“No, not usually.” But something about this woman put him off his game. He felt timid in her presence, a sensation that he didn’t enjoy at all. He’d once told a three-star general to pipe down in a meeting, but this woman made him feel like Oliver Twist with a cup out.

“Let us hope not.” She smiled.

“Why am I here?” he asked.

“Now, don’t be sore. It’s important to have a sense of humor about oneself.”

“Do you?”

“Have a sense of humor about myself? Absolutely. However, it is vitally important to be the one telling the jokes.” She winked at him. “It makes all the difference.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do. My family lost the ability to laugh at itself several generations ago. You rise to a certain level of prominence, and the inclination is to view one’s family with an unhealthy degree of reverence. One is lulled into believing that the family’s success was not a matter of luck and hard work, but due instead to some innate superiority.” She leaned in toward Gibson, as if sharing a confidence. “God’s will. Good genes. Blue blood. That sort of thing. It’s ludicrous, of course, but it happens with unnerving frequency. And always ends the same way. Each generation more entitled than the last. Lazier than the last. More interested in ski vacations in Gstaad than in bettering the family’s fortunes. Entitlement breeds laziness, which in turn breeds decline. But of course with enough money, it is possible not to notice for decades that your family name is gathering dust. One day you awake to discover that the last member of the family to accomplish anything of note died before Kennedy. Do you know what my son does for a living?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Not a thing. He lives in a condominium in Fort Lauderdale with a woman and golfs.” Her eyes widened in horror to help him realize the gravity of the situation. When he didn’t appear to, she repeated it slowly. “Fort Lauderdale, Mr. Vaughn. My great uncle helped Wilson craft the Treaty of Versailles, and my son’s ambition extends no further than subdivisions in the swamps of Florida. The mind boggles.”

“Not a fan?”

“Of the state of Florida? No, it is evidence that perhaps air-conditioning would have been better left uninvented.”

“So keep a sense of humor?”

“It has served me well.” She smiled and touched the rim of her empty wineglass. A waiter appeared in an instant to refill it.

“In a way, I owe you a great debt of thanks,” Calista said.

“How so?”

“That business with Benjamin that landed you in such . . . difficulty.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Whose money do you think was embezzled? Benjamin’s? Please, that man had nothing before I found him. In your ill-advised way, you helped me recognize I was betting on the wrong horse.”