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 The Bodyguard and the Show Dog,
a novel by Christy Tillery French, 2006

Natasha stepped into the mansion, calling for Roger, but was greeted by Brutus. While she waited for her friend, she played fetch with the Weimaraner. The dog drove her nuts playing the game; he never would release the stick and expected her to chase him all over the grounds to try to take it away from him. Brutus was fast on his feet and could do a ninety-degree turn on a dime, it seemed. After falling on her face more times than she could count, Natasha gave up. She returned to her jeep, collected a plastic grocery bag and large scoop, and went hunting with Brutus.

Roger was placing his golf bag in the back of her jeep when they returned. Natasha hugged Brutus bye and shooed him inside. She placed the plastic bag on the back floorboard, climbed in her vehicle, waited for Roger to take his seat, and headed out.

Roger looked around and made a face. "Is Chumley in here?"

"No. Why?"

He sniffed the air. "Good gosh, what's that awful stench?"

"Oh. It's a bag of dog poop. We have to make a pit stop before we go to the club."

"Pit stop? With a bag of dog poop? Why?"

"You'll see."

On Dugan's street, Natasha drove down the road at a snail's pace, studying the house and yard. "You see anyone?"

Roger craned his neck to look past her. "No. Who lives here anyway?"

"You know Ben, that blind horse I adopted?"

"Yeah."

"This is the guy that blinded him."

"Oh, no. What are you gonna do, Nattie?"

"Just leave a little present."

"Oh, man," Roger whined.

She parked two houses down and stared at the wooden structure behind the house. The door was closed, so she couldn't see what was inside. Surely he wouldn't put a vehicle in there, as unstable as it appeared.

"Okay, Roger, when I get out, you slide over into my seat. If anything happens - I'm not saying it's going to," she hurried on, at his look, "but if it does, take off."

Natasha climbed out of the jeep, reached behind the front seat, and grabbed the plastic bag. Crossing the street, she had a funny feeling about this place. That building in back had been open and empty when she visited before. She quietly crept to the front porch, opened the bag, and was tilting it over when the front door banged open. She jumped back, dropping the sack.

"What the hell!" a short, overweight, balding man wearing sweat pants and nothing else roared. "What are you doing trespassing on my property?" He stepped toward her and tripped over the bag of manure. "Shit! It's you!" His eyes hardened. "I knew it was a woman trashing my house." He turned back inside. "Where's my gun? I'm gonna -"

Natasha didn't wait to hear the rest. She kicked the bag into the house, slammed the door, and took off down the driveway, yelling, "Go!"

Roger scrambled into her front seat, slammed the jeep in gear, and squealed tires down the street.

Natasha stopped in surprise. "What the hell are you doing? You're supposed to take me with you!"

The jeep turned the corner and passed out of sight.

Natasha glanced behind her. The man was in the doorway, kicking his way past the plastic bag. Was that a rifle in his hand? "Shit!" She ran after Roger.

She had watched countless movies where the person being chased always ran down the middle of the road, out in the open, and her one thought invariably was how stupid they were for making themselves an easy target. Why didn't they veer off into the grass or run between buildings? And here she was, running down the middle of the road just like the stupid victims. But she seemed frozen to the asphalt; she could not make her legs veer over into a yard.

She turned the corner and there sat her jeep idling at a stop sign. She waved her arms. "Roger!" He gunned the engine, shot onto the next street. "Dammit to friggin' hell, will you stop!"

Footsteps thundered behind her. She glanced over her shoulder. Dugan was coming up fast, one hand holding his rifle, the other hanging onto his drawstring pants, which were slipping down around his hips. "Oh, please, fall down!" she prayed and found the strength to go onto the grass.

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