That woman infuriates him more than anything else In the world.

Roaring downtown in his Porsche 911 Turbo S, hand gripping the wheel so hard he thought the skin would rip off, Olivier Barthel's mind was all on Lady Rosalie Darlington-Whit, nee Kennedy. He hadn't taken a woman home since he saw her at the Kentucky Derby party at the Cherokee Town & Country Club, dressed in a colorful dress and a big hat. Right beside her was her husband, Sir Elijah Darlington-Whit, and they looked so in love. But for Olivier, seeing Lady Rosalie that day, knowing that he couldn't even have her, he wanted her.

He wanted her all to himself-he wanted her in his bed, wondering how she'll sound saying his name. But since she was married, he didn't do it. Now, as he pulled up to the Residences at W Atlanta's parking lot, all his mind could do was replay their little conversation, remembering her red lips and her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. He did tell her the truth about being at the Aria that evening-he was there with a business partner-a business partner and his wife, who invited him to the Ansley Golf Club next weekend to play golf-and he accepted, knowing that half of his patrons who frequent the Golf Club was going to be there-but he was really there because he wanted to get a glimpse of the woman he wanted on her hands and knees, crawling over to him, probably begging him to make love to her.

And he would make love to Rosalie all over his home after she pleaded for him to. But right now, she wouldn't even dare to, since she blamed him for the death of her husband.

"Oh Mäi Schatz," he muttered, shaking his head after he found a parking spot and parked. He got out the car and pressed the button to lock it and set the alarm on it-not that he was picturing Rosalie on top of his car as they fucked on top of it-and went inside W Atlanta.

He kept walking towards the elevator, Rosalie's words floating in his mind-No murderers allowed-as she kept blaming him for her husband's death three years later. Olivier wished there was a way for her to see that he didn't kill her husband, no matter how much she wished he did. He knew how Sir Elijah died, and he kept it from her, as he wished it, so Rosalie wouldn't hate him for what he did.

Olivier was so wrapped up in his thoughts about Rosalie that he didn't hear anyone calling him. Confused, he looked around until he saw who it was-and was completely and utterly shocked to see a man wearing a suit, a Kennedy staple of brunette and brown eyes, not the platinum blonde hair that punched him at the Wine and Dine Event a year ago. In front of the man was a martini, and he was at the Wetbar of all places.

In his apartment building.

What...the fuck....

"D-Decker Kennedy," Olivier walked over to him, still shocked that Decker was here, in Georgia of all places. His eyes looked clear as hell, like he went somewhere and got sober for a year. "Wha..what are you doing here?" he finally asked, pulling out a chair and sitting across from the younger Kennedy.

Decker Kennedy popped an olive in his mouth as he watched the man he punched in the face sit across from him, stunned. It's been a long time since he last seen him moon over his sister after her husband died. "I wanted to say hello-and to also get you to keep a secret from my sisters. Especially Rosalie. Rosie can't keep a secret even if you tell her."

But-"I thought you were in New York?" that was the rumor about Decker that had gotten into everyone's mind-that Decker was in New York City, getting clean, or dying in a ditch somewhere with his pants around his ankles, or laying up in a hospital somewhere. But it looked like the younger Kennedy was fine now, and he didn't look high as a kite like he did on the day of the Gala.

A casual shrug was lifted as he took a sip of his martini. "Dad wanted me to come up to New York to sober up, and I did. Turns out that was for a fuckin' year, and I never touched a cigarette ever again. But drink? Nah. Can't give that up. But I was free to go after a year, and well..." Decker motioned to the Wetbar, grinning. "I've been down here since yesterday, so I'm gonna go see my sisters, then find me a place, and I got me a job line up. Music Professor at Georgia Tech. Was gonna do Georgia State, but they have buildings that are so confusing, I thought my head was going to spin. But enough about me-what have you been up to?"

"Well, you know..." Olivier trailed off at the question, hesitating for a moment. "I've been at my casino and resort, the Belvedere, and I've been trying to solve a murder. More specifically, your sister's husband's murder."

That took Decker by surprise. "You're trying to solve Eli's murder?" he asked before narrowing his eyes. He knew how much Olivier loved his sister-hell, everyone can see how Olivier drooled over Rosalie-but to solve a three year old murder? "You know, if you want to get into my sister's pants, then go ahead, get into her pants. But after she blames you for killing her husband, I don't think she will."

The statement made Olivier laugh. It was true, she blamed him for her husband's death and called him a murder each time she saw him, but it was weird that Decker was acting so...blasé about it.

"I want in," Decker says, all serious now. "I want to know everything you got on the murder and everything."

Now that shocked Olivier more. "Y...you want in?" he asked again, thrown off by it. "Why?"

"Because I believe you. Look, someone killed my brother in law, and I want them to pay for what they did." Decker answered, serious.

