THE BODYGUARD AND THE SHOW DOG is a laugh a minute story in the best Janet Evanovich style. The situations that Natasha finds herself in are hilarious, her attempts to balance her career and her relationship are the makings of an Emmy winning sitcom. Ms. Tillery French's Bodyguard series is one that will have you laughing and cheering Natasha's bid for independence even as you feel complete sympathy for Jonce's quest to keep her safe from herself. A wonderful book for an afternoon read. --Brenda Edde, Romance Junkies The Bodyguard: by Christy T French Opening the cover of a new Christy French book is always an adventure. The dialogue is witty and spicy. The story moves along at a rapid pace, with the action usually unexecpted and at times hilarious. --Barbara Buhrer, Reviewer, Myshelf. Ms. French blends comedy, suspense, personal trauma and hot romance and presents a fine read. And cool characters. Watch out for the Pit and Bigun bodyguard team! Make the effort to find "The Bodyguard". --C. B. Shelly, Reviewer, CataRomance.

Excerpts of Wayne's Dead,
a novel by Christy Tillery French, 2004

PROLOGUE

The small child hovers in a corner of the room in the dark, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face covered by her hands, trembling, tears running down her face.

"Please, don't let him hurt me; please, don't let him hurt me; please, don't let him hurt me," she prays to no one, to anyone. She hears his heavy tread on the steps, begins shaking her head violently side to side, whispering, "No, no, no," over and over again. Then sobbing softly, wondering why her mother doesn't stop him. Doesn't she hear, doesn't she know what he is doing to her? She has to, has to.

The door opens slowly. Already her lower body is throbbing as if in great pain. It is bad enough the damage he does to her with his belt, but what he does afterwards with his hands and body is unthinkable, pure torture.

"Please," she whimpers as he stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the light from the hallway behind him. He looks to be a giant standing there, glaring at her. She imagines his eyes are red, like a demon's. She hates him for the torture she endures at his hands. She hates everyone else for letting him do it.

He switches on the lights, advancing in the room, closing the door behind him. He stands there, watching her, a sardonic smile on his face, seeming pleased by her great fear of him.

"Come here to me," he says, his voice mild, stopping his advance when he comes to her bed.

She seems frozen, except for her ragged breathing and the tears running down her cheeks.

He reaches down, unbuckles his belt, shucks it out of his pants. She covers her eyes.

"I said, come here to me, you little bitch," he snarls, doubling the belt, snapping it.

She jumps as if startled. Then slowly, her back against the wall, she stands, but her feet won't move, refusing to carry her to the ordeal she knows is coming.

"I better not have to come over there and get you, girl," he says, his voice mild once more.

Her face transgresses, becoming stony, rigid. Her eyes, glinting like algae-ridden ice, glare with hatred as she wipes her nose with the back of one hand, then begins walking toward him. Her tears are gone. When she gets to him, before he put his hands on her, she says, "My name's Ronnie, not girl."

Christy Tillery French P.O. Box 297 Heiskell TN 37754 E-mail: readermail@ChristyFrench.Com