"This is the one they used to smuggle the future Duke of Edinburgh out of Greece as the monarchy there fell."
She looked up. A microsecond of surprise crossed between her ears but did not register on her face.
She had not noticed the man noticing her interest in the blanket chest. The enveloping character of the cedar, carefully stained two centuries ago with the rich patina to show for it, had swallowed her for a moment. Her radar almost never went down like that -- except when she saw a piece of craftsmanship like this.
"Is that so," she said, in the warm and low part of her natural register. She allowed one corner of her mouth to subtly curl upward, one eyebrow to flick for a second then come back to rest. He might have clocked her desire but she could still tamp down the seller's optimism that was giving his grey-blue eyes a vulpine affect.
"Why of course, young lady. You do know where we are, I trust? None of the swindler's crowd get credentialed to the Puces." His grin had only broadened, the confidence in his eyes only deepened. In fact the stormy half-lidded eyes bordered on cocksure now, as he let them stroll down her frame and back up to meet her gaze, clearly imagining her flattered to be the subject of such baldfaced lechery. Not a good start, she thought.
"Young perhaps, but not foolish. It's a lovely piece and I congratulate you -- Good luck." As she turned her back, knowing her hair blocked his view of her entirely, she allowed herself a grin and thought -- no Puce for you, bud.
"Ah but my luck has already come in!" he said, in a voice that strived for suave but now also exhibited a whiff of need. This might be turning around already, the oaf.
He appeared at her shoulder, quickly enough to suggest he's one of those people whose average stature is comprised disproportionately of legs. Indeed, now he was out from behind his table, she could see his frame. Fit enough, and dressed with the panache his voice suddenly lacked -- your typical Eurobrat, by her estimation, probably inherited his ex-im license from his father, who'd taken it over from his father, and so on back to whatever execrable hovel his definitely-not-aristocratic lineage had once been anchored.
She simply waited. No need to repeat his mistake. Don't jerk the line too soon after the hook sets. Her cousin had taught her that, fishing from the Memorial Bridge, one of those childhood adventures that had started out special but quickly turned dusty-boring.
"You, ah -- You are my luck, I mean. Madame, please, allow me to show you the piece fully -- You do me a favor in this, to practice one's craft is always well." Now even he could hear the suave engine was failing to engage. When their careful english starts to falter, the momentum swing is almost irreversible. Just another nudge and she'd have him.
She blinked slowly at him, once, twice, silently devouring the discomfort and reeking want of him. She loved this part, almost as much as she loved collecting itself.
"A favor?" She smiled, now, not fully but he must have thought so. She knew how to dazzle, and knew she never needed to bring 100 percent to fritz out male circuitry. The women collectors demanded more and different guile -- all the more rewarding when they, too, broke before her -- and as a rule she conserved energy throughout her browsing in case something she truly wanted turned up at the apron of a particularly adroit woman's booth.
"A favor," she repeated, flatly this time, no longer interrogative. "Huh. OK, sure. I don't mind doing you a favor, Mr....?"
"I am Cyril Guillaume, madame, though my frien--"
"Mr. Guillaume." He looked stricken as she cut him off. "I don't mind doing you this favor. But I am nearly late meeting a friend as it is. Be swift in your...rehearsal." She'd killed the lights behind the smile again, as suddenly as she'd flipped them on. He was crestfallen. Careful, now -- Too much and his ego will interfere. Male pride was not her friend, at least not here in the Puces.
"Please do show me, Mr. Guillaume -- unless you feel an abridged rehearsal is not the favor for which you hoped?"
His eyes flicked back to warmth and he grinned, nothing of the slavering fox to it this time. Crisis averted. All over but the crying, now.
She tuned out most of what he said, focusing instead on the way he said it. These seller types really could be a hoot sometimes. And this Guillaume wasn't bad at it. The lilt and sway of his voice as he told her the chest's history -- she already knew the story of the future-Duke's little transoceanic flight, already knew the bun feet were William and Mary and likely turned in Rotterdam based on the toolmarks where the lathe had held it, because she was not the dilettante he'd mistaken her for -- induced a slightly warm sensation behind her sternum, which she snuffed out before it could expand down toward her navel.
The telltale mark of a quality salesman, that. She'd seen smarter people then her -- well, not literally -- make a poor price on an inferior piece many times in the gravity of a seller with this aural gift for entrancement. His wasn't the most spellbinding she'd heard, but it was solid. She might hire him for front-of-house someday, in fact -- worth getting his card at minimum and ensuring he came away grateful to have even spoken with her.
"...and that, madame, is why I am so especially proud to have obtained this particular chest, and so struck by your keen eye for quality."
She let a beat pass, to see if he'd falter and lunge into the silence. He didn't. Business card, for sure. Not bad, and she could train the rough edges off him within a month. (Certainly to never look down a woman's neckline during a sale, for starters.)
"Well done, Mr. Guillaume, quite well done. You know your trade. I commend you." Blinking at him again, even slower. He wants to look away (they always do) but cannot (they never can).
"Would madame perhaps care to--"
She cleared her throat abruptly and he froze. No worry now about him wriggling free. She could drag this out, speed it up -- he might think he was still in the water, but she could hear him flopping pointlessly against the boat bottom.
"Ah, would mada--"
A sharper noise this time -- whoops. She'd meant to clear her throat but almost let a growl out instead. She was enjoying this too much. He didn't try to speak again, though, and looked almost pitiably at her.
"Generally, Mr. Guillaume, when a lady does a gentleman a favor, he..." And here again she cocked her eyebrow and curled just the corner of her mouth.
