Eames was familiar with desire. Weren't we all, darling? Unless you make it a habit to ignore it, to pretend it doesn't lurk on the edges of consciousness. Give him his druthers and he gave in to desire readily. But desire could be as complex as it was simple. You could, for example, desire to complete a job smoothly and with the appropriate financial transactions taking place shortly thereafter that regretfully, you declined to dance with desire in the short-term, no matter how pretty the distraction.
Eames liked distractions very much.
It was not his dream, which was as well, because Eames rather suspected that this creature would hijack even the best laid defences. It had hijacked the pointy-looking blond who had wistful thoughts about damp moors and tiny cottages, hadn't it? Eames knew dreams, down to the seaming between one stage and the next. He didn't need to crack open whatever treasure-trove the blond with the predilection for over-thinking had at heart, to know this wasn't in it.
Eames oozed towards the construct that wasn't even a twinkle in the blond man's eye, and permitted the inspection. She smiled as she did it, a smooth and unhurried expression of utter calm in the face of what was no doubt an avalanche of all possible escape planning. (The soporific in the clinic, no doubt helped. Eames always had an escape plan even if things went tits up rapidly)
"What's your name, darling?" Eames moved smoothly and without resistance as if learning to waltz had been something to tick off a list a very long time ago. Backwards, even. She'd danced this way 'round before but the memory of that was battoned down under half a dozen different defences, all of which required being in Eames' own mind to unlock.
"Seeing as you've got mine. I found you, didn't I? Might as well know the prize." She didn't bother with ardent self-defence. She looked into that strangely perfect, planed face with an equanimity that was warm, arch amusement.