The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

Sam was furious with himself for allowing the fucker to get so close to Laura Prentiss. It was inexcusable even though, according to his PR team, the rescue had resulted in more than a few new clients. People didn’t get that it had been a fuckup of gargantuan proportions. All they’d seen was the bloodied and battered Sam Brand, heroically beating the snot out of a sniveling, rat-faced, hunting knife–wielding bad guy.

And how the fuck did he get a hunting knife past security in the first place? There was so much explaining to be done after Sam got out of this hospital. But that was for a different day. In the meantime he had some of his best men working with the police to get answers to these questions. Right now all he wanted to do was sleep and wake up without pain.

Three days later he felt ready to full-on murder someone. Maybe one of the relentlessly cheerful nurses with their singsong voices and bright smiles. Or Dour Dr. Doom the Evil Deliverer of Bad News—bed rest for four weeks, no strenuous activity for three months, six to eight weeks with a cast on his arm, followed by weeks of rehabilitation to get it back in working order. It was a never-ending catalog of bad news.

Worse, the fucking press wouldn’t leave him alone. He now had a man assigned to the door because some sleazy bastard had donned a white coat and wiseassed his way right into Sam’s room before anybody had been the wiser. They had gone into a feeding frenzy after Laura Prentiss had dropped by to visit him. Sam had been tempted to fire Tyler Chambers—her new CPO—on the spot. He should have talked her out of visiting. Only the fact that Sam had himself been Laura—Lally to those closest to her—Prentiss’s CPO and knew how stubborn she could be had saved Chambers. Well, that and the fact that Chambers was a solid guy and a good friend.

Everything was shitty as hell at the moment and Sam was wondering what the fuck else could go wrong when he heard an unmistakable female voice just outside his room door. He groaned. This was the last thing he needed. He should have known she’d show up eventually. But he had hoped that the one phone call and three text messages they had shared since the incident would be enough.

She breezed into the room on a cloud of expensive perfume, with her current lapdog—carrying her fake (Sam hoped) fur stole—trailing adoringly in her wake.

“Oh, my poor baby,” she lamented, coming over to plant a huge kiss on Sam’s cheek. Say what you wanted about Catherine Lockerby-Brand-Hammersmith-Petriades-Christianson-Everett, she didn’t believe in air kisses. Sam always received full-on hugs and kisses from his mother. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“Hi, Mum,” he greeted, scrubbing at his cheek because experience told him he’d have a Scarlet Temptation lipstick smudge imprinted there. His mother winced theatrically.

“Samuel Noah Brand, how many times have I told you not to call me that? So crass. Mother or Mimsy, please.”

“Mum, I have never and will never call you Mimsy. I don’t get why you keep asking me to.”

“I just like the sound of it,” she said, before looking at the strapping young man—at least thirty years younger than her fifty-five—still standing at the door clutching her fur stole. “Craig, darling, do you mind?” She glanced down at the visitor’s chair, and Craig rushed to dust it off before holding it while she gingerly situated herself on the cushioned seat. “Thank you, lovely. Samuel, have you met Craig?”

Sam sized up his mother’s latest plaything. The guy was about ten years his junior and had that dumb, vacant look in his eyes that she seemed to like in her toy boys. After her five failed marriages, Sam couldn’t blame his mother for giving up on that esteemed institution and opting instead to have fun. He’d worry if she ever got serious about her playthings, but she knew exactly what she wanted from them. And as much as the thought made him uncomfortable, Sam couldn’t begrudge her a bit of fun and companionship.

He nodded at Craig, who smiled back enthusiastically.

“I saw the news footage of you taking down that guy, man,” Craig said with the eagerness of a puppy. “It was awesome. Maybe you could teach me some of those moves?”

“Little laid up at the moment, mate,” Sam pointed out.

“After you recover, of course.” Poor guy actually thought he’d be around that long.

“Of course.”

“Craig, do you mind getting me some coffee, please? And none of the stuff they have at this hospital. You know what I like.”

“Sure do.” God, was it his imagination or was the guy eye-fucking his mother? Oh damn! That was out of bounds, man!

“Craig!” he yelled, breaking the uncomfortably long eye contact between his mother and the man. Boy. Whatever the fuck he was. Craig diverted his gaze to Sam. “Be a good chap and go get her that coffee.”