In a way, it sounds remarkably similar to his own line of work, just in reverse. They were the criminals, getting that adrenaline rush with every new mark who came along. Eames will stand by the fact that a lot of them deserved what they got — there's a reason why dream sharing intertwined with the world of corporate espionage; they're a bunch of shady bastards, for the most part — but that isn't a blanket statement, and they were still the ones interfering. For that matter, he almost thinks his own line of work would have to be more exciting, being higher up on the scale of under the table dealings, the illicitness appealing to him in ways he'd rather not stop to analyze. Or admit, for that matter.

"Do I?" he asks, with an expression that, on someone else, would probably be best described as coy; the word itself doesn't suit him in the slightest. (He's too dark for it, really, even if he could convincingly pass himself off otherwise.) Cards in one hand, he leans forward to rest his other elbow on the table, chin in his palm. "Tell me, darling, if I hadn't told you what I did, what would you have guessed?"