Marcia King-Gamble - All About Me

Quen high-fived me and I did a little mambo. I’d finally learned that move from step class, but it had taken me several classes to get it down.

Losing that weight felt good, having Quen’s hands on me felt even better. I liked him touching me. I often moved an arm or leg into his accidentally as I struggled with a machine during my workouts. Sometimes I struggled on purpose, and although his touching me could be considered part of his job as my personal trainer, there were times I fantasized about a different scenario….

I smiled into those chocolate eyes and tried not to lick my lips. I loved it that he called me sugar. Although weight loss and sweetener didn’t go together, we were at least making progress. I was sick and tired of being called thick, and now that his skinny ex was coming to town I needed to get the weight off. She would be my incentive.

Kimani Romance

Flamingo Place

Kimani Press Arabesque

Remembrance

Eden’s Dream

Under Your Spell

Illusions of Love

A Reason to Love

Change of Heart

Come Fall

Come Back to Me

A Taste of Paradise

Designed for You

Kimani Press Sepia

Jade

This Way Home

Shattered Images

was born on the island of St. Vincent, a heavenly place in the Caribbean where ocean and skies are the same mesmerizing blue. An ex–travel industry executive, Marcia’s favorite haunts remain the Far East, Venice and New Zealand.

In her spare time, she enjoys kickboxing, step aerobics and Zumba, then winding down with a good book. A frustrated interior designer, Marcia’s creativity finds an outlet in her home where nothing matches. She is passionate about animals, tearjerker movies and spicy food. She serves double duty as the director of member services at the Writers and Artists Institute in south Florida, and is the editor of Romantically Yours—a monthly newsletter.

To date, Marcia has written twelve novels and two novellas. She loves hearing from fans. You may contact her at Mkinggambl@aol.com, or P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

All About Me

Marcia King-Gamble

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Teresa and James Etta, owners of Nonna’s Café.

Your gelato got me through and your latte kept me awake.

Thanks for leasing me free space.

Dear Reader,

I have always been fascinated by small towns. Maybe it’s because I grew up on a little island where there was a sense of belonging and community that rarely exists in cities today.

Since community has always been important to me, with the help of my good friend, urban designer George Johnston (www.jtphome.com), we created Flamingo Beach. This delightful oceanfront community in Florida is a place where everyone knows everyone, and minding each other’s business is a favorite pastime.

These days Flamingo Beach is in transition and fighting it every step of the way. More and more new people are moving in, condominiums are being renovated and construction is everywhere. The real estate market is booming. And Chere Adams, introduced in the first book of this series, Flamingo Place, is now moonlighting as a real estate agent. And as Flamingo Beach changes, so does Chere. But is a beautiful facade all that matters, or is having a solid foundation more important? I’d be interested in hearing what you think. E-mail me at Mkinggambl@aol.com or write me at P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

And be sure not to miss my next Kimani Romance title, Down and Out in Flamingo Beach, as Flamingo Beach, as the town’s oldest citizens celebrate their centennials.

Romantically yours,

Marcia King-Gamble

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

I knew who I was.

Chere Adams, big, beautiful, black and damn proud of it. So what was I doing at a step aerobics class at this hour when I should be in bed?

As I huffed, puffed and stared out of the big picture windows wondering when this torture would end, outside the Florida sun began to rise. In my head I pictured pork chops, scrambled eggs and grits washed down by a gallon of sweet tea. I should be wolfing down breakfast not sweating off a meal I hadn’t had.

“Pick it up, ladies. Work it!”

The instructor’s voice through that amplified microphone was already hurting my head. And the rap music at this hour of the morning threatened to blow an eardrum.

“One, two, three, four, five, pump those arms. Work it! Sashay to the right and pick up the pace, ladies. One…two…”

“That woman wants to seriously hurt me,” I muttered to the lumbering, huffing woman next to me. “If I hear work it one more time I’m going to do something to that mic.”

“Yeah, but it might well kill us to look like her,” my companion in crime said between pants.

We misfits were huddled in the back of the room, bouncing up and down and pretty much falling all over ourselves.

Why I allowed myself to be talked into this class, and at such a crazy hour, was all because of Quen Abrahams, my personal trainer. I was already thinking if this was the warm-up I’d be dead by the time they started stepping. Forty-five minutes of climbing up and down steps just wasn’t going to agree with Chere Adams.

I exhaled on a loud whistling breath, and tried to keep up with the dry-looking women in the front of the room making it look effortless.

Here I was, five foot six, and 225 pounds of sweating, quivering flesh trying to hold my own with women half my size. In my red sweats I looked like a raging bull, snorting and lumbering along.

“I might just have a heart attack,” I wheezed. “Tell me you don’t feel like your chest is on fire.”

“I have a stitch in my side,” my companion whined.

I had to keep reminding myself that my incentive was the eighty pounds of flesh I planned on getting rid of, and the man whose attention I wanted to get. Losing that weight would bring me down to a respectable 145 pounds. Then look out world, here comes Chere Adams.

I wanted to look just like the yellow-skinned woman in the black leotard or the brunette upfront with the fake boobs. Well not exactly like the brunette in the sports bra with her rubber hard stomach and sparkly belly button ring. She had a nonexistent butt and I liked mine, there was a helluva lot more to hold on to. But she’d gotten the attention of the muscle men in the outer room which is something I couldn’t do. Actually there was only one muscle man whose attention I wanted. Quen Abrahams.

A group of awed males had their noses pressed to the Plexiglass divider and were actually drooling. I wanted to tie a bib around their necks to stop the spit, and not the kind you got at Red Lobster, either. Food was all I could think about. What was it about the woman’s nonexistent jiggle that turned them on? Must be the big boobs, it just had to be the boobs.