âFive pounds, sugar. Youâve lost five pounds.â
Quen high-fived me and I did a little mambo. Iâd finally learned that move from step class, but it had taken me several classes to get it down.
Losing that weight felt good, having Quenâs 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 scenarioâ¦.
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 didnât 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.
Books by Marcia King-Gamble
Kimani Romance
Flamingo Place
Kimani Press Arabesque
Remembrance
Edenâs 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 exâtravel industry executive, Marciaâs 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, Marciaâs 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 Yoursâa monthly newsletter.
To date, Marcia has written twelve novels and two novellas. She loves hearing from fans. You may contact her at [email protected], or P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.
To Teresa and James Etta, owners of Nonnaâs 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 itâs 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 otherâs 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? Iâd be interested in hearing what you think. E-mail me at [email protected] 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 townâs oldest citizens celebrate their centennials.
Romantically yours,
Marcia King-Gamble
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 hadnât had.
âPick it up, ladies. Work it!â
The instructorâs 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.
âOne, two, three, four, five, pump those arms. Work it! Sashay to the right and pick up the pace, ladies. Oneâ¦twoâ¦â
âThat woman wants to seriously hurt me,â I muttered to the lumbering, huffing woman next to me. âIf I hear work it one more time Iâm going to do something to that mic.â
âYeah, but it might well kill us to look like her,â 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 Iâd be dead by the time they started stepping. Forty-five minutes of climbing up and down steps just wasnât going to agree with Chere Adams.