For One Night. PENNY JORDAN

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      NUMB WITH SHOCK, Diana moved to one side as the first spadeful of earth hit the coffin.

      A long, deep shudder racked through her body as she stared down into the darkness of the open grave. In that box was the body of her best friend; for eighteen long months they had fought together against the enemy destroying Leslie’s body, and less than a week ago they had lost their fight.

      Even now, she could hardly believe it. She and Leslie had been at university together; they had got their degrees at the same time, and their first jobs. Then they had lost touch for several years, meeting again only when Leslie’s first book had been published, and she herself had been working as a researcher for the host of the television chat show on which Leslie had been asked to appear.

      To their mutual delight they had discovered that they still shared the same outlook on life, and the same zany sense of humor. Now that she could support herself as a writer, Leslie had decided to move to London, and it seemed a natural follow-on from this decision that they should buy a flat together.

      Both of them had their own personal lives; Leslie was still getting over a two-year relationship that had turned sour when her lover became jealous of her writing success. And as for her own love life … Diana sighed.

      In the days when she had first joined the television company and had still been starry-eyed with wonder and excitement, she had fallen hard for one of the producers, only to learn quite by accident from one of his previous victims that he made a second career out of bemusing and seducing all the young and naive newcomers to the company, callously notching up his tally of successes with a celebratory booze-up with his menfriends, when he regaled them with the intimate details of his amatory skills.

      She had been one of the lucky ones, she had found out about him before it was too late, but it had left her with a deep mistrust of all media men. She froze them off the moment they attempted to get close to her.

      Between themselves, she and Leslie had agreed that they were better off concentrating on their careers, and treating men with the same casual disregard that the male sex adopted toward women. What neither of them had realized was that there was going to be precious little time in their lives for socializing. Leslie had developed the first symptoms of the disease that was to kill her within weeks of them moving in together.

      At first she had said nothing; but Leslie was wasting away visibly, and in the end she had been forced to tackle her friend about her loss of weight, Diana remembered.

      She turned her head away from the awfulness of the gaping hole in the earth, a cruelly bitter spring wind teasing silky strands of red-gold hair and blowing them against her pale face.

      She had thought that perhaps Leslie was suffering from some eating disorder; but the truth had been far worse than her imaginings.

      She had been woken up one night by Leslie’s heartbroken sobs, and had gone into her room. At first, Leslie had tried to deny that anything was wrong, but, finally, she had told Diana everything.

      She had felt unwell for a while, tired and listless, and at first she had put it down to the strain of her broken relationship, plus the heavy workload she had taken on. She had gone to see her doctor, hoping he could recommend a tonic, only he had sent her to hospital for tests, and the results were indisputable. She had leukemia.

      They had talked long into the night; Leslie had been completely open with her about her prognosis. She had no family; the aunt and uncle who had brought her up had been killed in a plane crash while they were at university. She had decided that she would find herself a privately run hospice where she could be properly looked after, but Diana had firmly refused to countenance this.

      They were friends, and they would stay friends. She would look after Leslie.

      It had proved harder than either of them anticipated. On several occasions the doctors had wanted to keep Leslie in hospital but, knowing how great her fear and distress would be, Diana had refused to allow them to do so. She had taken Leslie home and nursed her herself. In the last dreadfully painful weeks, Diana had applied for compassionate leave from her job.

      Fresh tears blurred her vision, the first she had been able to weep for her friend. Her pain and anger went beyond mere tears; it seemed incomprehensible, an enormity of unfairness and illogical wrong that Leslie should be dead. She had been so young, had had so much to give to life.

      Diana shivered in the cold wind. It was April; the earth was beginning to awake to spring after a long, cold winter. It seemed bitterly ironic that Leslie should have died now, just before nature’s resurgence of life. She remembered how, when she was well enough, Leslie had loved to watch the slow progress of the bulbs forcing their way through the cold earth. It had been a winter of record frosts and snowfalls, and she had had to wait a long time to see the first snowdrops and crocuses bloom.

      Someone touched her on her arm and she swung round. The vicar was watching her compassionately.

      In those last few months he had called regularly to see Leslie. Neither of them had any deep-founded religious beliefs, but she had been able to see how cheered Leslie was by his visits.

      Now she was gone forever, buried deep in the earth of this North London cemetery.

      “It’s