Sex Lies and Lamborghinis Ch. 06

I sat agape. There I was, searching for Mick Worhurst, the disappearing owner of a secret Lamborghini; I was in the middle of an illegal search of the townhouse he kept secret from his wife, hidden away along with all of the other proceeds of the lottery he won two years ago... staring alternately between the phone in Mick's office on which Mick was talking to me, and the webcam on the shelf above his computer through which he was watching me. And had been watching me as I ransacked his office, poured through his files, pleasured myself (thinking myself alone and unwatched, of course), and later pinning down Mick's little floozy and having hot lesbian sex with her.

All in front of the webcam. All while he had been watching.

"Hello?" he called from the phone, his smooth and sexy voice sparkling with amusement. "I know you're there, I can see you breathing."

I pulled a face and reached for the phone, punching the hands-free button. "Mick Worhurst," I greeted. "You lying cheating son of a bitch."

"And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" he returned, not missing a beat.

"Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings," I told him as I tried to surreptitiously reach for my mobile, hoping to order up a trace on Mick's call. "I was put on your case when we found your Lamborghini – you know, the one filled with blood and wrapped around a tree half-way down a mountainside?"

"My poor Lambo," Mick lamented, as though mourning a dear friend. "If I ever catch up with the sons-of-bitches that ran me off the road..."

"So you had some help, crashing the Lambo?"

"My fucking oath I did!" Mick vociferated. "Have you found the bullet-holes?"

I blinked. "No..." I frowned. "Forensics went over the car, and there was no mention of bullets."

"Well I promise you, there were bullets. I was on my way to meet Pagani when a truck-load of his goons overtook me and shot me all up."

"Any shots they fired must have gone window-to-window," I frowned. "Our forensic boys don't usually miss bullet-holes..."

"Well, if we ever catch up, I'll show you the bullet hole in my arm. That might convince you."

"They said you must have copped an arterial wound, to bleed out like that," I nodded, wincing at the thought of it – I hadn't yet been shot in the line of duty, and it was something I hoped to avoid through to retirement. Bullet wounds do terrible things to a lady's skin tone.

"Yeah, I caught one high in the arm. A real gusher."

"Where did you go, Mick? How did you survive a bleed that bad?"

"I know enough to keep pressure on a wound like that," Mick explained. "And I've got a couple horses on a stud farm down in the foothills – I pretty much followed the creek all the way in, and had a helping hand from their live-in vet. He's a nice guy," Mick added, with perhaps a touch of understatement.

"All that for a girl, Mick?" I quizzed him, not hiding the disappointment in my voice.

"Don't say it like that, Detective," Mick chastised. "Remember: I can see the disapproving look on your face, too."

"Well now, you've seen plenty of me through this damn camera, haven't you?" I teased, settling back to regard the webcam with perhaps a touch of sultriness in my eye; even as I did so, I fired off a text message to the police switchboard requesting a trace on the landline call with Mick. "How's about you and I meet up, so I can at least get a glimpse of you?"

"Sounds tempting," Mick replied, and I could hear his cute, disarming grin even over the phone. "Maybe we can catch up for a chat sometime, after everything blows over?"

"No chance in hell of that happening, matie," I promised him. "You've got to come forward so we can sort this out. You, Trish and Roberto Pagani – sounds like he's got a few charges of blackmail and attempted murder to answer."

"It would really be better if you stayed out of everything," Mick informed me. "I know all about Pagani – I've got enough on him to shut him up. Just by surviving the crash, I've got all I need to stand over him."

"Roberto Pagani is a dumb thug," I told Mick, frowning at the webcam and at his uncooperative attitude. "Dumb thugs don't play ball. Dumb thugs just keep swinging at you until one of you is dead. It would be far better if you'd come on in so we can get statements off you and Trish, and use them to lock Pagani away for the rest of his dumb thuggish life."

"I'm sure you appreciate, Detective, that I have my own reasons for wanting to stay below the radar."

I rolled my eyes – he was referring to his wife, who until today had no idea that he was the owner of a bright orange Lamborghini, and was currently waiting anxiously at home with their five children for any news on her cheating, lying, lottery-hiding husband.

"I saw that little roll-of-the-eyes," Mick reminded me.

"I meant you to see it," I told him. "You really are a prick, Mick. You know that? What kind of man keeps a fifteen-million-dollar windfall hidden from his wife – from the mother of his five children?"

