The door was locked. Even so, Ian Ranulf had given orders that this section of the house not be disturbed while she was here. Which was good, as a GIM’s method of tracking a soul was one of their closest kept secrets. Relaxing, she stared up at the dark, coffered ceiling. All was in order here—quiet, still, waiting. It smelled of him, that faint, almost illusive combination of sandalwood soap, fine linen, and the earthy scent of shifter. Talent liked quality; that was clear. His was a small room, a little jewel box tucked away in a quiet corridor of Ranulf House. Everything in his room was expensive, yet understated, as if he did not want to acknowledge his lust for luxury. But it was obvious in the soft leather chairs, the thick nap of the velvet throw lying upon the ottoman, and the smooth indigo silk counterpane covering the bed. Plump, down-filled pillows were piled high against the impressive mahogany headboard and practically invited a person to lie down. The man lived like a pasha behind closed doors.
