I heard a loud crash and turned in time to see the remains of the food I’d so carefully prepared cascade to the floor in a shower of crumbs and broken pastry.
The worse for wear, Donald Hunter had blundered into the buffet table and was being supported by Commander Bennett and one of the officers whose name I couldn’t remember.
The room was equally divided between those who stared at Donald and those who stared at me to measure my reaction.
“I guess that’s what you call laying on the buffet,” I said, with a resigned shrug.
A ripple of laughter eased the sudden tension in the room and Donald was escorted into the yard, presumably to sober up.
Donna squeezed my arm. “I didn’t know you were mistress of the one-liner, Caroline.”
Mistress? If only you knew.
“Let me help you clear that mess,” she continued.
Several others of the women and a few of the men volunteered to help shovel up the ruined food. Not David, of course. Nor Estelle, who stood with her back to the scene her husband had caused.
“What a waste,” said Donna, sighing. “I admit I had my eyes on a box of take-out.”
I smiled ruefully and was about to reply when we heard raised voices out in the yard. Donna’s eyes hardened and she shook her head with annoyance. I saw her exchange a look with her husband, who nodded slightly and headed outside.
“The Hunters,” she said, confirming my suspicions. “Donald never could hold his liquor. I wonder how they’re getting home.”
“Estelle said that Sebastian was driving them.” I answered a fraction too quickly and Donna threw me a quizzical look.
“Hmm. I’d better give him a call,” she said, pulling a cell phone from her purse and scrolling through the numbers.
I couldn’t control the riot of emotions that flooded through me: I would see him. Soon.
The argument outside ended abruptly. I suspected Johan had managed somehow to calm the situation; I knew it wouldn’t have been David. He was far too cowardly to go up against a man like Donald Hunter.
During a tense few minutes while the Hunters snarled at each other across the barbeque pit, I chewed anxiously on my lip. I wasn’t the only one: several guests looked dubious, as if the latent violence, so evident in the couple’s venomous scowls, would erupt at any moment.
For different reasons, we were all relieved when the Hunters’ car drew up and Sebastian climbed out.
Seeing his beautiful face, drawn for now with a serious expression, some of the tension left me. Just having him so close, albeit untouchable, made me feel safe.
“Well, if it isn’t my son and heir,” sneered Donald. “Although it’s not son and hair anymore, is it, son?”
Donna snorted with disgust and my hands clenched involuntarily; I wanted to rip Donald’s vile tongue from his head.
“Just get in the car, dad,” said Sebastian quietly.
I was probably the only one there who could hear the tone of suppressed rage.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” snarled Donald, lurching towards his son, his fist raised.
Johan grabbed his arm but Sebastian didn’t move an inch: he just continued to look at his father impassively.
“Take it easy, Don,” said Johan. The note of authority in his voice might have had some effect on someone who’d drunk less.
Donald just laughed mirthlessly.
“You’re lucky you haven’t got a fucking useless waster for a son, Johan,” he spat.
“Maybe that’s because he takes after his father,” slurred Estelle spitefully.
“It’s all your fault!” shouted Donald. “You’re too fucking soft on him! You’ve turned him into a fucking faggot! English Lit and Italian: that’s what he wants to study at college, for fuck’s sake!”
Johan gripped Donald’s arm and, with the help of another guest whose name I couldn’t remember, steered him towards the car. Estelle wobbled after him, still throwing barbed comments.
Sebastian’s expression hadn’t changed, but his cheeks burned with a tell-tale flush of anger.