All She Ever Wanted by Barbara Freethy Page B

say good-bye." He turned toward the door.
    "Wait. I'll give it a try. I'm sure it's fun." And she wasn't ready to walk out of here yet. She needed time to think of just how his technological magic could work at a high-society party. There had to be a way. Maybe she could set up a special-event area ...
    Dylan led her to one of the booths. "Have a seat there. Put on the goggles and headphones and just sit back." He paused, sending her a thoughtful look. "I have a special treat for you."
    "What is it?"
    "You'll see." He drew the curtain around her, leaving her in darkness. She put on the goggles and was completely blinded. The headphones cut out the noise, and she suddenly felt very isolated and unsteady, as if she couldn't quite find her balance or her bearings.
    She was startled when music came blaring through the headphones. She was even more surprised to hear Gloria Gaynor singing "I Will Survive," one of their favorite songs in college. Emily had played it every time one of them had had a bad date or a boyfriend fell through. They must have played it a hundred times. Emily had been one of those girls who loved to play a favorite song over and over again until you wanted to pull your hair out. Whenever they'd complained, Emily had laughed and said she was building memories. She'd told them that someday, thirty years from now, they'd be driving along in a car, maybe with their kids, and the song would come on the radio, and they'd remember the good old days, their friendship, and they'd smile.
    Madison didn't feel like smiling. She felt like crying, and she never cried. But, dammit, why hadn't Emily lived another ten or thirty years? Why hadn't she had the opportunity to hear those old songs and remember the good old days?
    The screens in front of her eyes suddenly lit up. She jerked at the familiar sight of the two-story sorority house in Santa Cruz where they'd pledged and lived—and where Emily had died. Was her mind playing tricks on her? What was this?
    She wanted to look away, but she couldn't.
    The front door to the sorority house opened, and a group of girls came out—girls who looked a lot like Laura, Natalie, and Emily. It was them, she realized, dressed in fashions at least ten years old.
    Where was she? Why wasn't she with them? Her heart stopped as Emily came forward—Emily with the laughing dark eyes, the brown hair blowing in the breeze, the infectious smile on her lips that had always made Madison want to smile, too—an Emily who was still alive, still happy, still filled with hope for their futures.
    She was so close, Madison wanted to reach out and touch her, grab her hand and hold on for dear life.
    Emily suddenly wagged a finger at her. "You are so bad. Stop it right now."
    Madison gasped. Was Emily talking to her? God! She couldn't take it. Yanking off the headphones and goggles, she burst out of the booth to find Dylan waiting for her with a cool, calculating smile.
    "What the hell was that?" she demanded, shaken to the core.
    "That was Emily. Isn't that why you came here, Madison? To talk about Emily?"
    Madison stared at Dylan in bewilderment. She saw anger in his eyes and a gleam of satisfaction. He'd wanted to knock her off her feet, and he'd done a damn good job of it. "Where did you get that film?"
    "I took it—a long time ago."
    "I don't remember you filming us."
    "You weren't there that day."
    That's why she hadn't been in the clip, just the other three girls. Which meant Emily had not been talking to her; she'd been talking to Dylan, telling him to stop taking her picture. That made sense. What didn't make sense was why Dylan would still have that film clip or be using it in some virtual-reality game. "You use Emily's picture, her voice, her words in your games? How can you do that? You were her friend. Are you completely sick?"
    His dark eyes flared with anger. "I don't use that clip in the games. I just have it on my computer along with every other piece of film I've ever shot. I thought