-class seat. She felt a tap on her shoulder and looked to the side to see a white handkerchief fall in her lap. “Don’t cry, lassie.”
She turned to look at Tara, sitting in the seat behind her, waving tentatively.
Willow’s eyes bugged out for a minute. “Did you set this up?” Tara didn’t answer immediately and Willow shouted louder. “Did you set this up?” She kneeled in her seat and then climbed over the back and into Tara’s lap still shouting. She began pounding on Tara’s arms as the stewardess shouted for her to stop. After two or three blows, blows which the blonde did nothing to stop, Willow kissed her.
Their passionate kisses, while not appropriate on the plane, at least only garnered an amused look from the stewardesses rather than a call to security. Willow stopped kissing her lover for only a moment to lean forward and whisper in her ear. “Try something like that again and I’ll make you pay.”
Tara smiled. “I look forward to it.”
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It may lead to the first time there'd be President/Vice President 'shippers (at least... oh, god, I hope it'd be the first time 
) And Willow being 'married' to Larry... well, they say politics is the art of compromise (usually when I happen to tune in to the occasional House of Reps broadcast it looks more like the art of kindergarten bickering, but they say it's compromise), and it does have a bizarre kind of pleasing symmetry to it, with the wife and her vice-prez, and him and his 'bodyguard'. Hehe, 'First Beard,' I like that. And that tell-all book is going to redefine 'best-seller,' that's for sure.
Heh, this was a pure spur of the moment thingy, actually, after rewatching one of my favorite films. I hope it adheres to all the rules set in the challenge... because it's very silly. The story makes more sense if you're familiar with the movie in question, I think. I hope you like it.
but i liked the story anyway! good job!
