All About Me Read online

  “Five pounds, sugar. You’ve lost five pounds.”

  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.

  Books by Marcia King-Gamble

  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

  MARCIA KING-GAMBLE

  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 [email protected], or P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

  MARCIA KING-GAMBLE

  ALL ABOUT ME

  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 [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 town’s oldest citizens celebrate their centennials.

  Romantically yours,

  Marcia King-Gamble

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 1

  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.

  Mine were even bigger—40 size triple D and not full of saline either. My booty I’d been lugging around since I was twelve, and damn proudly, too. It got men’s attention usually. But I had this spare tire and a couple of double chins I wanted to get rid of. That was the
real reason I was here. I was sick and tired of hearing how beautiful I could be if I would only lose weight.

  “It takes work, sugar!” Quentin Abrahams, my personal trainer, constantly reminded me. “Work and watching every calorie that goes into your mouth.”

  Easy for him to say. The man didn’t know what it was like to be fat. He was built like a brick house. All muscle and sinew. And hotter than any man should be. He set me on fire.

  “Okay, folks, now that our warm-up is over, time to get some real work done,” the small, dark-skinned instructor chirped, bringing me back to earth. There wasn’t even the slightest hitch in her breath.

  “Witch!”

  I wanted to kill her. Well maybe murder was a bit strong. I wanted to slap her perfect face. Here I was huffing and puffing like Farmer Jones’s prize cow and there wasn’t even a glimmer of moisture on “Missy Fitness’s” forehead.

  “What! Is she kidding?” the blonde on the other side of me groaned. “I’m done.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I agreed. “But looks like girlfriend wants to work us some more.”

  The woman I’d been speaking to earlier suddenly stopped midstep. Her breath came in great big gusts. “The treadmill’s starting to look better and better.” With that she left.

  I looked at the wall clock. Forty three minutes of agony before the class was over.

  The back of the room was slowly beginning to clear out, making big people like me with ungainly belly rolls more noticeable. The skinny minnies, dressed in pastel Lycra, sports bras and expensive jewelry were up front and center.

  I should never have let Quen talk me into trying this “Step and Sculpt” class. Seven o’clock in the morning was usually when I hit the snooze button for the second or third time.

  Quen said the class would be a breeze. And he expected me to go at least three days a week. The man was doing drugs. Mind you that was over and above the sessions he and I had scheduled.

  Heaving, I clutched my side. I had a stitch and wanted a drink of water badly. As I slowed down, marching in place, the class continued on, the show-offs straddling steps that had a minimum of two risers.

  “This is getting old,” I muttered.

  The woman next to me sighed. “I hear that.”

  I at least had the smarts to pass on the risers. It was hard enough for me to clamber up one step much less do half hops and “V” steps. I had no clue what the instructor even meant by that. As for a sashay and mambo that was a foreign language—Spanish to me.

  By some major miracle I made it through the rest of the class without collapsing. Afterward I hobbled behind several sweating women and headed for the showers.

  “Looking good, Chere,” Quen called after me.

  The deep timbre of his voice gave me chills. It figured Quen Abrahams of all people would have to see me like this, hauling my sorry ass toward the showers. I rolled my eyes and snorted something under my breath. This had all been his idea. And I was going along with the plan because I wanted him bad.

  No man deserved to look like he did at this ungodly hour. Quen was wearing a monogrammed blue short-sleeved polo shirt that stretched across his broad chest, and showed off his muscular arms to an advantage. Where the shirt V-ed there was a patch of dark hair. His khaki shorts skimmed midthigh giving me a-to-die for view of runners’ legs. The same dark hairs curled over them. And his sneakers, well girlfriend, they had to be at a minimum a fourteen and they looked brand new. It was his hands that had me. They were large hands with long, nimble fingers, the nails neatly trimmed.

  I wanted those hands on me. All over me. I dreamed about them.

  “Must have been some workout,” Quen said, preparing to move along. “You keep showing up three times a week, sugar, and we’ll have you slimmed down in no time.”

  An hour later, my body aching, I flopped behind my desk at the Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began opening Dear Jenna’s mail. It was more of the same whining and I quickly got bored. I began daydreaming of scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries. Soon it became pork chops and chicken legs. I was that hungry.

  “Hey, Chere,” Jen St. George, my boss greeted as she flew in. Girlfriend was turned out as usual. She had a certain style about her that I’d tried copying but couldn’t pull off. Jen’s eyes were overly bright. There was a bounce to her step that made me want to strangle her. Came from sleeping with one of Flamingo Beach’s hottest guys. Jen had hooked up with wisecracking radio personality, Tre Monroe. His radio audience called him D’Dawg.

  “You’re early,” Jen said, sounding astounded. “Is something wrong?”

  “Good morning to you to, missy, and no, there ain’t—isn’t—anything wrong.”