"Sounds like you've visited the missus," Mick observed. "Detective: can you imagine what my life would have been like if I'd brought that money home? I'd be locked up with that screaming shitting little brood twenty-four-seven!"

"That's exactly what your missus does!" I rejoined. "Five screaming little monsters, day-in-day-out, without a break, Monday-through-Sunday, week in week out all the year long, Mick! All so her 'beloved, kindly, providing' husband can go off and hoon around in Lamborghinis and Porsches, flake out in a million-dollar prime-ocean-view pad, and have his cock sucked all-day-long by some teenaged ultra-slut with big tits and blond hair??"

"You're a great one to question my morals, 'Detective'," Mick returned. "Where does 'masturbating in the line of duty' fall under your Code of Conduct? I saw every second of what you did to and with our dear young Trish; and those keys I see on the desk there – they're for my little red Elfin. Right?"

Crap – he'd seen the car keys, which I had dropped on the desk before the phone rang and had forgotten about them.

"So don't you get on your high horse and judge me, 'Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings'," he told me – which impressed me greatly, I must admit; I'm sure most men I meet forget my name immediately, referring to me mentally as 'the cop chick with the great guns'. I was already kind of hot for this guy, with his manly chin and cheeky grin and wicked little deception; the fact that he had consideration, character and respect enough to remember a lady's name did nothing to stop the mounting wetness in my unpantied crotch, my excitement building even as I spoke to the elusive and enigmatic Mick Worhurst.

"Don't you judge me," he said again. "I may have hidden my wealth and had some fun on the side, but never have I neglected my family; never have I held back on what they needed, never have I let them go wanting. I go back there every evening, and I spend every weekend in that tiny little house with them, and I love each and every one of them to pieces and I give of myself, everything I am, to them. I hold nothing back, except that which they can do without."

"Well aren't you a saint," I mocked him, using acrimony to disguise my building heat for him. "You don't think your poor wife could maybe do with a slightly newer car, or a slightly larger house? Maybe a bit of help when you're off doing your Playboy thing, maybe a maid or a cleaner or a nanny? You don't think you could maybe spare a bit of cream off the top of your high-yield returns to give Prue a helping hand?"

"Now—"

"How long did you think you could keep it all secret anyway, Mick?" I went on, in the middle of a rant and not willing to give him a break. "How long were you planning to keep it all under your hat? Ten years? Twenty? Forever? Or were you just gunna 'up-stumps' and vanish, book a one-way flight into the mist with your big-titted little tart and leave Prue penniless with your progeny? Was that the plan, Mick?" I asked of him, nostrils flaring. "Was that it??"

"Screw you, Detective," he replied. "You think you know me? You think I'm another one of 'those guys'? Is my case sparking up on some kind of ill-repressed 'daddy issue' of yours, perchance?"

I stopped, eyebrows flashing with fury, unable to help myself though I knew he was watching me closely via the webcam.

"Aha," he crowed. "I thought so. Well, Detective, not that it's any of your fucking concern, but why don't you go into the computer and open the 'Prue30' file?"

I swallowed my rage, and did as instructed; within I found a few pictures showing floorplans, artist's impressions and architectural sketches of a large, stately, modern-looking manor in a rural setting. "What's this?" I asked, hollowly.

"It's Prue's thirtieth birthday present," he informed me. "She turns thirty next year, and this is my surprise for her."

"What?" I frowned.

"This is how I spend most of my days, this is what I've been working on – I've been designing a house for her. A mansion. Eight bloody bedrooms – one for each of the kids, one for us, one for visitors-slash-grandparents and one for 'the help'; four bathrooms; three living areas; a six-car garage," he added, and I could hear his smug little lottery-winner's grin over the phone, "and a partridge in a pear tree. All for Prue, as a huge surprise for her thirtieth birthday. I'm going to come clean and tell her all about it."

I boggled slightly at this new turn of events, flicking through the pictures. It was a beautiful home: it had a 19th-century 'Colonial Australian' style about it, writ large and mansion-sized with painted white timber veneer and high-peaked roofs, yet at the same time made more modern, open and glassy. The interior, meanwhile, was just as opulent as the townhouse I had broken into, if not more so with quality materials and top-end furnishing abundant. It was huge, sprawling over a lush green plot of land nestled like a glen in the middle of a tall old-wood forest, presumably somewhere up in the mountains. The garage sat off to one side, a beautiful garden with big trees – alternately flowering purple and red – surrounding the drive and the front of the house, and to the rear was a large and beautiful landscaped patio-and-pool, its waters gleaming crystal-cyan in the summer sun and situated to take full advantage of a breathtaking view over the valley and river.

