Dillon came over and sat down. He counted the money and stacked the notes neatly before him. Myra stood behind him, watching him. When he had finished she reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. The heavy muscles of his back contracted under her touch. She felt the flicker of flame shoot through her again.
He got abruptly to his feet, throwing her hands away. “Cut it out!” he said savagely. “You keep your whore tricks for some other punk.”
She moved towards him. “We can’t go on like this,” she said; “you can’t share this room with me—”
Dillon reached out his fist and shoved her away. “You heard me,” he said. She caught the unevenness of his voice. “Get into bed, an’ shut up!”
She said softly, “Sure, I guess I was only thinkin’ of you.”
Dillon turned from her and went over to his bed. He sat down and began to pull off his shoes. Myra stood in the middle of the room and undressed. She took her time. She let each garment fall to the floor until she had nothing on. She stood like that, looking at Dillon, then she turned and got into bed.
For the first time since she had known him she knew that she had made an impression on him. She knew that he was aware of her and she was content to wait for him.
Early next morning they woke with a start. Someone was drumming on their door. Dillon shot out of bed, making a grab for his gun. For a moment Myra was startled and she made to follow him, then she relaxed back on the pillow.
Roxy called from the other side of the door, “It’s me.”
Swearing softly, Dillon opened the door.