Hidden Pleasures. Brenda Jackson

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      And his father topped that list of critics. Drew Steele believed that a man was supposed to get up at seven o’clock, Monday through Friday, and work at some job until at least five. It had taken Drew a long time to buy into the Principles According to Galen Steele, which said that a man was supposed to work smarter, not harder. That was why at the age of thirty-four Galen was a multibillionaire and was still building an empire, while working less than twenty hours a week and having fun at what he did.

      Fourteen years ago while attending the University of Phoenix, pursuing a degree in engineering, he and his two roommates decided to do something to make money, something different than what their friends were doing—like selling their blood or their sperm. So they began creating video games. After their games became a hit on campus, they formed a business and by the time they graduated from college two years later, they were millionaires. The three of them were still partners today.

      Their business, the SID Corporation, was represented by three CEOs, Galen Steele, Eric Ingram and Wesley Duval. Their only employees were their art team. He, Eric and Wesley shared duties as game designers and programmers and leased a suite in an exclusive area of Phoenix’s business district for appearances’ sake and as a tax write-off. They preferred designing their games right in the garage of their homes. Simple. Easy. Shrewd.

      He shook his head. He and his brothers had inherited the old man’s penchant for women, but they’d been born to excel. Drew’s expectations for his six sons had been high, and all of them had become successful in their own right.

      Seeing the other groomsmen move forward, Galen brought his attention back to the ceremony in time to stay on cue and file out with the rest of the wedding party. He took the arm of his partner, Laurie, one of Natalie’s friends from college. She was pretty—and she was also very much married.

      Outside in the perfect June day, he couldn’t help but chuckle as he checked out the faces of his brothers and a number of Donovan’s still-single friends. They had stood up there and witnessed the entire ceremony and they looked as if they were in shock. Galen understood how they felt. There wasn’t a woman alive who’d make him consider tying the knot. He got shivers just thinking about it.

      “You barely made it.”

      Galen came out of his reverie to glance over at two of his brothers, Tyson and Gannon. “Doesn’t matter, Tyson. I made it,” he said, smiling. “With a minute to spare.”

      “Should we ask why you were almost late?” Gannon asked with a curious look on his face.

      Galen chuckled. He was the oldest and at twenty-nine Gannon was the youngest. Galen knew he was his youngest brother’s hero and because of that he tried walking a straight-and-narrow path. Doing the role-model thing wasn’t always easy, especially when you were the offspring of the infamous Drew Steele. But on occasion Galen liked pulling his youngest brother’s leg. Like now.

      “I’ll be glad to tell you why I was almost late,” Galen said, leaning close to his brothers as if what he had to say was for their ears only.

      “I got caught up in a foursome and lost track of the time,” he lied. And just so they would know what he meant, he said, “It was me and three women in my hotel room. Get the picture?”

      “No kidding?” Gannon said, easily impressed.

      Tyson rolled his eyes. “Yes, he’s full of it, Gannon. Don’t believe a word he says. It might have been one woman, but it wasn’t three.”

      Galen could only smile. There were only eleven months’ difference in his and Tyson’s ages. A lot of people thought they were twins, but they were as different as night and day. Dr. Tyson Steele tended to be too serious at times.

      “Tell him the truth, Galen, or Gannon is going to go around believing you’re superhuman or something,” Tyson said.

      “All right.” He gave Gannon his serious look. “There were two women. I took care of one and the other one got away,” Galen said, thinking of the woman whose cab he’d been forced to hijack. He could still see the anger on her gorgeous face, especially the fire that had lit a striking pair of eyes.

      “Was she good-looking?” Gannon had to ask.

      Galen lifted a brow. “Who?”

      “The one who got away.”

      Galen couldn’t help but smile. “She was more than good-looking. The woman was absolutely stunning.”

      “Damn, man. And you let her get away?” Gannon looked clearly disappointed.

      “It was either that or get my behind kicked by Donovan if I was late for his wedding.”

      “Okay, everyone, let’s go back inside the church for pictures,” the wedding director said, interrupting their conversation. “Then we’ll return to the Ritz-Carlton for the reception.”

      Galen’s thoughts shifted back to the woman. The one who got away. Like he’d told Gannon, she was more than good-looking and for some reason he could not get her out of his mind.

      And at that moment he thought he’d give just about anything to see her again.

      Brittany Thrasher tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear after bringing her car to a stop in front of her house. It was nice to be back home after attending that seminar in New York.

      A few minutes later she was walking through her front door wheeling her luggage behind her. The first thing she planned to do was strip off her clothes in deference to the Tampa heat that flirted with the hundred-degree mark.

      She looked at the stack of envelopes on the table and couldn’t help but appreciate her neighbor and friend Jennifer Barren for coming over every day to get her mail and water her plants. This was Brittany’s busiest travel time of the year. As CEO of her own business, Etiquette Matters, she and her ten employees traveled all over the country teaching the basics of proper etiquette to businesses, schools and interested groups. Last week her students consisted of a group of NFL players who’d been invited to the White House for dinner.

      Kicking off her shoes, she went to her bedroom and her mind went to the man in New York, the one who’d had the audacity to take her cab from right under her nose. And with his pants unzipped. He hadn’t seemed the least bit embarrassed when she’d brought it to his attention. The jerk.

      She shook her head. Another thing she remembered about him other than the open zipper was his eyes. He had Smokey Robinson eyes, a mossy shade of green that would have taken her breath away had she not been so angry. The man had no manners, which was a real turnoff. She would love to have him as a student for just one day in Etiquette Matters. She would all but shove good manners down his throat. In a gracious and congenial way, of course.

      She flipped through the stack of envelopes, sorting out the junk mail that needed to be trashed. One envelope in particular caught her attention. The handwriting on it was so elegant, she’d give just about anything to have that kind of penmanship.

      The envelope had no return address, but the postal stamp indicated it had been sent from Phoenix. She didn’t know a soul in Phoenix and it was one of the few places she’d never visited. Using her mail opener, she opened the letter and her eyes connected to words that had her gaping in shock.

      Ms. Thrasher,

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