Somebody to Hold (Tyler Jamison #2) - April Wilson Page 0,16

at Sean. “I’m in for the rest of the evening, so you can take off if you want. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As Layla pulls me toward the rear entrance to our house, I glance back at Tyler, who’s still engaging in a pissing contest with Sean. He can’t help it—he’s a protector. It comes naturally. “Tyler? Are you coming?”

Tyler turns to face me, his expression transforming instantly. “I’m right behind you.”

Chapter 6

Tyler Jamison

Ian’s young and exuberant sister leads us through a sprawling, early twentieth-century Chicago mansion that takes up, quite literally, an entire city block. I know Ian comes from old money, and lots of it, but this home is beyond anything I could ever have imagined. There are exquisite oriental rugs on the polished dark wood floors, pristine pieces of antique furniture, oil paintings covering the walls—landscapes and portraits. I feel like I’m walking through a museum.

Layla is a bit of a surprise. I’m not sure of her ethnicity, but her hair is a deep black and her wide, kohl-lined eyes are as dark as obsidian. If I had to guess, I’d say she perhaps is of Mediterranean descent. One thing is certain… she’s stunning. I imagine Sean has his work cut out for him as I’m sure the college boys are all over her.

I follow Ian and his sister into a spacious living room, where we find their parents seated on a dark green velvet sofa, sipping red wine.

Judge Martin Alexander is dressed in a navy-blue, pinstriped suit. He probably just got home from the courthouse. His expression is stern as he meets my gaze, his jaw tightly clenched. His wife, District Attorney Ruth Alexander, is dressed in tailored black slacks and a white silk blouse, a string of pearls around her throat. But whereas Ian’s father appears anything but friendly, his mother is all smiles.

Ruth jumps to her feet the moment we enter the room. “Hello, detective. Welcome to our home.” She sets her wine glass on the coffee table and comes to greet us, first hugging her two children before directing her attention to me. “Detective Jamison.” She offers me her hand. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

I nod. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Alexander. Please, call me Tyler.”

“Of course. There’s no need to stand on formality. I’m Ruth.” She glances back at her husband. “And I believe you’ve already met Martin.”

“I have.” I tip my head toward the judge. “Good evening, Your Honor.”

Martin sets his wine glass down and rises to his feet, coming forward to offer me his hand. “Detective.”

Martin hugs Ian, then draws Layla under his arm and kisses the top of her head. “Hello, sweet pea.”

“Daddy, please,” she complains, pulling away with an embarrassed grin.

And then we’re called to dinner by an older woman wearing a starched gray uniform.

Not surprisingly, the meal is beyond reproach—filet mignon, roasted baby potatoes, steamed vegetables—followed by Crème Brulee in fancy little ceramic dishes for dessert. I notice Layla is having fresh strawberries for dessert.

Ian told me Layla was born a type one diabetic—it was primarily the reason her teenage parents gave her up for adoption shortly after birth. She was labeled medically fragile, and I guess they couldn’t handle the responsibility of meeting her needs.

Even now, as a young adult, her blood sugar levels have to be closely monitored. Modern technology has made that task a lot easier. Between her insulin pump and her continuous blood glucose monitor, a lot of it is automated. But it’s not foolproof. Her previous bodyguard was fired because he slept through her monitor signaling an alarm in the middle of the night when her blood sugar levels crashed dangerously low.

I sit back and listen to the conversation at the table. Martin asks his daughter how her classes are going at school. Ruth asks me about my family. Layla grills me on my career.

How long have you worked in law enforcement?

Do you like being a homicide detective?

Why did you want to become a cop in the first place?

What’s it like to see a dead body?

“Layla, darling, please,” Ruth says. “Let’s not discuss dead bodies at the dinner table.”

I don’t mind her questions. “I always wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps. He was a cop, too. He died in the line of duty when I was eighteen.” I pause a moment to sip my coffee and lock down my emotions. Talking about losing my dad is still painful, even more than two decades later. Sometimes the pain