  She was right; I was always at least half an hour late. Mornings were rough on me. They made me hungry and grumpy. I was what you called a night person.

  “I’ve been working out at the gym,” I announced, twirling around. “New Years resolution, remember?” We’d both made resolutions, mine was to lose weight and exercise, Jen’s was to exercise more patience. It was only the second week of January but I’d managed to keep mine. I waited for her to compliment me.

  “Good for you. You’re sticking to the program. Is Quen still working with you?” Jen raised a sculpted eyebrow as if she didn’t think that was possible. She must think I was bluffing about losing weight?

  “Yeah he is. Why?”

  Jen stood and stretched. There wasn’t a ripple in the midthigh skirt she wore or a bulge where her belly should be. “Nothing. I’m getting coffee. Want a cup?”

  Fetching coffee was my job but I never seemed to get around to it. “Sure and while you’re at it bring back a couple of them chocolate donuts the girls brought in.”

  Jen shook her head and wagged a finger in front of my nose. “Chocolate is totally off-limits. Those calories will go straight to our hips. I need to lose five pounds so that I can fit into my wedding gown.”

  I began bouncing up and down and screaming. “Jen’s getting married, y’all. Tre’s finally popped the question.”

  Several heads poked over the divider. The commotion had gotten the attention of the clerical staff who were on their desks looking over.

  Jen held up her left hand for all to see. My mouth flapped open like I was catching flies. Shoot, I’d never seen a rock quite that size. D’Dawg had to be making some big bucks. I wanted one just like hers.

  Oohs and aahs came from the other side of the partition. My girls had calculators for brains. They were crunching those numbers, and computing the cost of that ring right down to the last dollar.

  “Congratulations!” Envy dripped from that word.

  “Good luck, Jen. You caught yourself a good one.”

  I heard a rustle and several stifled screams.

  Heads disappeared, which meant Luis Gomez, the big cheese had come in.

  I was hugging Jen when Luis, stinking of cigar smoke, stuck his head in our office. “Morning, Jen,” he said, totally ignoring me.

  “Morning,” she replied.

  I stuck a tongue out behind his back. I couldn’t stand him. Never could. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about me. I had the owner of the paper, Ian Pendergrass’s ear. I’d been Ian’s housekeeper once; the worst one he’d ever had. But I’d served a purpose. Ian, the old goat with his randy ways deserved me.

  “I’ll be back with that coffee,” Jen said smoothly, slipping out of my embrace.

  I’d never be married. I’d never even come close. But I’d had my share of men and most of the population of Flamingo Beach thought I was a “ho.” Not true. But it was good for my image for them to think that. No one should ever know that brazen-faced Chere Adams actually lacked self confidence.

  And that was another reason I needed to get the weight off. It was also the reason I’d spent two months studying like crazy for that real estate exam. I wanted to be somebody. Needed to be. I was thirty-three years old and going nowhere fast. And I wanted Quen Abrahams and babies.

  I
refused to think the health club manager was out of my league. Maybe he was, but a girl could try, couldn’t she? I wanted the man to start thinking of me as a woman, and not just a fatso with a crazy sense of humor. We’d been friends for a long time. Now I wanted more than friendship.

  Where was my coffee? I needed a pick me up and I needed one of them chocolate donuts to hold me over. Hell, I would even settle for a jelly-filled one; anything sweet. My stomach was queasy and every bone hurt.

  The minutes ticked by before Jen sauntered back in minus donuts. She was carrying two mugs in her hand. She set one cup down on my desk and flipped the switch on her computer.

  “Where’s the food?” I demanded.

  “No donuts. You’re on a diet. You should be eating breakfast bars.” She rummaged through her drawer and flipped a couple at me.

  I caught them, glared at her and bit right through the wrapper. I was that hungry. Easy for her to say “You’re on a diet.” She was built like an athlete with curves in all the right places. That glowing coffee complexion came from nights of good loving. Tre Monroe was delivering and I was getting zilch. Nada.

  “How are your real estate classes coming?” Jen asked, after she was settled in and staring at her monitor.

  It would be pointless to lie. In a town the size of Flamingo Beach everyone knew everyone’s business and what they didn’t know they made up.

  “I passed the real estate and property management exam,” I said, proudly sticking out my triple Ds. “Now I am officially a full-fledged Realtor.”

  “Good for you. Will you be juggling two jobs then, or will you be quitting on me?”

  Better to play it cool and keep my mouth shut. Jen didn’t have to know I had high aspirations; one of them being to get the credit I deserved at the Chronicle. I didn’t want her job, I just wanted equal billing. Dear Jenna and Chere, sounded sweet to me.

  “You know I can’t afford to quit,” I said smiling brightly. She was after all still my boss. “I need a regular salary. Besides who said I didn’t like my job.”