During breakfast, Isabella's eyes hardly left Coyote. She watched him as though he were the main character in a film she didn't want to miss a second of. Her focus was intense—unwavering.
Coyote noticed. He caught her staring more than once, but she didn't glance away. If anything, it felt deliberate, like she was asserting control without saying a word.
"Are we going to talk or are you just going to keep staring at me while I eat?" Coyote asked, right as a waiter filled his empty glass with orange juice.
Isabella didn't flinch. Her expression remained as serene as ever as she casually motioned for the waiter to leave. "Does my staring make you uncomfortable, Mr. Watkins?" she asked, her voice smooth and unbothered.
"No, it doesn't. I just thought someone like you must be very busy managing your businesses," Coyote replied, lifting the glass and taking a sip, never breaking eye contact.
Isabella let out a soft chuckle. "You Googled me, didn't you?"
"Yes. I couldn't help it. Which made me wonder why a woman like you was at an illegal racing event?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.
"Would you be surprised if I said I went there looking for you?" Isabella said, a subtle smile curving her lips.
Coyote blinked, caught off guard. There was no way she could've known he'd be racing that night—not even Jax had known until the last minute.
Before he could speak, Isabella laughed lightly. "Cool your jets, Mr. Watkins. I don't necessarily mean you. I went there looking for a driver willing to do whatever it takes to win. And you did just that last night, with a wrecked car no less. There and then, I knew I'd found the driver I'd been searching for."
Coyote flushed a little, not from embarrassment, but from the weight of her praise. Still, a question lingered in his mind.
"So, what do you need a driver like me for?"
"I want to sponsor you. Get you a team. Bring you back to NASCAR," Isabella said with complete confidence, like it was already set in motion—just waiting for him to say yes.
"Thank you, Miss Cruz. But you do know my situation right now?" Coyote said carefully, trying to keep his hope from showing too much.
Isabella took a slow sip of pineapple juice, entirely unbothered by his concern. Her eyes sparkled slightly, like she was silently amused.
What does this guy take me for? Some cheap-ass powerless billionaire?
"You mean the fact that you got blacklisted from NASCAR? For something as egregious as killing your siblings in a meth lab explosion when you were a kid running from an abusive father—that situation?" Isabella said, cool and composed.
Coyote stiffened.
His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. No one, not even the press, knew that part of the story. The media had always painted him as a reckless child who blew up a meth lab and killed his siblings without any show of remorse.
No one knew the truth. No one had ever mentioned the part about him running away from his father. About the bruises he'd taken for defending his little sister, Kerry. About how he was hiding in the neighborhood when the explosion happened.
How the hell does she know that? His mind raced. And what else does she know?
[She must've done her homework on you before she even called you this morning.]
Coyote nodded slightly, replying to the voice only he could hear.
"Whoever she hired must have been very thorough with their investigation."
Isabella continued to sip her juice like nothing had happened.
But Coyote? He was no longer just curious.
Now, he was intrigued—and a little bit afraid of what the woman in front of him was capable of.
"Since you know all these, how do you plan to get me back to racing in NASCAR? I have spent millions trying to claw my way back in, but nothing worked," Coyote asked, his tone shifting—hope blooming in his chest. For the first time in over a year, he was looking at someone who might actually hold the key to his return to NASCAR.
"Leave that to me, Mr. Watkins. I will have my people on it as soon as possible. All you have to do is do exactly as I tell you—avoid the urge to improvise," Isabella said, her voice lower now, silkier, like she was savoring every word.
Coyote's gaze slipped to her lips—glossy, full, and cherry red. Uninvited, thoughts drifted into his mind, each one dirtier than the last. Imagined how it would feel to have those lips on his cock. And then, almost like a movie scene scripted by temptation itself, one of the buttons on Isabella's blouse popped loose, revealing a generous view of her boobs.
She didn't flinch. She didn't reach to cover it.
Instead, she leaned in ever so slightly and asked, "So, what do you say? Are you willing to do exactly what I tell you?"
Coyote tried—he really tried—to keep his eyes on hers. But it was like resisting gravity. His brain screamed look away, but his body had other plans. He was fully aroused, his dick twitching in his pants, heart racing, and the only word he could summon was, "Yes."
"Yes, what? You seem distracted, Mr. Watkins. Can you tell me why?" Isabella asked, her voice laced with amusement, mischief dancing in her eyes.
[Oh my, this lady is messing with you.]
Coyote shifted his focus to her eyes—deep, dark, magnetic—forcing himself to block out everything below her neckline. "No, I am not distracted. I am willing to do whatever you want me to do."
"Great! We have a deal. I will get my lawyers to get the paperwork ready," Isabella said, her face brightening with satisfaction.
Coyote nodded, but his gaze betrayed him again—drifting right back to her cleavage, which practically looked like it was begging to be set free, to be sucked and squeezed. His thoughts spiraled fast: hands, mouth, tongue. The image was so vivid, so wrong and so right.
Isabella noticed. She had expected excitement, maybe gratitude. But instead, he was distracted—completely and deliciously undone.
"Are you having second thoughts, Mr. Watkins? What is going through your mind right now?" she asked, tilting her head, genuinely curious but clearly toying with him too.
Coyote exhaled, sensing this wasn't just a business meeting—it was a test. A twisted little game of control and surrender. And maybe, just maybe, he was okay playing. This must be why she wanted this meeting in her suite.
"Do you really want to know what's going through my mind right now, Miss Cruz?" he asked, his voice dropping slightly, his eyes narrowing in a sultry smolder that caught Isabella off guard.
"Yes, I do want to know."
Coyote leaned closer, gaze locked on hers, a devilish grin tugging at his lips. "I want to suck and squeeze your breasts while you ride me like a pony."
For a moment, silence reigned.
Isabella blinked—stunned, breathless, and for the first time since breakfast… speechless.