"Wow," was all I could say.

"I designed it myself," Mick reminded me, most proud of his architectural abilities and justly so. "They made a start last week, they've turned the first sod and began the earthworks and services. It should be ready just before her birthday, and on the day: I'll pick her up in a shiny new top-of-the-line Mercedes seven-seater, I'll drive her up to the mountains, I'll show her the house and give her the keys. And I'm gunna tell her: 'Happy birthday, baby!'"

He'd obviously thought it all out. "But why wait, Mick?" I asked of him. "Why hide it from her – why leave her to suffer day-to-day with the kids, all this time? Won't she be shitty with you for hiding it from her for so long?"

"I'm guessing she'll be happy enough with a brand new four-million-dollar home and thirty-million-dollar bank balance to care about those little details," Mick replied. "Anyways, I kept it all to myself with only the very best intentions in mind."

I snorted mirthlessly at that. "This should be good," I smirked. "Go on: explain yourself."

"Detective: the win came as such a shock. When I got the news I just sat there for hours, not knowing what to do or say or think. But at the forefront of my mind, I knew, I simply knew: I couldn't rush home and give Prue the news. I couldn't do it."

"Why not?"

"I wasn't ready!" Mick told me. "I wasn't ready – and neither would she be ready! I mean: fifteen million? Who could sit down and come up with a plan to manage all of that money – responsibly – in just a couple of hours? I knew, I just knew that if I ran home and said 'Prue... honey... we've won the lotto!' then that would be the end of it. She and I have been a bit silly with money in the past – we went and bought the house before we had finished building our family, we'd filled up a couple of credit cards with silly and unnecessary purchases, most of my former income was burning away on large high-interest debts... And I knew, with sudden and unconsidered access to millions of dollars, Prue and I would go nuts, we'd buy a tonne of useless crap, we'd blow it all on houses and holidays and shopping sprees, she'd go and give half of it to her stupid bloody relatives..."

"The inconsiderate bitch," I commiserated, with perhaps a touch of sarcasm.

"I needed time," Mick went on, the tone of his voice letting me know my little contributions were not welcome. "I needed time to sit and think. To chew on it for a while, and properly consider our future direction, to come to grips with the enormity of our new wealth."

"Let me guess: the townhouse, the Lambo... they were purchased as 'essential tools', designed only to sharpen your concentration?"

"Well, a man's entitled to just a wee bit of indulgence, Detective," Mick admonished, cheekily.

"Uh huh," I returned, aiming an unimpressed squint down the webcam. "And tell me: do the girls like Trish fall in the 'wee bit of indulgence' category? Were you planning to wrap her up with a big silver bow as another birthday surprise for Prue?"

"Well..." I heard Mick grinning, and his total lack of compunction at once vexed me massively... and endeared him to me all the more. He was such a cheeky, wicked, unapologetic little bastard – just my kind of guy, though I hated it and hated myself for it...

"Trish was just a bit of fun on the side," Mick dismissed. "Girls like her don't stick round for long. I was pretty sure she'd be distracted by something shiny long before it was time to bring Prue in on the big picture."

"Oh, now aren't you a sweetie, Mick?" I teased. "Not every guy will cop a bullet in the arm for 'just a bit of fun on the side'."

"Hey: just because I'm not planning to marry the girl, doesn't mean I like to see a prick like Pagani standing over her. She's nice, she deserves better."

"Well, I don't know if she'll be so 'easily distracted' when you've had your fill of her," I warned him. "She saw your bank balance. I think she might be planning on sinking her claws, holding onto you for a bit longer."

"Yeah, I saw you left my papers out for her to see – thanks for that," he quipped. "Really appreciated it."

I just had to shake my head at this guy. "I can't believe you, Mick," I confessed. "I just can't believe you. You act like you love your wife – you won't leave her, you go home to her every night and spend every weekend with your family – yet you've gone two years hiding a multi-million-dollar windfall from her, lying about where you go and what you do during the working week, you fuck around behind her back..."