His answer made him nod for a moment before getting up. "Come on," he said, leading him upstairs towards the posh Drinkstop bar and lounge. It was a classy bar, and there was only one bartender working there tonight-Jose, Olivier read the nametag-and ordered himself an Old Fashioned, Decker a Cider Car, which is just apple brandy, Cointreau, apple cider and lemon-and Olivier told him his plan on solving the cold-case murder of one Sir Elijah Darlington-Whit.

It'll start with the journals Sir Elijah had left for him after their last deal fell through-Sir Elijah wanted to be a secret owner of the Belvedere, and if anything happened to him, Rosalie and any child he had with her would get thirty percent of the casino and resort. Both men agreed to the deal, and he and Sir Elijah were now co-owners of the Belvedere, and there was going to be a new club built when he was killed. Olivier had been given his journals, to hide them from Rosalie till it was time for him to reveal this to her-and in the journals Sir Elijah left his will, nearly half a million dollars for emergencies for Rosalie, and his shares of the Belvedere.

Surprisingly in the last entry, Elijah didn't blame Olivier for what happened to him. He saw him as a friend since the two of them were schoolboys together at the academy in England, and that he would take care of Rosalie once it was time. At the end of the last page, blood splatters, a couple of them, as if someone smashed his skull in.

Decker lets out a low wolf whistle at the information, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Well, damn," he said, shocked. He didn't even know that Elijah and Olivier was friends back in their Academy days-he'd remember how he'd start talking about them, and had to say "my friend" each time Rosalie entered the room. Now that he knew who the "friend" was..."He kept you a secret from Rosie before she can even know that you two were friends."

"Yep," Olivier agreed, nodded. They were in his condo now, and he pulled out the thick, black journal and passed it to the younger Kennedy. Decker took it and flipped it open to where the will was, and then the last and final journal entry.

I don't know how much I can write without anyone breaking in and reading it, but I have to write this down.

Someone is plotting to kill me.

I have heard whispers at work about someone plotting to kill me and take over my business, and I think I know who it is. I have my will here, along with a million dollars for emergencies, for Rosie and my child, if she ever becomes pregnant. There is also a copy of the deal I made with Olivier in here, and all of this goes to Rosie. I hope she doesn't hate me for what I've done.

I love her more than anything else in my life. I can still see her now, the sun in her hair that time in Cancun, or when we were in Saint-Tropez for a business vacation, being in bed all day that warm day because she didn't want to get out of bed.

Oh my Rosie. My Rose.

Please don't hate me for what I've done.

Understand that what I've done is for us, our family.

Olivier, if you're reading this, take care of my Rose. She's going to need someone to take care of if something happens to me. Tell her that I love her. And tell that T-

Then it ended, along with the copy of the original will and the copy of the deal he and Olivier made three years ago. Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Decker tried to remember what happened that day they found out that Sir Elijah was killed that night, and when Rosalie blamed his death on the man next to him, even when he showed up at Crawford W Long Memorial Hospital, which was now Emory University's Midtown Hospital.

"I was at the office," he started, making Olivier look up at him, "When I went to visit Elijah that day. He was his normal self, but when I finally sat down, he said I know who's trying to take down my law firm, and before he could tell me, that asshole Taylor Drake walked in, staging a fucking coup." Decker now remembered that day clearly-he'd just got started taking the drugs, heroin his drug of choice at the time, and he remembered Taylor Drake, a young upstart in the lawyer business who didn't like Sir Elijah that much, bursting through the doors and nearly throwing Elijah out on his ass.

"It has to be Taylor," he said after thinking about it hard enough. It'll be hard to pinpoint the son of bitch, but Decker had a feeling that it was him. Taylor was now the number one lawyer in Atlanta, and rumor has it that he was going to sponsor Republican Senator Julian Bryan in his next run off with Brian Kemp. "We just need more evidence that puts him that day he killed Elijah, and we'll have our man."

"Problem," Olivier pipped up. "The APD has the evidence that was found at the office that day. How are you going to get them out?" he asked. He knew what the APD had as "evidence"-a crowbar with blood on it, the papers that had blood all over it that night that might've dried up, a whole bunch of video confessions of everyone Elijah worked with that had been in his office that night, and the sky blue Audi RS 5 Coupe that had his body stashed away and found-and it was probably locked up somewhere, far away from their reach.

"I have a friend up in New York that can help with that." Decker said automatically.

"Since when do you have friends?"

"Since the last time you got laid."

Both men laughed-the man who loved Rosalie and the brother of a woman that hated him with a passion-now working together, which would be shocking if anyone was looking at them right now.

And if Rosalie found out that they were working together, she was going to kill the both of them-mostly Decker if she found out that he was already back in town.

Clapping his hands, he rubbed his hands. "When do we get started?" Decker asked, a grin on his face.