I get what I want.

A London’s top restauranteur, I have the golden touch with food and coin, but I rule my world with an iron fist. 

Now I’m back in New York for two things:

Start the best new restaurant this side of the pond. 

Convince Francesca Zola to take me back.


Sure, I broke her heart, but she’ll forgive me once I remind her of everything we can be for the next six months.

Passion. Pleasure. Just the right kind of pain.

Except now a little girl opens Francesca’s door.

A button-nosed three-year-old who gives my stubbornness a run for its money,

And whose jet black hair and almond shaped eyes look an awful lot like mine. 

Now I'm the one with questions, and I won't stop until I get some answers, whether Francesca wants to give them or not.

Like I said, I get what I want. 

And now that just might include my daughter.