"You seem so disappointed in me, Detective," Mick observed.

I frowned. "Disappointed isn't the right word. 'Confused', I think, sums it up better. Why do it? If you don't love Prue enough to share all of this with her now, right now, or even two years ago – then why do it? Why not just leave her and have your own fun?"

"I do love my wife," Mick returned. "I do. I love her, and I love my kids, all five of the little bastards. I can't imagine my life without them. But... well, it's so complicated," he tried to explain. "I could just see my life if I had shared my winnings with them. I wouldn't be able to get out. I wouldn't be able to have 'my time'. You know? I'd be stuck there, helping out, doing chores, changing nappies, feeding and burping and running around after everybody and going absolutely insane... I need to get out of there five days a week, Detective. I need it."

I nodded; even despite my disdain for the man, I knew him, I knew what he meant. I would be the same, exactly the same in his position.

"Two days a week at home is almost too much," he went on. "And it's the same for Prue, she feels exactly the same about me being there – she's much happier that I get out and about, I'm sure of it! When I am home I'm always 'in her hair', I'm not doing it right, I'm putting things away where they're not supposed to go, I'm feeding this kid at the wrong time, I'm giving that kid the other kid's medication, I'm going out and buying the wrong size of nappy or the baby powder that four-out-of-five of them are allergic to – and it drives her bonkers! She honestly can barely stand to have me at home, I just get right up her nose and without even trying! And if I were to have stayed home every day... it would have destroyed us. It would have destroyed our marriage. We love each other, Detective – we just can't stand each other."

"So why not keep getting out, Mick?" I rejoined. "Why not have shared the winnings with her, and during work-days just get out and go to an office, do your own thing, maintain the sanity?"

"It wouldn't have happened," Mick knew. "That would never have happened. Prue would hate me for leaving her at home when I didn't really need to, she'd ask me every other day 'could you just stay home today please?' and I'd have felt guilty for skipping out on her... it was a lose-lose situation."

"So instead of having to feel guilty, you decided to hide everything and lie through your teeth and leave her to suffer in near-poverty while you toured the countryside in a bright orange Lamborghini?" I asked, innocently.

"In a nutshell: yes," Mick answered, and I could hear the cheeky, teasing twinkle in his eye even as he said it.

"You're a shit, Mick," I returned, with amused scorn – even as my phone buzzed silently in my hand. "An absolute shit," I reiterated, glancing surreptitiously at the phone, reading a message from the station's switchboard instructing me to keep Mick on the phone for as long as possible, to enable a full trace of his location.

I needed to maintain a man's interest, did I? Well now: there's one thing I've always been good at...

"But never mind that, Mickey-boy," I went on, taking on a new set to my body: open and approachable, leaning towards the camera, my button-down blouse undone at the top and showing plenty of cleavage, my tits drawn tight against the thin white cotton and my dark nipples clearly visible via the absence of bra. "See, I've been thinking..."

"You've been thinking?" Mick's disembodied voice echoed, via the phone.

"I've been thinking... it's not fair that you can see me, but I can't see you," I said, with a slight pout. "Any chance you might have a computer and a webcam on your end?"

"I might do, I might do," Mick allowed, which was as good as a confession – but of course he had a computer, he was using it to watch the feed from my webcam. And as if million-dollar-Mick didn't have another webcam with him at the moment, wherever he was...

"Well then, why don't you switch on your webcam and tell me how to find the feed," I cajoled. "It would be nice to put a face with the voice. And fair's fair, after all..."

"Hmm..." he mulled, considering my request with a great deal of amusement. "...mmm no. I can see you, and that's fine by me. No need for you to see me."

"Aww now – what if I made it worth your while?" I asked; and with one hand, I grabbed the lapel of my half-unbuttoned shirt and I pulled it ever so slightly outwards, revealing some more of my shapely braless breast and perhaps, just perhaps exposing the edge of my nipple, providing just a glimpse... before I pulled it closed again, shutting the door.

"Mmmmmm..." he nearly growled down the line, voicing his approval with a deliciously animalistic noise. "But then, I've already seen you naked... twice... and in orgasm, twice... once with another lady, too."

I stopped, and fixed the webcam with my very best 'you are in trouble now' expression. "Are you really gunna turn me down, Michael Allan Worhurst?" I demanded of him.