Cricket had changed into a black-and-white polka-dot skirt and a little white lace-trimmed cotton blouse that rode up to show the diamond that glinted on a hoop through her navel. Very sexy soccer mom.

Her husband was young and gawky, his manner at odds with his well-shaded auburn hair and professional tan. His nose looked as if it had been broken at least once, and his hands and feet were too large for his skinny frame.

“Milagro, this is Ford Poindexter,” Ian said. “Ford, my friend Milagro de Los Santos.”

Ford reached out to shake my hand. His grip was firm and slightly damp, and I got a nice warm zizz from the contact. He grinned. “Milagro de Los Santos? Does that mean anything?”

“Miracle of the Saints,” I said. “Ridiculous, I know.”

He laughed a nice laugh. “People ask if I’m named after the car, or related to Henry.”

“Or Ford Maddox Ford,”

“Close, well, not really,” he said. “Ford Prefect.”

“From Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! Seriously?”

“Seriously. My father’s a sci-fi freak.”

Ian poured the martinis and handed one to Cricket, who said, “Really, Ford, you make him sound like a geek. He’s a genius, a visionary.”

“Does he write science fiction?” I asked.

“Good God, no,” Cricket said with a laugh. “He works on research projects, whatever inspires him.”

Ford said, “He’s got multiple degrees in bioscience, physics, chemistry, and engineering, and the corporation that employs him lets him do whatever he wants.”

“I’m impressed. I tried to go to grad school for a teaching credential, but got detoured to the landscaping department.”

Cricket turned back to Ian. “Where is your family home, Lord Ian?”

“I’m a citizen of the world, Cricket,” he said, which was his usual cagey vampire response.

I ignored the flirty way she was smiling at him, and I asked Ford, “Does your father work on any fun projects?”

“I’m not sure. He’s very secretive about his work and my mom kicked him out of the house because he ‘accidentally’ ran over her cat. She’s the only person he listens to, and she says he can’t come back until he clones it and brings her a robot maid, too.”

“Color me fascinated. Could your father clone a cat?”

“He said cloning is for schoolchildren,” Ford said. “He took Señor Pickles’s body and went to his lab eight months ago. We haven’t seen him since.”

“You haven’t seen your father or the dead cat?”

“Either of them. It’s not unusual. He works for this military contractor and it’s all top secret,” he said. “I can tell by your expression that you don’t approve.”