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He tipped his head. "Sì."
"What are you—you don't live here," I stammered.
He held up the keycard to the dorm. "Vanessa sent me to check on you," he said. "She was afraid you might be ill."
"No, I'm—can you give me a minute?" I edged past him and stepped outside. "I have to take this to—just wait here."
He followed me out, his expression curious. "Are you sure you are all right?" he said. "You seem upset."
"I'm not upset." I clutched the bag tighter as I walked. "I'm just—I'm late, that's all."
"River." There was genuine concern in Luca's voice. He placed a hand on my arm, gentle pressure that compelled me to slow my pace.
I looked up at him, certain that my every thought was written on my face. "Yeah?"
His gaze went from mine to the bag in my hand, and his expression went from concerned to outright alarmed. "What happened?"
I realized, belatedly, that the plastic bag was so thin it was basically transparent, and the bloodstained clothing within was clearly visible. "It's a long story," I mumbled, pulling my arm from his grasp. We had reached the dumpster, and I lifted the lid and tossed the bag inside.
He hadn't moved; he was just standing there watching me, his dark brows knitted together and his eyes glowing like coals. Feeling self-conscious, I folded my arms over my chest. "What?"
"I hope you know," he said quietly, "that you can trust me."
God, he had such a way of saying things—of sidestepping everything inconsequential and laying bare the very heart of the conversation. For a moment, the strangest vision popped into my head: my head thrown back, and Luca bent over me, his teeth at my throat.
And then the moment passed, and he was taking my arm again. "Come," he said. "You are cold."
It was true. I was shivering, although I wasn't sure it was because of the temperature. I had to suppress the urge to tuck myself against his side, to wrap my arm around his waist and feel the heat of him. I let him guide me back toward the dorm.
"I can wait here," he said, "while you…”
I looked down at my beat-up Broncos sweatshirt and my leggings that had a hole worn through one knee. My hair was in a messy ponytail on top of my head. What was left to hide?
"No," I said with a sigh, "come on up."
He followed me down the hall. "Shall I—?" He stopped at the kitchen and gestured toward the percolator.
I nodded vigorously. "Please," I said. "I'll be right back."
In the room, I changed quickly into my work clothes and loosed my hair from the ponytail. It rarely tangled, but I raked a brush through it anyway. By the time I emerged, the smell of coffee had wafted down the hallway, rich and inviting. I followed its scent into the kitchen.
"Thanks.” I reached for one of the tiny coffee cups and filled it almost to the brim.
"That's a generous pour." Luca looked amused.
I gave him a little salute with the mug, almost spilling some of the dark liquid. "American," I reminded him.
"I had not forgotten." He sipped. "Are we in a hurry?"
"You tell me," I said, making a face as I sat down beside him at the table. "Was Blanton pissed that I didn't show up?"
The amused expression intensified. "You seem to be oddly exempt from ordinary consequences." He set his cup down on the table. "She only wondered aloud whether you needed a long weekend. How nice to be so well-regarded."
"You're making fun of me," I accused.
He shrugged. "You refuse to confide in me; what else is there to speak of?"
I blew a stray strand of hair off my face. "There's nothing to say."
